M. R. Mathias | Updates

"Michael ROBB's Mysterious Ways" LP & a 3 ch teaser from "I-35 South" a Horror Thriller

M. R. Mathias — Tue, 25 Nov 2025 14:57:46 -0500

Enjoy this 3 chapter teaser, about Outlaw aka Michael ROBB, from his

Horror/Thriller "I-35 South" Also his Award Winning Horror novel The Butcher's Boy

which transpires when Michael was 11 years old, is FREE thru Saturday the 27th here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B004FPYWKU

The music and other novel is linked at the end.

I-35 South

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Sitting behind one of the Seminole Nation’s Tribal Police desks, Outlaw was using two computers at the same time. He hadn’t mastered typing on two separate keyboards yet, but he assured Tah Timbo that he eventually would. He was there for Tah and Taima. He had a tiny little bit of Indian in him, but not nearly enough to receive tribal benefits. But he’d grown up with these guys and considered Tah family.

When Outlaw’s mother was dying of cancer, Tah lived with them for a while and kept an eye on her. Tah built her an iPhone from parts he kept in a tub, and he scored her bags of good weed, even though he didn’t use it.

Now, medical marijuana is legal in Oklahoma. It was as easy as telling the doctor you had trouble sleeping and handing over two hundred bucks to the state to get the card you needed to buy and use openly. Outlaw didn’t necessarily agree with that because some people needed the stuff to get by, like his mother had. He used it, but then again, he used a lot of drugs for a lot of different reasons. Getting “high” was not one of them and abusing them or taking any one kind in large doses, or for too long, was not what he did.

“Them girls are coming by again, y’all,” one of the younger guys said excitedly.

“They keep looking at us,” another added, “but they are skin and bones. That shit is rough on them.”

“They are probably going to get wet.” Wayne Ponkilla was usually right about the weather.

Almost all of them looked out the window wall of the Tribal Police building beyond the trees and saw the dark line of clouds racing toward them.

Oklahoma was full of small towns, and drugs, and criminals, but not the sort of criminals you’d find any other place. There were casinos everywhere, all owned by different tribes, and each ran a bit differently than the others, save for the Chickasaw Casinos. They’d built convenience stores on their land and bought land up and down all the main highways. The stores were called CTS (Chickasaw Travel Stop), and they had a hundred or so slot machines in each one. They’d become popular hangouts for the locals.

The Chickasaw owned the huge Winstar Casino north of Gainsville, Texas in a town called Thackerville, Oklahoma and the sizable Mega Star Casino, on HWY 377, both just across the border from Texas. They were building another casino and lodge right on Lake Texoma, at the foot of the HWY 70 bridge near Catfish Bay. It was close to where Outlaw, or Captain Mike, ran his fishing guide service.

It was fine with him. His business would double, and his dock had an apartment built on it. His real estate guy predicted it would triple in value when the casino was finished.

As far as he could tell, the Chickasaw were building a casino empire, which is why he and his band preferred to play for big events and special occasions. They played at other venues, too. Choctaw Casino was North of Dallas and was packed every night with wealthy Texans trying to hit it big.

Wayne Ponkilla, as well as a few other of their multi-tribe crew, were there at the Tribal Police Headquarters watching over them all. Outlaw had called Tah about noon saying that he felt Taima was no longer in danger, but neither the Texas Ranger named Jackson, nor Patrolman Harding were answering Timbo’s calls, and the Oklahoma Highway Patrol main desk couldn’t tell them anything helpful over the phone at that time.

Tah was quiet and looked as if he hadn’t slept since his sister was abducted. Every now and then, he would look at Outlaw, then Wayne Ponkilla, then back at the floor. A few of the others were joking and laughing, and it seemed normal, yet like some strange episode of the Twilight Zone, where joy was frowned upon, and no one could be truly happy until it was verified that Taima was found.

Outlaw looked at one of the screens and felt accomplished. He was in the federal Marshal’s database on one computer and was now in the Oklahoma Health Department’s cloud drive on the other. He hadn’t had to hack the first source. The Tribal Police had access. It was inevitable Indians would be working in every organization imaginable, and they were wisely starting to pool their resources to build their power up.

The casino money could be used to fund election candidates, or buy land, or just to invest, so they were covering their bases and, so far, doing a good, legal job of it. Their access to the federal Marshal’s data was legitimate, but not necessarily for who was looking. The Health Department wasn’t hard to get through, though, and if anyone tried to call out his intrusion, Outlaw’s lawyer would make them waste a year or two and a small fortune in legal fees just trying to determine if a crime was even committed.

Outlaw figured out the casinos, like Oklahoma law enforcement, loved and hated him at the same time. They loved him because everyone whispered when he showed up. People tweeted and Facebooked and used Instagram to tell their friends. Besides being a living legend on the poker table, the books he’d written won awards, and his songs had deep lyrics that were popular in certain circles, worldwide.

Social media messages like:

Outlaw is at Winstar tonight. Maybe he’s playing cards?

He has the blue OU cap on. Take the Sooners tomorrow.

Outlaw is on the two five poker table. Come watch him blow up when he loses.

He just said take the Lakers -9 tonight.

He’s walking around the slot machines with that look in his eyes, I bet he hits a jackpot.

All of which brought in quite a few extra players and spectators and their money, but it also meant that the casinos had to watch him win.

It was uncanny how he sensed what machines were about to hit. It was uncanny, even for him. He gave a lot of action back when he won, though. He didn’t want the casinos to hate him. When he won three grand in an evening, he blew a grand of it back frivolously or tipped it away to the staff. He called it to give action.

He picked so many sports winners he had to make a code and post picks backwards, just to keep Vegas from sending someone after him. If you just took his predictions at face value, you might lose. If you didn’t understand his methodology, or which bets he was best at making, you’d never get too far ahead, and the old school rakes left him alone. His caution with the Nevada books wasn’t because he was scared of them, either. He just didn’t want to catch a life sentence for defending himself. Those who understood the code saw through the bad bets he posted, though, and usually won big time.

He had a knack, and the gift of clairvoyance. If you asked him, he would say he got both from his mother.

He’d played in New Orleans for years, where the Voodoo Queen raked a percentage of the pots. He placed in several World Series of Poker Events, including a final table appearance and a sixth-place cash out at Choctaw Casino, and then another at Harrah’s in New Orleans. He took his wife to Vegas once and won the daily poker tournament at the MGM Grand the first time he ever played in it. If they dealt him a trap hand, he sometimes left the table stymied with yawning players or a sleepy dealer. Sometimes, he wouldn’t be seen in the gambling houses for months at a time.

He hated it when they called it luck because, to him, luck was simply being educated, prepared, and observant enough to see windows of opportunity while possessing the correct skills and means needed to open those windows and take advantage.

What he just found on the Health Department’s system, though, he had to admit was simple good fortune. And though he didn’t want to, he had an obligation to call Patrolman Harding and tell him the information before he told Tah and Wayne.

He was about to scrub his digital presence from that system when Tah Timbo’s cell phone rang.

“They got her,” he told them after answering the call. The weight of his worry lifted them all. “She is dehydrated and was drugged but is otherwise all right.”

“Was that Harding?” Outlaw asked after his friend finished listening and hung up his phone. “Did they get the killer?”

“Nope and nope.” Timbo shook his head. “University of Texas administration office. They said the Texas Ranger chased him but crashed.”

Outlaw let out a long sigh. He believed in karma in a way few others knew how to. He had a quote from one of his books. To serve karma, one must do good to those who deserve it. To serve karma well, one must also deliver bad karma where and when it is due.

He had no idea why Harding hadn’t called before the university did, and he couldn’t think of one that would satisfy Tah’s crew. So, instead of calling Harding first with what he found, he called his friend Tah, and another guy over and whispered the potential address of the killer’s second hideout to him. Oddly enough, it was just off I-35S near Ardmore, Oklahoma. Not too far north of Winstar World Casino, but even closer to the headquarters of the Oklahoma Highway Patrol.

A couple of cell phones sounded at the same time. It was a weather alert. Outside, it was just late afternoon, but the sky was dark as pitch on one side. Tornado sirens went off, several of them across town, with their long, whining drone.

Ponkilla saw it first. “Holy fuck, man!” He pointed and stood slack-jawed as the shingled roof of a house came tumbling and twisting toward them right over the neighborhood those girls walked into just a few minutes earlier. Beyond the roof, there were limbs, leaves, and debris and part of a mobile home being churned a few hundred feet skyward. Even before they could run for cover, the big glass wall they were watching from behind was instantly vaporized into a windblown spray of sharp chunks of tempered glass.

Oddly, Outlaw stopped hearing the tornado sirens right before the city’s power grid failed, leaving everyone in utter blackness.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Harding and Vida were in the helicopter easing North along the I-35E corridor trying to spot their killer’s refrigerator truck. There were so many exits and mix masters, Harding had all but given up on the search method he’d devised a few hours earlier. From the sky, every U-Haul van looked like their target until you got right over it. Every truck they saw with a refrigerator unit on top had an ice cream or frozen food logo on its side. It was maddening.

spaghetti on the table and the slowest ants in the word had started reclaiming them.

“This is starting to look pointless,” he grumbled with the binoculars still at his eyes. The headset mic picked up his voice, so he continued, “I see signs for 635, 121, and 75, and of course 35E, and he could have exited any one of them, or even stopped, during the storm earlier.”

The same storm that had led to Jackson’s broken leg, had blown through a few hours ago on its way north. It was probably tearing up Oklahoma while they hovered over traffic in the sun.

“You’re right.” Commander Vida sounded discouraged in the headset. “Harvey, take us back to Luv Field.”

“Wait a minute,” Harding said quickly before the pilot had a chance to turn them around. “I just got a text from your bad boy, Michael the Outlaw.”

Harding shifted in his seat and looked at a paper map of the area that was taped to cardboard to keep it spread open.

“Is there enough fuel to get us to Ardmore, Harv?” he asked the pilot.

“What’s in Ardmore?” the commander asked. “What did Michael have to say?”

Harding thought she sounded a bit miffed that he hadn’t called her, but he was also scrambling to dial Tah Timbo because he had promised to call him first if they learned anything, but after leaving Taima with the authorities in Austin, he’d stopped trying. He doubted Tah would be all that angry because she was safe, but he did dial Tah’s number again, and was sort of surprised when the call connected through the headset.

He almost hung up and texted him out of uncertainty, but the pilot pointed to a square pushbutton switch in a bank of many that had a Bluetooth emblem on it. If yours is on, it gets picked up,” said the pilot quickly.

“Hello? Who is this?” Tah asked. “Is this you Harding? You’re late.”

“What?” Harding didn’t understand, but a sudden sinking feeling hit his stomach. “I tried you half a dozen times after we got her out of there, Tah. What do you mean, late?”

“Seminole was destroyed by a tornado half an hour ago, but Outlaw found where the bastard is eventually going to go,” Tah said with defiance dripping from his angry voice. “We are almost there. You should have kept trying to get me. You know there are few towers on Indian land.”

“Take us to Ardmore,” Vida ordered Harv, hearing the conversation. “I know they have a landing pad there somewhere.”

Harding covered the mic with his hand. “Land at the Highway Patrol Headquarters. There are pads and room east of them on the turf.”

“You got your sister back, Timbo,” Harding said flatly. “Do not get in our way now.”

He heard the phone click off but thought Tah heard him. “Hey, Harvey,” Harding had another idea, “do we have enough gas to follow the highway route to Ardmore.”

“I smell what you are steppin’ in,” Harvey, an overweight guy with shoulder length brown hair growing from a shiny topped balding head, did his best impersonation of the Rock. He even added the eyebrow raise when he looked back and nodded, indicating they had enough fuel.

*

“There it is,” Commander Vida said into the silence of the helmet speakers. “I can see the shrimp logo. Look.”

She handed him the binoculars.

“There it is.” He only looked long enough to verify what she’d seen and handed her back the looking device. Then he started studying the cardboard map. After a moment or two, he held the section of map he needed up sideways and, using a pencil, he showed Harvey.

“He is either going to cut down Levinworth Trail near Calera here or go all the way into Durant and take Hwy 70 to the west. Either way, we need to wait until he is on that bridge, and then close off both ends.”

“Can you get someone to close it off behind him?” Commander Vida asked.

“More likely the other way around.” He gave Vida a smirk. “Outlaw’s fishing guide service’s dock is just over here.” He indicated the cluster of boathouses of Catfish Bay Marina less than a mile south of the bridge. “You should call him and ask him why he told the Indians where this place is before he told either of us.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Outlaw was tripping out. He was stoned, and maybe still feeling the effects of the pain pills the doctors fed him. He was down to two pills a day now after being up to five. His neck was fused from the c4 to the c7, a break from some unremembered wreck or penitentiary fight he’d been in. He needed the pain pills to get by, but he didn’t need five a day as they kept prescribing him

Up ahead, he saw two sets of red and blue lights flashing at an intersection. There was a shelter-in-place tornado warning still in effect, and the town was pitch-black. The intersection lights didn’t work, the streetlights didn’t work, and even the power to the tornado sirens was out. And as he rolled up to the intersection of Highway 9 and Hwy 177 to Shawnee and ran in front of the junior college, there was another two first responder vehicles there with the drivers looking around anxiously.

It dawned on Outlaw what they were doing then, and after getting blasted with a barrel full of tempered glass earlier, he had no choice but to respect them. When he looked off to his left, he saw several more red and blue lights spinning. None of the drivers were even near their vehicles. He had half a mind to move a few of them to different areas of the leaf- and limb-strewn field, but no. These city, county, and state folks were out here acting as human tornado sirens, as well as monitoring the minimal traffic.

Whoever thought of it needed credit, for, in Oklahoma, a town without sirens could be shredded in moments. The cost tabulated in lives lost not just dollars. Seminole had fixed their problem within an hour of first being slammed, with nothing but gumption and city vehicles. Even the big trucks were used, if only to idle with their lights on so people could see the stop signs.

He passed several limb crews being watched over by attentive officers who were clearly on their second straight shift. They were having to work under generator-powered lights barely protected from windblown debris. And here the police car sirens went off. All across town, vehicles started whining out loud aggressive warnings and firing up their sirens so those stuck inside houses wouldn’t be caught in the tornado unaware.

He’d never seen so many police lights in one highly affected area. But his thoughts kept going back to the officers themselves, who were willing to stay put and keep their sirens blaring while mayhem and debris slinging disaster came whipping and slamming them around.

Outlaw didn’t get back in the vehicle before the 4Runner shook on its suspension like a windblown toy. He decided to go back and offer help from his phone, but his cell phone rang, and he was immediately queried by Commander Vida about why he didn’t call them before telling the Indian vigilante crew of the killers second hideout.

“I tried several times,” he insisted, ”but I could never get anyone.”

“Bullshit, Michael. No one has called me all day. You should have been at your boathouse this evening,” she told him. “Our killer is about to come across Lake Texoma on the HWY 70 bridge. We are about to get him!”

End of Preview

Grab I-35 South by Michael ROBB here:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B5MGDSWL/

A fluent musician and songwriter, Michael just released a 22 song LP called: Michael ROBB’s Mysterious Ways

https://artists.landr.com/057829907676

@DahgMahn MR's X feed is giving away a 10" Kindle every Sunday until Christmas. Find out how to enter @DahgMahn

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An Introduction to Xak Stellar

M. R. Mathias — Thu, 20 Mar 2025 20:18:24 -0400

An Introduction to Xak Stellar M. R. Mathias wrote a half million-word fantasy series (actually several of them) but one series in particular, was filled with sexual connotations, graphic sexual situations, and enough vivid detail describing battle scenes, wounds, and adult oriented motivations, it was unsuitable for anyone under the age of 17. That series did pretty well in its day, but the material is so compelling, and the storyline outside the adult content and gore, so well thought out, the NC17 aspects stifled what might have been a massive hit across the board.

Suzza Sarra, one of Mathias's trusted proofreaders, and an accomplished author in her own right, was given the task of removing all of the sex and gore from the series, and since the NC-17 market and the Mid-Grade/YA market are so vastly different, Mathias had Suzza change the names and descriptions of the places and characters, created a new map, as well as removing all the over descriptive battle gore. She also changed the adult motivational aspects, and sexual situations used to drive the plot.

Suzza Sarra is almost done with book two, and there is enough source content to fill books three, four, and possibly five, with whole stories of what she calls "sanitized," well edited, material. The result of her great effort shines through in The Adventures of Xak Stellar, Book One - Fire Island. And having read both versions, I have to say, her result is a masterful, all ages epic adventure that is comparable to the best fantasies ever written. That is not to say, Mathias's series weren't great, some books just weren't suitable for anyone under 18 years old. If you have read Mathias's 10 book, The Legend of Vanx Malic series, some aspects of The Adventures of Xak Stellar, will seem slightly familiar, but only remotely so. And since The Legend of Vanx Malic is now buried under searches for The Legend of Vox Machina, it is only fitting that Xak Stellar, and Suzza Sarra both get a shot.

If you are a fan of Vanx Malic, don't worry, that series is not going away. But it won't be front and center, or promoted much anymore, beyond its connection to The Wardstone Trilogy and Devious Arcana.

Here we have a story comparable to LLoyd Alexander's Chronicles of Prydain, or C. S. Lewis's the Chronicles of Narnia. Not many know Mathias graduated H.S. with a scholarship in creative writing, and his million copy selling trilogy, had a huge tribute to the two author's above, and J.R.R.Tolkien. The evil wizard Pael, in The Wardstone Trilogy, had an Imp familiar named Inkling. Mathias once told me, if you don't have an Inkling, about who the Inklings are, or why their bad guys were orcs, or cauldron born, and not other humans, you shouldn't be writing fantasy.

Please enjoy Xak Stellar and his amazingly, diverse, companions. And if you happen to like a bit of battle wound reality, and more adult oriented content, pass this on to your kids, and grab The Legend of Vanx Malic Complete Ten Book Box Set. Luckily, if you like this series, there is also the Devious Arcana series, Perpetual Fantastica, The Dragoneer Saga, Dragon Racers, and of course, The Wardstone Trilogy, all written for fantasy readers of any age, but clean enough to be rated PG. Even cooler, all of those series tie together, except for The Dragon Racers Trilogy.

- Digital Wizard ONE

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The Blood of Coldfrost - Flash Fiction from The Wardstone Trilogy & Devious Arcana (A 3 Minute Read)

M. R. Mathias — Mon, 03 Mar 2025 20:18:42 -0500

The Blood of Coldfrost

by M. R. Mathias

by Michael Robb Mathias Jr.

The concussive "whoomp" of an exploding oil keg brought the encampment awake. A ball of flame roiled skyward bathing the sparkling tundra of Coldfrost in an orange-yellow glow. Men were scrambling. Large mannish forms, more feral than not, darted about the shadows unchecked. The battle roar of a breed beast cut through the frigid night as it brought an ax down into the head of a Westland Captain who was emerging from his tent. Flames danced crazily, throwing wild shadows about the chaos. The shouts of a fervent sergeant, trying to generate some sort of order among the terrified men, rang out from somewhere across the crunchy, snow covered terrain.

In the Royal Pavilion, Mikahl was trying desperately to get his king's armor fastened. They had been in Coldfrost for days, hunting and corralling the wild breed beasts that came out of the mountains to feed on human flesh. Even in the heated pavilion it was so cold that Mikahl's fingers felt like giant sausages. Mikahl hated the cold. Coldfrost was bitter, but he was the King's Squire, and he would have rather cut off his own head than disappoint good King Balton. Determined, he ground his jaw tight with effort, fumbled the stiff leather straps through the buckles, and cinched them tight.

"You'll be stay'n out of it Mik." The king stood and twisted his frame to get the ornate plated chest piece to settle. His visage was one of savage determination. Even inside the tent his breath came out in great clouds of steam. "Watch over the horses. If one of them fargin beasts comes at ya remember your drills."

Outside the tent a man screamed out, his horrible voice cutting over the din of battle. King Balton Collum winced at the sound of the agony then pulled his infamous sword out of its sheath. Forgetting his helmet, he threw the scabbard to the side, and charged out into the freezing silver moonlight. The blade of his ancient weapon radiated an icy shade of blue as he went, but Ironspike's potent length graduated swiftly to the raging color of blood as the king started putting it to use.

Mikahl came out behind King Balton and darted around the pavilion to the canvas stall that was erected for the animals. He turned back just in time to see Ironspike's blade flash with a pulse of blinding energy. Screams of pain and fear erupted from man and beast alike as the flare filled the world full of blinding white radiance.

No breed beasts came for the horses, so Mikahl watched the battle waging out beyond the gray expanse of ice between him and the main encampment. Lord Gregory, the Lion Lord of Westland, was in a tangle with one of the ten foot tall creatures. The beast was trying to sink its finger long teeth into the Lion Lord, but finding it no easy task. A pair of his men danced around the combatants frantically. Every so often one of them would dart in and jab his weapon into the breed beast's side.

Not far away, the Royal Wizard blasted at the creatures with streaking lavender pulses of magical force. Pael looked insane with his wide open eyes, over clenched jaws, and his egg shaped alabaster head. His charge, Prince Glendar, was calling out orders to a troop of men that surrounded a hand full of the breed. Mikahl wanted desperately to raise his old iron sword with them, but he wouldn't betray the king's order.

It ended when Duke Fairchild and his huntsmen came thundering in from the other camp on their warhorses. The feral beasts were no match for the duke's competent cavalry. With Lord Gregory's added might, and Ironspike's angry power thrown in the skirmish the savage breed were soon brought to bear.

After they were corralled, Pael spelled them into a stupor. In the morning the men who were left alive herded them across the icy shallows, out onto the glacial Island with the others of their kind. King Balton then drove Ironspike's dragon-forged steel into the ice and let its power surge forth. A boundary was formed. The glassine field hummed and crackled with the power that would hold it in place for all of time. The Battle of Coldfrost was over. The brutish halfmen could no longer ravage the mountain herds or rape and pillage in the north.

One of the creatures stared at Mikahl from across the icy flow that separated the Island from the rest of the world. Mikahl couldn't help but wonder what the creatures would eat. The prison the beasts were just confined to was nothing more than a solid slab of ice that rarely thawed. A glance around the encampment, at the crimson stained tundra, and gore strewn remains of his company hardened Mikahl to their dismal fate.

Let them starve.

He had no idea that someday he would have to face them again, but he would. When it happened, good King Balton would be long dead from Pael's traitorous poison.

Mikahl noticed one of his favorite sparring partners lying half shredded in the snow and had to force back a tear. He took Ironspike back from his King and dutifully ran to the pavilion to put it back into its sheath. The battlefield was so saturated with blood that his boots left a trail of footprints across the carpeted floor of the king's pavillion. In all of his days, throughout all of the wild adventures his grand destiny would bring him, he would never forget the Battle of Coldfrost. He woud never forget the blood.

***

This old teaser, a bit of history. It is relavant now, because my new series Devious Arcana, starts a few years after The Wardstone Trilogy ends. Book One of Devious Aracana is called Nefarious Allure and kicks off when the main character, Braiden Thane, a street wise orphan finds himself tied to a millstone on a boat heading down the river too sea. He gets himself loose and rakes what is in the pocket of the corpse next to him and jumps ship. It takes a while for him to figure it out, but what he stole from the corpse was an enchanted pocket-watch that allows him to travel time. We are deep into book three and he still has no idea how far forward or back in time it will take he and his small crew.

In Braiden’s time, Mikahl the squire from the Battle of Coldfrost, is the High King of the realm. That story is the million selling Wardstone Trilogy. I thought about this little piece, because in book three of Devious Arcana, which I am almost finished writing, Braiden ends up in Westland’s past a few hundred years before King Balton used his powerful sword to create the barrier. While Braiden is there, a pack of savage breed attacks one of King Vathian's strongholds.

Reluctant Deception, Book Two of Devious Arcana releases on March 13th. And book three, Perilous Defiance releases May 13th. Of course, Nefarious Allure is currently available.

Devious Arcana, and The Wardstone Trilogy are both available for Kindle Unlimited readers.

Also, in both series, we get to attend a few of the annual events called the Brawl. There is a novella, called Roar about the legendary fighter called, the Lion Lord of Westland. I’ll put it up here in few weeks.

Enjoy,

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The First Dragoneer (Full Novella) Free

M. R. Mathias — Tue, 25 Feb 2025 19:00:37 -0500

Embedded Youtube video removed, see original post to watch.

The First Dragoneer

by M.R. Mathias

“So what are you gonna do? Have you decided yet?” Brendly Tuck asked his best friend.

They had known each other all seventeen summers of their lives. Brendly hoped that since he didn’t have the option of getting out of Prominence Valley as March Weston did, his best friend would decide not to leave. It was a small hope though, because Brendly couldn’t remember March ever talking about anything else. March was always asking him things like, “Where should I go?” or “What should I try to become? Should I go downriver to Camberly? What about up North to the borders? Maybe I could hire on as a guardsman, or maybe go down South to the coast and work a ship?”

Brendly loved his friend dearly, but as the finality of their last summer together grew closer, the gnawing sense of loss, and feelings that bordered on jealousy, were growing inside of him. If March kept rubbing it in, Brendly thought he might just have to give his best friend a good ol’ thumping to take with him when he left.

Wondering now why he had asked the question, Brendly stopped on the woodsy game trail they were traveling and waited for the answer that he didn’t really want to hear.

“I don’t know yet where I’m gonna go, or what I’m gonna do,” March replied. March could sense Brendly’s discomfort so he added, “But I sure wish you could come with me.”

“So do I.” Brendly dropped his head with the weight of the words to look at his scuffed leather hunting boots.

“Well, let’s make the best of it till midsummer, when I’m to leave. We can worry about it then.” March forced a grin and started back up the trail. Brendly waited only a moment to follow, but March had already disappeared under the thick canopy of the woods causing Brendly to have to quicken his step to catch up.

“We won’t even get a rabbit, much less a stag. Not if we keep skulking about thinking of that stuff,” March called back over his shoulder. “Come on, it’s getting late.”

Remembering that they were hunting, Brendly caught up with his friend and let the worries of the future slip away.

They were hiking their way up toward Cander’s Ridge. It was a little farther from Prominence than they usually came to hunt, but not so far as to cause concern. They were still easily in the kingdom’s border, at least as long as they stayed on this side of the slope. Topping the ridge would only invite trouble though.

A pack of dark-skinned, pointy-eared kobles had been spotted recently. The feral humanoid creatures could best be described as two-legged dogs. They weren’t very dangerous alone, but if you ran into a pack of them you could be in serious trouble. They seldom ventured across the kingdom’s established border, which meant that they weren’t completely void of sense. Only the hungriest of them ever hunted in the protected lands of Prominence Valley, and though a few had killed villagers and hunters in the past, those were usually hunted down and killed. The dead then hung up in the trees, to draw carrion, for their violation.

This side of the ridge was kingdom territory, and not even the huge, dark-skinned wood trolls that roamed the foothills dared to trespass. King Timothy’s border guard patrolled the boundary well and often. The border guard was feared by even the giant Karsithian warriors, who sometimes ventured too far south out of their high mountain territories.

The game trail the boys were following led them to a clearing that held a small pool. When they stopped and looked around for tracks, they both noticed the valley spreading out below them. The rich, dark shades of the green treetops flowed down the mountainside on their way out into the lower slopes of the valley. The trees thinned into large clumps, only to disappear completely in the valley floor. There, squares and long rectangles of brown, gold and russet took over. Some of the greener fields were speckled with the black and brown dots that were livestock, but most were empty of life save for the rows and rows of crops. The silvery-blue thread of the Prominence River wound its way through the pastures and crop fields, splitting the valley into two misshaped halves. The river was speckled with dots, but those were the fishing boats and cargo ships that used its flow as a source of bounty. It was a view that neither of the boys had seen before. They were entranced by its overwhelming beauty.

“Let’s make camp here,” March whispered as if his voice might disturb the tranquility of the valley far below.

“Yup,” Bren replied simply, not taking his eyes away from the sight before him.

They made a circle of rocks and started a fire inside it. Then they set up a makeshift tent by draping an oiled sheet of canvas over some low hanging branches and stretching it wide at the bottom. They fastened the corners of the canvas with wooden stakes so the breeze couldn’t flutter it away.

They had planned to be hunting for at least five days, or until they got a fat, late spring buck, or some other sizable game they could carry home and parade proudly around town. Neither of them got in a hurry over anything.

They both knew that this was a goodbye hunt. In only a few short weeks March would set off to find his fortune. His father and two older brothers would take care of his mother and sister, and the family farm. It was the unspoken duty of a third son in a struggling family to move on and make his own way. March didn’t mind. He had been dreaming of leaving since he found out he would someday have to.

Brendly had no brothers. He did have four sisters which he and his father would labor to care for until they were eventually married off, but even then Bren wouldn’t be free. He was destined to take over the family’s herd of horses, and the small farm where they raised them. It wasn’t likely that he’d ever escape the boring, yet ever growing village of Prominence.

Prominence was at the easternmost edge of the kingdom. It was originally a river stop for the copper miners that had once swarmed the other side of the valley. As time wore on and the veins in the mountain dried up, farming and ranching had slowly taken over the area. A large reservoir, up in the eastern foothills at the head of the river, was rich in krill and whisker fish. If you had a net boat, you could fetch a fair share of coin in Camberly, a city that was a two-day float downstream to the west.

Prominence sat at the base of the large, jagged mountain range known simply as the Teeth. Throughout the Teeth, wood and rock trolls roamed, as did kobles, and many other unfriendly creatures. Brendly and March had both heard the myriad horror stories their parents had used to keep them close to the home fires when they were little. They both knew that the stories weren’t just wives’ tales either. Much blood had been spilled over the years to make the kingdom safe for humanity. King Timothy’s border guard was one of the main reasons for the sense of security.

As the sun disappeared and the moon washed them in a pale silver glow, they were content to sit by their small fire and listen to the symphony the forest provided. The woods could be frightening at night, but both Brendly and March felt comfortable. They were men now. They had been on many a hunt, both with their fathers and without. They felt safe inside the borders of the kingdom.

“When I was looking for firewood by the bigger pool upstream I saw fresh tracks,” March said quietly. “If we can get up early enough, we can find a spot near there, and maybe get a shot at something coming to water at daybreak.”

“Yup,” Brendly replied halfheartedly. He was thinking about March leaving again and wondering who he would hunt with after his best friend was gone.

“You can’t be a sad-sack till I go, you know!” March jested.

“March, I don’t want to be stuck in the valley all my life,” Brendly responded passionately. “I don’t want to be a horse rancher. I want to go on an adventure like you.”

“Bren, you're gonna marry Canda Shilling, or Deanda Bargery, and have a family, and a good, happy life!” There was more than a little envy in March’s voice. “It’s going to be a lot of boring days and nights without my friends and family for me, no matter where I decide to go. It won’t be all fun and exciting like you think.”

“But what if I went with you?” Brendly lit up at the thought, as if he would really run off in the night and leave his structured world behind. “You’d have a friend with you, and we could make our fortunes together.”

“Your ma would hunt us both down, and then strap you all the way home. I can’t let you come with me!” March laughed.

Bren laughed too, and after a long, awkward silence said, “I’m sure gonna miss you.”

“I’m not gone yet, Bren. Let’s get some sleep so we can get up to that bigger pool before daybreak.”

When the sun broke the horizon, they had a perfect view of the tracks by the pool. Each of the boys was at one end of a thick, heavy shrub that hid them well from whatever might come to drink the cool, crisp water. Yet, they weren’t so far apart that they couldn’t communicate silently with the hunter’s hand signals their fathers had taught them. The air was cold and charged with anticipation. Birds were just starting to chirp their “good mornings” to the world. The forest was coming to life, bringing with it the promise and blood-tingling excitement of the hunt.

Brendly, sitting alert with an arrow ready to loose, had forgotten his sadness for the moment.

March was feeling alive inside. He was anxious to see what would show up to drink on this most perfect of mornings.

The moment was broken by the distant, yet clear, sound of dried wood cracking. The boys looked at each other excitedly. Whatever it was, it was moving noisily toward them. Both of them began to scan the tree line across the pool for any sign of movement. Instinctively each raised his bow toward the area of the noise.

Bren was trying not to breathe too loudly. It was always a chore for him to keep calm and contain himself when this moment came on a hunt.

March just wished his nose would stop itching. It seemed to him that every time he was in a position where he couldn’t scratch his face, it began to itch. As the sound of the approaching animal grew closer, the discomfort got so bad that he decided Bren could have this one and he silently relaxed his draw so that he could scratch his face.

“Whew!” Bren exhaled rather loudly. March turned and looked at him with alarm. Bren glanced toward him, and whispered, “It was only a wild sow -- or a little-- uh.”

His words abruptly stopped as a new sound carried toward them. It was a snort, a loud one. It was accompanied by the sound of rattling branches.

Bren instantly went back into firing position: alert, prone and ready. March gave his nose a last-second scratch as he re-aimed his arrow. The soft sound of Bren’s excited breathing was the last sound he heard before he tuned the world out so he could focus on the tree line.

First it was a small doe, a yearling, March thought. Two fawns and another larger doe appeared. With nervous, darting eyes, the biggest of the four deer lowered its head and began to drink. Slowly the others followed suit. March was thrilled. He hoped that Bren would be patient. A buck was sure to present itself eventually.

Bren almost loosed his arrow on the larger doe, but at the last second thought better of it. He wanted a buck to show off to his dad. His restraint, however, was mostly due to the two awkwardly moving young fawns frolicking near their mother.

Suddenly, all four of the deer rose from the pool and froze in alarm. In a flash of movement, a big cracking sound erupted from behind them. They were off in a series of leaping bounds that carried them instantly out of sight and back into the forest.

Here he comes, March thought. He expected a wide, heavy rack of antlers to emerge from the trees, announcing the leader of the herd. Instead, the creature that showed itself nearly stopped his heart.

As silently as he could, Brendly took in a deep breath as the magnificent beast stepped out of the tree line. Cautiously, it moved into the clearing and looked around.

It was a white stag, majestic and awe inspiring. Its antlers were long, and only slightly curvy. They twisted and forked only thrice, and in perfect symmetry. The stag’s chest was thrust forward showing its dominance of the forest, and its short white fur was clean and glossy, like glazed snow. It strutted toward the pool with kingly grace. Its large black eyes didn’t dart around as the does had. These eyes were full of confidence. There was only the hint of the creature’s natural caution showing in them. Throughout this forest of paupers and peasants, this creature was royalty. As far as nonpredatory animals went, this was the undisputed king of the forest.

March dropped his aim slowly. He wanted to see if Brendly was about to take the shot, but he was afraid to take his eyes off the rare beast that stood before him. Thousands of campfire stories ran through his head, all of them about this legendary creature. He was taken by its beauty, and suddenly he didn’t want Bren to take its life. This was the moment in time that he wanted to remember when he thought about his home and his friend. No matter how far away he traveled, or what his situation might be, he wanted to be able to close his eyes and know in his heart that this creature still roamed the valley around Prominence. He would live his life knowing that he and Bren had been graced by its presence.

Brendly’s heart was trying to pound out of his rib cage. Instinctively he began to calm himself enough to steady his aim. What a reception they’d have if they returned to Prominence with such a kill. His father would beam when he told folks of his son’s bounty. All the other hunters would envy March and him forever.

Brendly took his time and lined up the shot perfectly. He wanted to hit the stag’s heart. He carefully checked the range to determine the slight arch he had to consider to place the arrow where he wanted it to go. It wouldn’t do to let this creature suffer. He finally got the white-furred buck sighted. He knew his shot would swiftly end its life. With a sigh of resignation, he let out his breath and made to let his shaft fly.

Suddenly, March jumped from the bushes, waving his arms like a mad man. “Run away!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.

Brendly’s arrow went astray, flying well over the stag and disappearing into the forest. The stag raised its head from the pool and snorted its disapproval over the interruption. Proudly, the magnificent animal strode out of the clearing, disappearing as if the two boys were of no concern.

“Don’t stop running!” March yelled. “Don’t ever stop.”

“Why, March?” Brendly asked. He wasn’t angry, but he was far from pleased. He had his shot lined up perfectly. He could already see the look of pride in his father’s eyes at the sight of such a kill. He could even feel the congratulatory pats on his back from the other hunters. Then March had jumped out and ruined his moment. He looked at his friend with a questioning glare.

“Promise me, Bren,” March started with a look of wild elation. “Promise me that you’ll never kill that stag! I don’t care if you see him a thousand times after I leave.” March waved his arm around stupidly causing Bren to laugh and lighten his mood. “You can’t ever kill such a majestic and beautiful animal!”

“You’re as crazy as a bald-eyed giboon,” Brendly said as the tension fell completely away from him. “I had him, you know!”

“Yes, I know. That’s why I scared him away.” March’s smile was wide and infectious as he walked over, putting his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “Just think, if you’d killed him, then we’d have to pack him back down into town and our hunt would already be over. This way you can live all of your days, knowing in your heart that you had the white stag in your sights but chose to let him live on.”

Brendly thought about that for a moment, then laughed at March’s cheer. “So what do we do now?”

“Let’s go back to camp and eat a bite, then go exploring.” March was feeling electric. His blood was charged. He felt immortal. “Let’s go all the way up to the ridge!”

“To the ridge?” Bren questioned, with only a hint of alarm in his voice. He too was feeling the invincibility of youth coursing through his veins. He was now bound and determined to make the best of what was sure to be the last hunt he ever had with his best friend. Adding a little danger to the kettle only seemed to make the idea of it all the better.

They ate and then broke camp. Neither of them was able to sit still for any length of time. To make it to the ridge before nightfall would be easy, but to find a safe place to camp up there might take hours. They moved with intensity and purpose as they gathered their things and loaded their packs. Neither of them wanted to have to search out a place to camp in the dark, and building a fire too close to the ridge would only serve to alert the wilder things to their presence. As adventurous as they felt, there were things in the Teeth with which they didn’t ever want to cross paths, and they both knew it.

The climb grew more laborious the higher they went. With every step the air grew thinner, the foliage thicker, and the ground less agreeable to their soft leather boots. When they were finally forced to make camp, the ridge was still a quarter mile above them. It was getting dark and they were relieved they could make a fire. They were still well within the kingdom’s patrolled boundary. They didn’t have to worry about anything attacking them. This would allow them to sleep without watches. This way they would be able to explore the ridge in the morning, in the daylight.

The colder, higher altitude demanded they keep warm, and they wasted no time using the dusky light that was left to gather wood and get a blaze started. They strung their canvas on a rope between two pines at the edge of the tiny clearing they had chosen, and settled in for the night.

Unlike the previous night, there was no glorious view of the valley below. Pine trees, shrubs, and boulders spread out in every direction, as far as the eye could see, which was only about twenty paces. They sat and ate dried beef from their packs as the last of the sunlight faded from the world. After a time, March started rummaging through his pack, with a wicked grin on his face.

Noticing this, Brendly spoke up. “What is it?” he asked.

“I was gonna save it for after we got a kill, but now seems like a better time.” March handed something to Brendly.

It was a silver flask. Brendly could tell by the weight of it that it was full.

“It’s Master Beryll’s strongest plum brandy!” March informed before he snatched it back from Bren. He pulled the stopper, took a long pull, and then nearly spewed it back out of his mouth as the burn of the fiery stuff hit his throat.

Laughing, Brendly took the flask back from his red-faced friend and took a few small sips. “You sip a brandy, March,” he said knowingly, before the burn hit his throat as well. “Whew, you could burn green wood with this stuff. This is raw brandy hooch, not plum brandy.” He passed the flask back to March.

They each took a few more sips and agreed to save the rest for another day, but they’d each had enough to get them warm and lightheaded. Around them, the night song of the higher altitudes began to sound, reminding them that they were close to the boundary.

“Do you really think I’ll marry Canda Shellings?” Brendly asked after the long silence. He was trying to take his mind off of the eerie sounds of the night.

“Her, or Deanda,” March teased. “They both giggle and blush, and carry on when you pass them.”

“No more than Jeana Hallin does you,” Brendly returned defensively. He noticed an immediate sadness take hold of March at the mention of her name. “What does she think of you leaving?”

“She’s so perfect and understanding sometimes, but lately she’s hard to be around.” March sat up quickly. He was determined not to let his good mood slip away. “All in all I think she’s just another sad sack, like you.” He punched Bren lightly on the shoulder. “She’ll get over it.”

“It’s not that I’m a sad sack, March. I just--” He looked around the camp searching for the right words, as if he might find them roosting in the pine trees or hiding in the thicket. “Who’s gonna help me terrorize Quinton? And who is gonna race me to the short dock when the krill begin to spawn?” Bren forced a laugh. “And who’s gonna come out here and traipse through the woods with me and scare the white stag off when I have the perfect shot lined up?”

March smiled broadly at his friend. “He was magnificent, wasn’t he? Did you see his antlers? They looked like flaming ice.”

“Yup, he was amazing.”

“I won’t ever forget that moment as long as I live, Bren, the way he snorted when I jumped out of the bushes. I think he was laughing at us.”

“He wouldn’t have been laughing if you hadn’t jumped out when you did.” Bren smiled at the thought.

“I don’t think you’d have done it,” March’s voice turned serious. “When it came time to loose you would have balked, or missed on purpose. Not even you, the great Brendly Tuck, could have killed such a creature.” March stood and yawned as he stretched out his arms.

“Maybe not,” Brendly conceded. He wondered if March was right. He lay awake a long time after his friend was asleep, wondering about just that.

Bren woke with a shock as icy cold water splashed across his face. March’s hysterical laughter filled his bewilderment. The sun was already up. The sounds of the birds chirping and whistling filled the cool air between March’s deep belly roars of mirth.

March handed Bren a pan full of scrambled grouse eggs which he had collected and cooked earlier. With a grimace of friendly disapproval, Brendly took them and wolfed them down with his fingers. After that, they put their bulky packs under the canvas shelter and checked their gear. They each tested the sharpness of their long skinning knives and made sure they had plenty of arrows between them. They put enough water and dried beef for the day in their belt pouches and left the things they didn’t think they would need. March pushed his head, and one arm, through a coil of rope and checked to make sure he had his tinder box. They were both accomplished hunters and had learned from experience not to go off unprepared. Bren even went as far as putting a small wood ax in his belt.

It took longer than they thought it would to reach the ridge. When they finally got there they were almost disappointed not to see hoards of kobles and wood trolls gathering on the other side. What they found was a small valley, very small compared to Prominence Valley. The dense forest continued down the steep terrain to the valley’s floor some three hundred yards below them. There, a small stream could be seen through the treetops winding its way down the hill.

Not far below them, the trees gave way to a rocky outcropping that looked interesting. Without a thought, March started down toward it with only a smiling glance back at Bren’s hesitation.

Swallowing his nervousness, Bren hurried to catch up. He nearly tumbled over his feet as the steepness of the slope was revealed. By the time he reached March’s side, he was out of breath, and more than a little worried.

It only took them a few minutes to get to what turned out to be a flat shelf of rock that protruded out over the tree tops. On either side of the shelf, the trees and the undergrowth were as thick as thieves at a festival; but for this one small area, about a hundred paces wide, the rocks prevailed.

March eased out to the edge to look down at what he was sure would be a cliff-like plummet into the sea of treetops below. Bren stayed back and nervously waited for March to tell him what he saw. After a few moments, March stopped his cautious approach. He then pulled the rope he was carrying back over his head and began uncoiling it.

“I’m going all the way out to the edge to look.” March looked excitedly back at Bren then threw him one end of the rope. “Hold this in case I slip. I don’t want to go all the way over.”

“Here I was worried about you leaving,” Bren joked sheepishly. “You’ll not live to set foot out of Prominence Valley.”

March grinned as he tied his end of the rope around his waist. “You’re a bald-eyed giboon, Bren,” March laughed. “We're not even in Prominence Valley anymore.”

“Oh. Yeh.” Bren swallowed hard, remembering that they were also beyond the kingdom’s boundary.

“Now come on, gibber lips,” March chided. “The rope’s not long enough for you to stay way up there.”

Bren eased close enough so that March could lean out over the edge. He found a depression in the rock where he could dig in his heels and create leverage if it became necessary. When he saw March get to his belly and begin crawling out, he dug in any way.

“Don’t fall, March!” Bren yelled out as his daring friend got to the edge and looked over. “What is it? What do you see?” His curiosity was drowning his concern.

March quickly scooted back and stood up. A giant smile had spread across his face. When he saw how eager Bren was to know what he’d seen he purposely kept from saying anything.

“Come on, March. Spit it out!” Bren yelled. “Just tell me!”

“There’s a cave down there!” March was beaming. “A big ol’ cave!”

“You wanted to go on an adventure, sad sack. Let’s go on one!” March said, moving back up the hill on one side of the rocky shelf. “There’s a way down over here,” he pointed.

Bren quickly pulled all the slack out of the rope and nearly yanked March off of his feet. Between laughs he said, “At least—untie yourself first, you big giboon!”

March blushed, realizing that in his rush to get down to the cave he had completely forgotten he had a rope tied to his waist. He gave his end a good yank, pulling it free from Bren’s hands. He yanked it hard enough to give Bren a burn in his palms. Even though he was the one laughing now, it took him only seconds to untie himself. He coiled the rope back up quickly, and then shouldered it.

The descent proved to be tedious. The ground was loose and rocky, and the trees were in all the wrong places. They ended up going away from the shelf, out into the forest where the grade seemed a little better. They had to backtrack twice and ended up going too far down slope. When they finally realized this, the cave was above them, looming up the slope like a hungry maw. Climbing back up to it, they began to feel the humidity of the forest. The sun was directly overhead now. The trees shaded the ground well, but the canopy was so thick that it held in the ground moisture. It wasn’t long before both of the boys’ woolen shirts and leather pants were soaked with sweat. To make matters worse there was no breeze to be felt at all. The trees kept it from reaching them.

The dark mouth of the cave grew as they approached it. They could see that it was deep. What hid in those depths was the mystery. The only thing about the hole that was inviting was the knowledge that inside the cavern they could cool off and take a short rest.

The natural opening was easily ten paces wide and half again that tall. The rock formation seemed out of place sitting there by itself in the middle of the dense forested greenery. Scattered here and there up along the cliff-like face were clumps of mossy growth and a few patches of vines that bloomed with brilliantly colored little blue and yellow flowers.

March didn’t hesitate. Just inside, out of the sun, he plopped down on a piece of rock and began rummaging through his pack for food and water. Bren joined him, already sipping from the deerskin canteen he carried at his hip. Both were winded from the climb back up to the cavern so neither spoke for a long while. They ate and sipped cool water and let their bodies rejuvenate. All the while the endless possibilities of what could be hiding down in the cavern kept culminating in their imaginations.

After a while Bren whispered, “I wonder how far back it goes?”

“We’ll find out soon enough, won't we?” March laughed confidently. “Why are you whispering?”

“This is a big cave,” Bren answered seriously, his voice still a whisper. “Something big could live back there.”

March hadn’t thought of that. His mind began to race through all the creatures he knew of that were big enough to do them harm. He turned to Bren, dropping his tone and volume to match his friend’s. “We’ll be quiet and go really slow.” He turned back and peered into the darkness of the tunnel-like shaft that the cavern formed. He couldn’t see very far at all. “We’ll have to make a torch.”

March stood and began looking around the lighted part of the cave. He found a length of dried wood as big around as his thigh, and after feeling its weight, he quickly discarded it. Bren was rummaging through his belt pack so March headed back out into the woods to seek out a better prospect. He returned with a piece of green wood nearly four feet long and about as big around as his wrist. It was heavy but it would be handy as a club if the need arose. He noticed that Bren had strung his bow and had moved his quiver of arrows from his back to his hip.

He’d never tell Bren, because it would swell up his friend’s melon head, but he thought that Bren was the best archer he’d ever seen. The thought was comforting. He’d once seen Bren shoot a gobbler out of the air. Bren had fired two arrows in rapid succession and both had hit their mark. It was improbable to have hit a bird in flight even once. Bren had hit it twice back to back, and with lightning speed. March was sure that Bren hadn’t been lying when he had said the white stag had been lucky.

“How are you gonna make a torch out of that?” Bren asked.

March just shook his head. How could such an accomplished hunter be such a giboon, he wondered? He sat back down near his friend and cut an arm’s length of rope from his coil. He tied it tightly around one end of the limb. Then he took out the silver flask of Master Beryll’s brandy hooch and poured a few dollops over the rope until it was saturated with the liquid. He offered Bren a sip from it, but Bren refused. March took a good-sized swig and then put it away. With a red-faced grimace, he held the limb out to Bren for inspection. “Torch,” was all the sting of the liquor would allow him to say.

Bren was uneasy, almost scared, about going deeper into the cavern. He would never let it show though, not to March. He had said he wanted an adventure. Now here he was, across the ridge in the unprotected Teeth, about to venture into a cavern big enough for a bear, or a family of rock trolls, or even a small dragon to call home.

Not that Bren really thought that there was a dragon here. The mighty dragons hadn’t been seen in the area for dozens of years. Even when they had, they were seen from great distances as they flew overhead, doing whatever it is that dragons do in the sky. Still, the possibility of what might reside deep in this cavern was unnerving.

In between his short bouts of fear, Bren found himself terribly excited. He wondered how March could remain so calm. Maybe March was scared too. Maybe March was just able to hide it better. Or maybe March was just that confident.

March didn’t look terrified, but he was. It wasn’t easy always taking the lead. Bren had wanted an adventure, and March wanted to have a hunting trip that they would both always remember forever, so here they were. He wished that Bren hadn’t said anything about something living in here. Up until then he had only been excited. Now, he was truly afraid. But he couldn’t let Bren see it. He told himself that this was just going to be an old, empty cavern and did his best to swallow his fear.

“Are you ready?” March asked quietly. He took out his tinder box and prepared to light the makeshift torch.

“Yup, just stay to my left, and keep the torch flame up high, so it stays out of my eyes.” It took great effort to keep his voice from trembling as he added, “I want to have a good clear shot if we run into anything hungry back there.”

March lit the torch and then handed it to his friend while he put the flint and steel back into the tinder box and put it away. He unsheathed his skinning knife and took the torch back from Bren. With the brightly flaming brand in one hand and the long blade in the other, he started moving deeper into the cave.

The flickering light of the brand allowed them to see about twenty paces ahead. The flames caused exaggerated shadows to dance around the tunnel like ghoulish specters. Beyond the shadows, the thick blackness swallowed up the light like a hungry beast.

There were webs deeper in the cave. Some of them spanned the entire width of the shaft like forgotten fishing nets. More than a few fist-sized spiders scurried from the noisy brightness of their approach. After only a few hundred feet, March was forced to get in front of Bren because the shaft began to narrow.

“Don’t get too far ahead of me, March!” Bren whispered nervously. Even at a whisper his voice reverberated off the rough rocky walls.

“I won’t,” March joked. “I don’t want an arrow in the back when one of those spiders drops on your fat head.”

“Not funny.” Bren wasn’t laughing. His attention had been drawn up ahead of them. He gripped the semi-drawn arrow with the index finger of his bow hand so his right hand was free. He reached forward and tapped March on the shoulder with it. When he had his friend’s attention he pointed up ahead at what he saw, then drew back his arrow again and stepped around March.

“What is it?” March asked. He had to squint his eyes to block out the glare from the torch flame. “Is it a rock?”

“Only if the rocks in here grow fur!” Bren said as his arrow loosed at the thing.

The arrow struck with a thump and sunk deeply into the creature. Before March could take a breath, Bren had another arrow ready to fire.

“It’s not rock,” said March, moving toward it cautiously. “And it stinks!”

“It’s not alive,” Bren stated the obvious. His arrow was still trained on the thing though.

They were relieved to see that it was just a dead deer. That relief faded quickly when they saw that it was only part of a deer. Half of it had been torn away, leaving a puddle of thick, black muck that was littered with pieces of broken bone. A trail of splotchy red and black led from the carcass into the darkness.

“Pretty fresh kill,” March commented after kneeling and examining it. “The stink is from the curdled blood, not the meat.”

“It’s time to get out of here, March,” Bren said sternly. “Something bit off the whole back half of that doe. I don’t want to meet it!”

March wasn’t listening. He was already moving farther into the cave. He’d seen something else and was heading toward it. Bren hurried after him, and was just about to yank his friend back by the shoulder and haul him out of there when he saw what March was after. He gasped loudly.

It was the skeleton of a human. It was whole and still encased in rusty ringed mail armor. At the side of the body was a dusty but wicked-looking sword. Several small packs were attached to the dead man’s belt, and a large leather backpack was still strung over his shoulders.

“Hold this,” March said as he thrust the torch to Bren. Reluctantly Bren took the brand, even though holding it meant that he wouldn’t be ready to fire an arrow if trouble came. He looked on in horror at what March started to do next.

“You can’t steal from the dead, March!” Bren said rather loudly. The word dead echoed around the cavern and down the tunnel like an ominous warning.

“It’s not stealing,” March justified as he unlocked the sword belt and fastened it over his shoulder. “This isn’t digging up a grave. This guy has been here a long time.” He rolled the skeleton over and almost jumped out of his skin as it broke apart in his hands.

“All right, but hurry! I don’t like this one bit.”

March pulled the leather backpack free, causing the skull to roll over and look up at him as if it were still alive. He took a deep breath and repositioned the body in a more comfortable-looking position. “Rest peacefully, whoever you were,” he said softly.

He slung the pack over his shoulder and was about to reach for the torch, but a glittering sparkle underneath the dead man’s neck caught his eye.

Bren, seeing his friend reach back down to the body, yelled out in frustration. “COME ON!... On... on.” His voice echoed down the cavern.

“Just a moment,” March growled back up at Bren’s impatience.

He groped through the dust where he’d seen the flashing reflection and found a small chain with his fingertips. As he pulled it out from under the dead warrior, he could feel the substantial weight of something that dangled from it.

“Light, Bren!” He ordered. Bren sighed and held the torch forth so that he and March could both see what it was.

The firelight reflected so brilliantly off the thumb-sized gem mounted in the dirty medallion that it nearly blinded them.

“Wow,” March gasped, turning to his friend. “Its--”

His voice was drowned out by the sudden angry growl of something very big and very close.

March pulled the medallion’s chain over his head and grabbed the torch back from his friend.

“Let’s go!” Bren yelled again. His bow was instantly drawn and his arrow trained at the area of darkness from where the sound had come. “Now!”

March gave no argument. He immediately began backing through the cavern towards the entrance, holding the torch out toward the sound they had heard. They awkwardly tried to stay side-by-side as they continued moving backward as quickly as they could.

They heard the thump of heavy footfalls pounding rapidly toward them from the darkness. A strong alien scent filled the air. Whatever it was, it was four-legged, and it was closing in on them.

A deep, rumbling growl began and quickly turned into a screechy roar. It was right there, just outside of the torchlight. March could see several glistening reflections in the darkness, all of which were at least a head taller than he was. He was sure it was eyes and teeth, or maybe scales that he was seeing.

“Loose, Bren!” March yelled. An arrow thrummed by his ear from his friend’s bow.

A screech filled the cavern then, and the head and wing claws of a snarling young wyvern charged into the torchlight. Its scales were pale, almost pink. It was dragon-like, but not nearly as large as even a young wyrm was rumored to be. It’s long, sinuous body was the size of a small horse, or a big tree cat, and it’s toothy serpent head was already lunging. Two huge fangs curled up from its bottom jaw and jutted above plum-sized nostril holes. Behind them, eyes that looked like cherry walnuts glowed with indignant rage. Menacingly, the strange reptilian creature roared at them and crouched to strike. The arrow Bren had fired protruded harmlessly from the creature’s shoulder. Bren didn’t hesitate to fire again, this time aiming for the vital chest area between the creature’s stumpy forelegs. The arrow sank deeply, but didn’t even slow the bursting charge. A huge, raking claw lashed out at March and though it barely missed his flesh, it hung in the thick leather sword belt he had taken from the corpse. He, and the torch, were slung violently into the cavern wall.

Bren fired two more arrows at the beast, but the force and speed of the attack on March, and the way the torch had gone flying across the air, had been dizzying. Even still, he had struck the sun-starved creature well enough to stop it in its tracks. The dying torch was behind the wyvern now, near where March was stirring. The creature was perfectly silhouetted and Bren went to fire another arrow. Reaching in, he found his quiver empty. He looked down at it in shock. He never retrieved the arrow he had loosed at the white stag. At that very moment of realization, a razor-sharp claw ripped down his hip, tearing his leg wide open.

He crumpled to the ground without a sound. When he looked up, he saw stars swirling around the blackness. Then there was nothing, nothing at all.

With a lustful, triumphant roar, the wyvern’s serpentine head lunged toward Bren’s limp body. The victory growl was cut short though. The sound quickly turned into a horrid, pain-filled screech as the smoldering end of the torch came down on its pink scaly back. The brand sizzled and popped back to life, flaming hotly before it rolled off and hit the ground. The torch rolled to a stop just under the raging beast’s underbelly. March instinctively reached to his belt for his knife, but it was not there. He had dropped it when he was smashed into the wall. He didn’t panic though; instead he reached back over his head and grabbed hold of the ancient sword’s hilt in an effort to pull it from the scabbard. At first it wouldn’t come free, but with his second try, it did. The heavy metal hand guard cracked him in his ear and sent him stumbling head first across the cavern floor toward the creature. The razor-sharp blade sliced across his scalp, cutting him to the bone as it slipped free. March had to grab the sword by the blade to turn it around so that he could hold it correctly. He cut his palms open in the process, but not so badly that he couldn’t grip the hilt.

March looked up to see the slithery beast fighting to turn around and face him. It was trying to avoid the torch flames that were licking its tender underbelly. March’s heart hit the floor when he caught a brief glimpse of Bren’s torn and bloody body crumpled against the wall. He saw Bren’s thigh bone fully exposed, and the huge pool of blood surrounding his friend. He feared Bren was dead.

A deep rush of anger-fueled adrenaline shot through his veins. He gripped the sword with both hands. The grip wasn’t very good due to the blood leaking from the wounds in his palms, but it was good enough for him to raise the blade over his head and charge recklessly into the range of those horrible, finger-long fangs. At least the albino beast was easy to see in the muted torch light.

March was getting dizzy, and he could feel his warm blood sluicing down his back from the head wound. Luckily, his rage took over as he brought the gleaming sword down into the exposed flank of the turning creature. He felt the blade slice deep into flesh before it was yanked from his hands.

The wyvern bucked wildly, slamming March and itself into the rocky wall. Then it hopped backward into the darkened cavern. It was too late for the wyvern though. The slam into the unrelenting surface of the wall had driven the sword deeper into its vitals. With a series of deep, guttural moans that resounded with a hissing wetness, the creature curled and thrashed until it finally stilled.

March reached for the back of his head. His wound was bad. He could feel his bare skull. But, he quickly forgot his pain when he heard Bren’s familiar voice moaning from across the cavern. Stopping only to retrieve the still smoldering torch, he went to Bren’s side.

A finger-deep gash ran from Bren’s hip to just above his knee and a fat purple knot was forming on his cheek, from where it had impacted the rocky floor. He had lost a lot of blood, but was slowly regaining consciousness. March pulled the old pack off his back and gently put it under Bren’s head. He then tore off his shirt. Using Bren’s skinning knife, he cut the cloth into wide strips. He wrapped the strips around Bren’s thigh, pulled the wound closed with them, then tied them tightly. Only after he was sure his friend wasn’t going to bleed out right there on the cavern floor did he use the last strip of cloth to tie around his still bleeding head.

When that was done, he poured a generous dollop of the brandy hooch along the length of Bren’s wound.

“No… no,” Bren said weakly as the burn of the liquid shot through his leg like a length of forge-heated steel. After a moment of wincing and clench-jawed groaning, he hissed, “Drink.”

“Here,” March tipped the flask to his friend’s lips and let him take the last of it.

March shook the flask over his hands and let the last few drops sting the wounds on his palms. Then he rubbed them together. He cut off a piece of Bren’s shirt and tore it into two strips which he then tied around them.

“You’re a damn giboon,” Bren said quietly. He adjusted his upper body and pulled a fist-sized stone from under his arse.

“Well, if you’d have been a better shot, maybe we could have avoided the ruckus,” March forced a chuckle as he staggered to his feet.

“Is it dead, or did it just run off?” Bren asked with worry. He started to roll over to look, but his wounds kept him from turning.

“It’s just down there resting,” March answered seriously. “I’m gonna go get wood for a fire. Just yell as loud as you can if it comes back.” He then started off into the darkness.

“March! Hey, don’t leave,” he choked as he rolled over despite the pain. He stopped yelling when he saw the albino wyvern’s pale, lifeless bulk at the edge of the torchlight. Four arrows protruded from the thick, pinkish-white scaled body. The blood-covered hilt of the sword March had pilfered protruded from the thing as well. Below the sword hilt there was a gash big enough to crawl into, and a massive pool of black, thickening blood. The creature would have been ten or twelve paces from head to tail if it was stretched out.

Relieved, Bren lay back, closed his eyes, and slowly slipped into blackness.

March could never in his life remember being as relieved as he was when he finally saw the daylight shining at the mouth of the cavern. By the look of the sun, it was still only early afternoon. What had seemed like a day-long ordeal had actually lasted less than a turn of the glass. Thankful to still be alive, he grabbed the rope and his skinning knife, and began to gather up pieces of dried wood. The medallion hanging around his neck gleamed brightly in the sunlight. He was compelled to pause a moment to examine it.

It was palm-sized and disc-shaped, formed from a heavy metal that he had never seen before. Not gold or silver, but easily as shiny and as beautiful. It was finely worked with runes and symbols that he did not recognize. In the center, a thumb-sized, teardrop-shaped diamond was mounted. Turning it over, he saw that both sides were identical and that the jewel sparkled with a million prismatic colors. The chain appeared to be made from the same metal as the medallion. When he tucked it into his shirt he found that it hung perfectly below his collar between his pectoral muscles. It felt as if it had been fitted for him. He decided that it would be his good luck charm since he’d worn it while defeating that slithery beast. It could be magical like the artifacts from the old world he had heard about. If not, it was surely worth its weight in gold. Enough to buy a small farm, he figured. Silently he swore to never sell it, or give it away. He also vowed to try to find the meaning of the markings on its surface.

The scream of a distant predator bird pulled him from his musings. He still had to get his badly injured friend home. It wouldn’t take the wolves long to pick up the scent of all that blood, and Prominence was a long way away.

After gathering some wood he started back into the darkness of the cave. He could see the dim torch flame flickering ahead and he carefully continued in that direction. His arms were full, so it was hard to step over the lifeless lump of the dead creature, but he managed. He marveled at the size of it. It was easily three times as long as Bren. Maybe he would cut off the head and some claws. He could make himself a trophy, and make Bren a necklace with the teeth.

“Marcherion?” Bren called out weakly. “Is that you?”

“Who else would it be, you big giboon?” March laughed. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a tumbler at the fair.” Bren smiled broadly, but he gasped and turned a sickly pale color when he tried to sit up. Through clenched teeth he said, “My leg is pretty bad off, March!”

“We will get you home,” March reassured. “If I can get you back over the ridge to our camp before dark, I’ll have you back in your bed by tomorrow night.”

March talked on as he built a fire. “Getting back over the ridge is gonna be hard on you.” He looked at Bren seriously. “But if you can grit it out that far, we’ll be home free.”

“I don’t think I can stand,” Bren said with more than a little worry in his voice. He knew the way the wolves had tracked and attacked other groups of hunters when they hadn’t gotten their fresh kills into the lower valley fast enough. He also knew that he smelled like a fresh kill, and that the wolves would surely come for him. March was a great hunter, and a superb woodsman, but no match for even a small pack of hungry wolves.

“I wish I had something to make a splint with,” March muttered. Then he cursed himself for letting the medallion dazzle him from his wits while he was outside. He was about to start back through the cave when he noticed the sword’s scabbard lying on the cavern floor. An idea struck him then, and even though the cuts on his hands hurt badly, he went over to the white-scaled wyvern’s side and struggled to pull the sword free. He screamed loudly as his hands slid roughly off the hilt. The sword hadn’t budged and the cuts on his palms were reopened. He stood there grimacing, with his palms held to his chest, as fresh blood trickled down his arms and dripped from his elbows.

Bren positioned himself to where he could see March. He saw the blood-soaked band around his friend’s head and watched him wince as he wiped his bloody hands on his pants. Bren started to worry. They wouldn’t stand a chance if they got stuck in the woods in the dark. With both of them lame and smelling like a feast, all sorts of hungry things would come sniffing. He felt little relief when March tried again and grinned proudly after finally pulling the sword free of the wyvern.

March searched the cavern for something to wipe the sword’s blade clean. His gaze finally landed on Bren, who was staring straight back at him with true fear in his eyes. March disregarded the look and walked over and pulled the dead man’s pack out from under Bren’s head. He opened it, and luckily, right there on top was a rolled up woolen cloak. It was exactly what he needed to save his friend. As he pulled it free, a fat leather pouch fell out of the roll. It chinked to the floor just beside Bren’s ear. Bren struggled to grab it while March went about rummaging through the rest of the backpack.

“March, look!” Bren said excitedly. He rolled to his side and poured a pile of shiny gold coins onto the floor. “We're rich!”

March found a wine skin and was sniffing the spout to try to see if it held water or wine. It turned out to be some sort of liqueur. It probably had a fruity aroma at one time, but now it smelled of nothing but pure grain. He braved a small sip as he turned to see what Bren was carrying on about and nearly choked. Whether from the strength of the drink or from the sight of the pile of golden coins, he would never know. He forced himself to swallow and felt the burn of the liquid all the way down his throat and into his belly. He nearly choked again when he saw that Bren had only dumped out a small portion of the contents from the pouch. Bren was holding the heavy bag of coins in his hand and grinning ear to ear.

Without hesitation, and with the eagerness of a small child reveling under the Giver Man’s tree on full winter’s morn, March dropped down to his knees and began rummaging through the rest of the contents. To his disappointment only two items remained. Neither was as glamorous as the bag of coins.

“What’s left?” Bren asked excitedly.

“Only an old book and a scroll tube,” March said flatly. “It’s all for nothing if we can’t get you back home. The wolves don’t take bribes.”

He regretted saying it as soon as it came out of his mouth. It wasn’t right for him to scare Bren like that. It would be hard enough to get Bren over the ridge, even if his idea worked, and all the harder if either of them panicked.

After giving Bren the skin full of the liqueur, March laid out the cloak and began cutting it into strips. After that, he gently took off the blood-soaked pieces of the shirt he had tied around Bren’s leg. The cut looked like a long, black, gooey line. March wished he had a way to stitch it up, but the nearest needle was back over the ridge with their other gear. He thought about leaving Bren here and making the trip alone, but thoughts of what could happen to his friend lying defenseless in the cave made up his mind for him.

“You pouring, or me?” March asked, pointing from the wine skin to the gash.

“I’ll pour it,” Bren sounded reluctant. “You have to hold my leg still so I don’t pull it all back open if I jump.”

“All right,” March couldn’t help but laugh. “But you’re such a giboon. I ought to just leave you here, take all this stuff and go buy myself a castle.”

Bren tried to laugh, but the anticipation of the pain to come kept him from it. March put one hand on Bren’s knee and the other on Bren’s hip. Then he nodded that he was ready. Bren took a big swig from the skin. Then, before he lost his resolve, he poured a generous amount of the liquid down his thigh just as he swallowed.

To March’s surprise Bren just looked at him stupidly. It seemed as though he wasn’t feeling any pain at all. Then, Bren’s face slowly flushed pink. It quickly graduated to a bright reddish color. Soon it looked as if Bren’s head would burst. Then the scream came.

It was long and loud, and it was followed by several quick sharp huffs that sent spittle flying from Bren’s mouth in every direction. He looked pleadingly at March and started to scream again, but mercifully his eyes rolled back into his head as his body succumbed to the pain.

March wasted no time. He first padded the wound with a folded piece of the cloak. He bound it once more with strips so that it wouldn’t pull open on its own. Then he bound it again with a second layer of strips. After putting the sword back in the scabbard, he laid it along Bren’s wounded leg. He made sure that the ball of the hilt was jutting just past the bottom of Bren’s boot heel. He was glad to see that the tip of the sheathed blade was above Bren’s hip, nearly at his armpit. He strapped the sword to Bren’s leg with more strips of the cloak and some lengths of rope. He tied a fancy knot around Bren’s foot and the hilt, so that the sword couldn’t come sliding out of its scabbard. Finally, he slipped the thick leather sword belt under his friend’s waist then buckled it tightly around Bren and the sword’s blade. He hoped that most of Bren’s weight would be on the tempered steel and not on his leg.

March took a moment to rest after his labors. He wanted desperately to be back over the ridge and in their camp before dark. He rounded up everything he could find, including the coins from the floor of the cavern. He put them all into the backpack. He strapped Bren’s bow and quiver around his shoulders, and took the time to remove three of the arrows from the body of the beast. Then he decided to take some proof of the kill. With his skinning knife, he cut the fore claw off of the creature, and after wrapping it in what was left of the cloak, he forced it into the pack. He shouldered the load, and after a quick look around to make sure that he had gotten everything, he went to wake Brendly.

It was a slow, tedious climb. The sword splint was awkward, but it worked. Bren was more or less just stumbling from tree to tree. He clung to the lower branches and used his muscled arms to keep himself from falling all the way down.

March was carrying the packs and finding that keeping the bow ready was a chore all by itself. His ruined palms wouldn’t close around the grip correctly and even the slightest squeeze of his hands caused extreme pain. To make things worse, he could feel the icy burn of his skull where his scalp wasn’t covering the bone anymore. He would have just fallen down and cried if it weren’t for the heartwrenching determination Bren was showing by just keeping himself upright.

Ever so slowly they continued the journey upward, fighting their pain as they climbed. They stopped to drink from the wine skin and to eat some dried beef but found that it was a mistake. The short reprieve allowed their bodies to relax but caused their wounds to stiffen. Bren felt far worse than he had when they had started from the cave. March didn’t feel much better. The strong content of the skin, which the skeleton had so generously preserved for them, did very little to ease their suffering, but Bren found himself wanting more of it. March let him finish what was left before they started back up the mountain.

They climbed some more and eventually the ridge came into view. Bren used the sight of it to strengthen his resolve. He used all that he had left in himself to get there.

March wasn’t far behind, but blood loss had him feeling dizzy. He was sure that the sticky wetness he was feeling running down his back was as much blood as it was sweat. A glance at the sun told him that they probably wouldn’t make it back to the camp by nightfall, but since they would be within the kingdom’s boundaries, and traveling downhill, he felt their chances were good of getting there alive. That is, if he could keep from passing out. He was sure that Bren was having a harder time of it. It amazed him that Bren hadn’t done much more than grunt and wince on the way up. Bren had to be in incredible pain. March’s wounds were superficial in comparison.

“Well that was the hard part!” March managed to say between breaths as he gained Bren’s side at the top of the ridge.

Bren was holding desperately onto a branch to steady himself and he was gasping for air. He managed a grim smile.

March plopped down heavily onto a rock and began rummaging through his pack until he found his water skin. After taking a long drink, he handed it to Bren’s trembling hand. Bren finished it off then playfully tossed it at March before he started down the mountainside.

“We're not stopping here,” Bren called out over his shoulder. “And you’d better hurry up and lead, because if it’s up to me, we are going straight down into the valley.”

March reluctantly got to his feet and started after his friend. He was completely amazed at the way Bren was handling the pain.

It was dark when March finally found the camp. He wouldn’t have found it, if not for the many tracking and hunting lessons he’d learned from his father and two older brothers over the years.

The stars weren’t very bright this night, but the moon would be up soon. He’d use its light to check Bren’s wounds.

Bren was in a bad way. Several times, on the last portion of the trek, he had stumbled into trees and shrubs. Once, when his tired arms wouldn’t hold him up any longer, he had fallen into a stiff-legged heap on the forest floor. He was stretched out now, under the shelter March had made for them the previous night. March made him drink the remainder of their water, and then helped him eat some dried beef before letting him pass out.

As soon as he got a fire started, March was going to range out in the darkness and find the pool of clean water where they had seen the stag. He had to be sure that the fire wouldn’t burn out while he was gone. If it did, every hungry creature in the forest would be after Bren like ants on a piece of sweet candy. All they would have to do to find him was follow the blood trail they had left throughout the day. The fire would also help March find his way back from the pool. The fire roared to life, and while stoking it to the size he needed it to be, March felt its warmth sink into his aching bones. He fought, but to no avail. Before he could leave, he too fell into a deep, much needed sleep.

March woke to the sound of Bren’s agonizing moans. Somewhere beyond the mountains, the sun was breaking the night, giving him just enough rosy light to see by. The morning sky was glorious and filled with color, where it could be seen peeking above the mountain tops. March couldn’t enjoy it though because he knew they desperately needed water.

The air was thick with a sense of urgency. Bren was fever stricken. His tired body was now fighting infection. What Bren really needed was the care of an herb master. March was tempted to make a litter and drag his friend down the mountainside. He wondered if the time he spent going and getting some water would allow the infection to get into Bren’s blood. He’d seen that happen once when a copper miner who had been cut on the arm had stayed in the mine too long. The Herb Master had had to cut the arm off, but the miner eventually died anyway. All of Prominence Village had been forced to endure his screaming torment until he finally died.

The gravity of their situation weighed heavily on March. If he made the wrong decision it could cost Bren his leg, or worse. He was so concerned with Bren that he completely ignored the pain of his own wounds. He made the decision to make the litter and drag Bren to the stag’s pool with him. There he could wash the wounds and boil water to clean the bandages.

Methodically he went about making a litter out of the oil cloth they had used for their shelter and some limbs he cut from nearby trees. He had made several litters in his life. It was the easiest way to get a big buck down the mountain. He and Bren had used them a few times when they were younger, before they were strong enough to spit a carcass and shoulder it down.

The sun was above the peaks by the time he was done making the travois-like device. He was weak and dehydrated, but he packed all their gear onto it with Bren and then gripped the two poles. His split hands were still bleeding and raw, but he started off anyway. Inside March there was nothing left except sheer determination and love for his friend.

It was midday and the sun was high and hot when they finally arrived at the pool. March spent a few moments picking the splinters and dried bark out of the gashes in his palms while cleansing them in the cool water. Then he focused all of his attention on Bren.

By nightfall, he was a little more confident in Bren’s chances. He had thoroughly cleansed away the dirt and grime from his friend’s wound. He had forced it to bleed and then opened the cut wide enough to cut away all the yellowing pussy sections that had formed there. He even stitched it in several places but he wasn’t sure if he had done it right. They still had a long, hard journey ahead of them. March could only hope that he had done enough.

The wound was staying closed, but Bren still had fever. March hoped that his condition would change if they rested through the night. He had made a broth by placing the last of their dried beef in the pot and boiling in some gable roots he found. Bren woke just long enough to drink a good portion of it. He was pale and weak from loss of blood and couldn’t manage the strength to speak. He did manage to drink most of the aromatic liquid. Then he was off again, back into a fitful slumber.

March figured that if he rested for a while he could get them down into the valley by the following afternoon. There he would break apart the litter and burn it before the sun went down. If a farmer or shepherd didn’t respond, he would run like the wind and return with a cart or a wagon. He was determined to have Bren in Prominence proper by dawn. It was a sound plan and it relieved him to have at least that much.

While Bren tossed and turned, March fingered the medallion he had found. He wasn’t certain, but at one point he thought that it might have been causing his palms to tingle. It wasn’t long before he too fell into slumber. He slept heavily and had vivid dreams that eluded him when the sound of a curious scavenger woke him in the predawn light. When he reached over to shake Bren awake his heart slid up into his throat. Bren had died in the night. His body was cool and stiff.

“By the Gods, NOOOOO!” he shouted at the still darkened sky. A cluster of startled birds exploded from a nearby tree and sent his heavy heart to hammering.

“There’s a way to save him,” a small, steady voice said from behind him. “All you have to do is pledge your soul to the Confliction.”

March whirled around and saw the impossible. The white stag was standing there looking at him, its dark eyes plainly visible against its luminescent white fur. It wasn’t the stag who had spoken though. Sitting on the stag’s back was one of the fabled elvish. The fair-skinned, silvery-haired creature seemed to be slightly unsettled by the fact that March was twice his size, but he met March’s gaze with his wild amber eyes.

March’s emotion surged. “You’ll save my friend if you can, or I will-- I’ll--”

“You’ll do naught other than pledge your soul to the fighting of the Confliction,” the little man said flatly. He was wearing a sort of cloth that looked to be made out of tiny rings of the same strange metal as the medallion. And, what March had first mistaken as fear had suddenly turned into snarling defiance. “You’ll swear to fight against the Confliction, or I’ll take that medallion. Then you can drag your friend’s corpse home to his mother.”

March was so stunned and confused, and welling with grief, that he couldn’t form a cohesive thought. For a long time, he was silent. Finally, he asked the elf the only question that would come. “You can save him?”

“You can save him,” the elf replied, “but only if you hurry.”

“How?”

“Use the medallion to call your dragon. When it comes, it will know your heart and use its magic to restore the life of your companion.”

“There are no dragons around here,” March looked around. “If there were, why would a dragon do such a thing?”

“There are no elvish in this valley either I’d guess,” the elf shrugged. “Either way, you should get to calling your wyrm before it’s too late for him.” The elf nodded at Bren’s corpse.

“What’s this Confliction you speak?” March asked as he crawled to his feet and pulled the medallion out of his shirt.

He was feverish, and the world was swimming in and out of focus, but somehow he knew that this was no fever dream. He was about to pledge his life to something he didn’t understand so that his friend would be saved.

“It cannot be explained,” the elf sighed. “There will be more of you. There will be five dragoneers in all. Some are already trying to bond with their wyrms. But they are far from here, in another land that lies across the sea. It is a place that your people do not know of. You must call your dragon, and then go to them. Together the five of you will stand against the storm.”

The elf glanced up at the sky as if he were searching for something. The light of dawn was only a few breaths from breaking the horizon.

“Don’t let the sun rise and burn his soul away,” the elf nodded at Bren again. “Do this thing. Call your dragon. Go find the dragoneers and face the destiny you’ve chanced upon. It will be a great one, I think.”

The stag pawed the ground and snorted his agreement. It tilted it’s antlered head slightly and gave Bren a look that conveyed volumes. Inexplicably, March suddenly knew that he had to do this. There was no other choice. “How?”

“Take the Medallion in your hands. Yes, like that.” March cupped the silvery disc as if it were a precious egg.

“Kiss the tear stone,” the elf instructed. “Now pledge within your soul to fight the coming Confliction. Only then will your dragon come.”

“I don’t care about the dragon,” March mumbled. I’m doing this for Bren.

As soon as he kissed the tear-shaped jewel, and told his heart that he would see this thing through, he felt a chilling tingle flutter through him. His skin prickled and his mind began to clear. He had made the right decision, and he knew it. His blood was turning into liquid fire and his breathing grew erratic.

“That is the Dour that makes you feel that way,” the elf grinned. He patted the stag on the shoulder and leaned toward its ear. “You were right my friend. This was the one.”

“What’s Dour?” March asked. Whatever it was, it felt fantastic in his veins, as if he were full of lightning.

“It will fade. That dragon’s tear is old. The amber Dour has been leaking from it for a century or more. See how clear it is? The dragon that let it fall died long, long ago.” The elf lightly heeled the stag into a turn and looked to be about to trot away.

“Wait,” March pleaded. “What about Bren? What about my family?”

The elf gave a nervous chuckle. “Your dragon is coming, and you were going to leave anyway. Just go.” The stag shivered and looked to be growing nervous. “I’ll not want to be bumbling around when your wyrm gets here. After you’ve gone, I’ll return and keep the scavengers from badgering your friend. I’ll make sure he gets where he needs to be.”

As the stag bounded away, March heard the elf chuckling.

March looked at Bren and dropped his head. He hoped he hadn’t been a fool. He hoped—

Suddenly, the trees swayed violently. A near silent blast of air wafted across the camp. Before a thought could form, another gust came, this one kicking up leaves and sending a dusty whirl of debris into the thicket. Then the dragon was there, directly behind March, looming it’s long neck up over the camp as it pulled in its leathery wings. The connection happened instantaneously. They bonded, and a single shared consciousness was born.

The dragon’s name was Balazerahdadicol and he was the rarest form of pure-blooded High Dracus that existed. Since March’s human tongue couldn’t pronounce the name correctly the dragon spoke a single word into his mind. “Blaze.” Blaze was a pure-blooded fire drake. March somehow knew this, and other things that he never imagined one could know. It was overwhelming.

March turned to take his bond-mate in with his eyes. He found that save for its neck and head, the dragon was nearly invisible in the pre dawn shadows. What he could see was nothing more than a sinuous crimson silhouette in the lightening sky. The dragon was not huge, nor was he small. Substantial was the word that March decided upon, probably twenty-five paces from tip to tail. Through the bond they shared, a wealth of knowledge was opening up and starting to flood into March’s eager mind. Had it not been, his instinct to flee would have already taken hold.

A pulse of magical energy rippled through the fabric of the world and March knew in his heart of hearts that Blaze had just filled Bren’s body with powerful healing Dour. Bren would wake soon and the elf would watch over him until he could make it down into the valley. March, however, knew that he had to go. The land he and Blaze were going to was far, far away. It would take them a full season to fly there, most of the journey over the sea.

Blaze leaned down and created a step with his foreclaw. March hurried to his bedroll, grabbed the pack, his bow, and a quiver of arrows. Then, after saying a silent goodbye to his friend, he climbed onto the wyrm. He left the sword and the gold for his friend. He wished he could stay and explain what he was doing, where he was going; but he wasn’t even sure about those things himself.

Blaze took an awkward, lurching step. Then a few neck-yanking, exhilarating wing strokes later, they were above the forest and flying.

The first of the dragoneers had bonded and the wheels of destiny had been set into motion. The saga of the dragoneers had begun.

Confliction Compendium, Dragoneer Saga Books 1-3

After struggling for more than two centuries to tame the inhospitable, dragon infested Islands where they washed up, the descendants of the survivors of a lost passenger ship are now striving to tame the Mainland they have found. But the Goblin King, an Ivory antlered demon called Gravelbone, has a different plan for the men who are invading his territory. He and his Nightshade are rallying the trolls to defend their lands. With the help of the dragons, goblins, and orcs they plan on rendering the wall the humans have built useless, so that they can drive man back to the islands from where they came.

When stubborn King Blanchard finally accepts that the kingdom really is under attack it may be too late, and the only ones who can save the people on the Mainland have been locked away in the dungeon.

Join some brave young men and their mentor, a grizzled old King's Ranger, and a particularly clever young magic wielding woman, as they traverse the wild frontier, and sail to King's Island to warn the King of the warring trolls. Then hold on for your life as you tear through the pages, because the pure blooded dragons they have befriended have another plan all together.

Hold on to your dragon, becuase that is just book one!

Get on my mailing list here and you'll get several more short stories, Including the first five Crimzon and Clover Short Stories, and Foxwise, a Legend of Vanx Malic Novella.

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Interview of Chelda Flar from The Legend of Vanx Malic

M. R. Mathias — Mon, 11 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Interview of Chelda Flar from The Legend of Vanx Malic

Interviewer pales visibly, as Chelda walks in and takes a seat near him:

So, (he looks away nervously at the pair of producers standing together a few feet away. Gathers himself.) I didn’t realize how big you were.

Is that a question? Do I look fat?

No. No, Ma’am. I don’t see any fat on you. They didn’t say you were a giant.

I’m not a giant. I am a Gargan. One of my ancestors bred with a giant though. What happened to the other guy?

Um well, last week he was abducted by Rikky Camile, Crimzon and Clover. He hasn’r shown back up? How did you first meet your writer?

If Clover took him, he is probably a dragon turd by now. Yah!

My writer was hoping Vanx Malic would create his own party to venture into the mountains, but Vanx was on vacation, so the writer had to round us up on his own.

Did you think your life would end up being in a book?

I’m in several books, starting with The Legend of Vanx Malic book 3. I am the star of books 3 through 10, but Sir Poops-a-lot, and my girl Moonsey might argue that point. But you won’t.

You are correct. I will not argue with a seven-foot-tall woman with biceps the size of my waist. Are you in any other books?

Good question. I am. I am in Devious Arcana books four, five and six, if that lazy author would finish it. So far just book four, but it is interesting how we got there.

Can you tell me how you got there?

Sorry, no. I had to sign an NDA about Devious Arcana just to do this interview.

What are your favorite scenes in your book: action, dialog, romance?

I’m not much of a romantic. General Gloryvine Moonseed is my wife, now. She is an elf, you know. Not one of the human-like elfs either. She is a fairy elf, and even though she is only four feet tall, I love her with all my heart.

I’m having an issue with that visual.

You will wait until I am no longer here to have your visuals, man.

Yes, I will. Favorite scenes was the question. Have any?

Any time Vanx lets me take the lead and smash stuff. The best is in Vanx 9, but it would be a spoiler to elaborate.

Did you have a hard time convincing your author to write any particular scenes for you?

He sometimes visualizes Moonsy and I too much, but other than that he is cool. He knows he can depend on me. I get called on when needed. I saw little cards on my X feed that are from Vanx Malic’s songs. He is a bard, you know. I wish the author would show the songs Vanx wrote for me, sometime.

I saw those as well. Compelling to say the least. What do you like to do when you are not being actively read somewhere?

Usually, we just hang around the Heart Tree, in Saint Elm, and fight off the hoar witch’s minions, but we had to move. And… well…. The NDA prevents me from saying more.

Asked and answered on the relationship status. Are you happy with the genre your writer has placed you in?

Yah! There is no other genre than fantasy for a seven-foot-tall woman, except maybe in reality as a WNBA player, but when they start fighting it would not end the same. I would bite a piece of face off or twist a limb out of its socket. (The sincerity of the grin on Chelda’s face makes everyone else blanch) The WNBA fight like schoolgirls.

What is the lamest characteristic your writer has given you?

Maybe the idea all I am good for is bashing heads. I am very good at that, but I can cook, and dance. He did a good job back in Vanx 3 of dealing with my father and his judgment over my choice of mates, and how it affected me, though. So, I am not complaining.

Last question. If you could give yourself a superpower what would you choose?

Don’t get me wrong. I love my vagina. But I would like to have two cocks One little-bitty-one for my lover, Moonsey, and one great big one, so I could go rabble rousing with Vanx and Zeezle when our adventures bring us to a town.

What?

The ladies just fall all over them. Yah! (She backhands the interviewer in the chest jovially and he ends up on his back.) Don’t let the visuals of that keep you up tonight.

Find more of Chelda Flarr in The Legend of Vanx Malic books 3-10

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0DQLNZK6S

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Interview of Rikky Cammile from: The Royal Dragonerers

M. R. Mathias — Thu, 10 Jul 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Interview of Rikky Cammile from:

The Royal Dragonerers (and The Six book Dragoneer Saga) by M. R. Mathias aka @DahgMahn

1. How did you first meet your writer? It was around the same time Jenka saved Jade from those damned trolls. One day I was doing my drills with Harrold and the other guys, and I heard this voice start narrating everything that was going on around me. To tell the truth It was weird at first, but I’ve gotten used to it.

2. Did you ever think that your life would end up being in a book? To you my life is in a book. What does your ilk say about VIP. No PCP, no wait POV. Yeh. It is all about POV. From my point of view, the first question that comes to mind is, where the hell am I going to get a book. Maybe we could steal a horse and ride to the city. There a lot of books there, but not the kind you read.

3. What are your favorite scenes in your book: action, dialog, romance? Looking back, when I first met Silva, my dragon, it seems amazing. At the time I had already lost my leg to those greedy little goblins and the stump was so raw I couldn’t even put on the prosthetic. We were attacked by trolls and another guy helped me into the bed of a covered wagon hoping to hide. Turned out the wagon was full of dead men and trolls from the previous day. Somehow it caught fire, and the horses ran it into the forest until it wedged stuck between some trees. I was smart enough to roll out of it, but I was left exposed with dozens of trolls closing in, and in tremendous pain. One of the other men rode a horse still attached to a cart right between me and those filthy troll claws, he shit his britches and ran off because a giant silver dragon loomed down over me. I passed out when I saw a mouth full of teeth as long as my forearm slavering right above my face. When I got my senses back Silva and were bond mates.

4. Did you have a hard time convincing your author to write any particular scenes for you? Do you know who my human female mate is? I mean not only toward the end of that whole series, but since then? Right now? The farking voice in my head couldn’t put one good scene in there where Clover and I were intimate. Crimzon gets so many scenes with her, he is usually off feeding somewhere when trouble finds her. I’d crack that writer in the head with my pegleg if he didn’t stay so far away from me.

5. Do you infiltrate your writer’s dreams? If I could, I’d wake him up with the pain I feel in the parts I no longer have. He would regret trying to shock his readers at my expense, just to cover his inability to write something more original.

6. What do you like to do when you are not being actively read somewhere? We Dragoneers are always being actively read on Kindle Unlimited. I can sit there and refresh the page all day and watch the numbers rise.

7. Are you currently engaged in a relationship? I told you Clover, the stacked redhead that--

“Those are our Wardstone page reads, fat boy.” A male voice that seemed weak or hollow, or something called from off set.

"Who was that heckling us?" asked Rikky

8. Are you happy with the genre your writer has placed you in? Am I just your warmup act? When do I get my hundred gold pieces?

9. Hundred Gold pieces? The offer was 10, but only if Jenka, Marcherion, Aikira, or Zah showed up and answered questions with you. If you could rewrite anything in your book, what would it be?

Ask me that again.

I was just told the hundred gold piece offer was for all five of you.

March Westin, the First Dragoneer, is dead dude.

If you could rewrite anything in your book, what would it be? Seriously? You got one coming now, Mister. I think we are done here.

10. Do you like the way the book ended? What? I just told you Marcherion died. He was one of my best friends. Prince Richard, and Jenka DeSwasso just up and disappeared. Richard went crazy after his dragon Royal died. He wasn’t a bad person though. And Jenka’s brain sort of melted.

11. Would you be interested in a sequel if your writer was so inclined? Exactly who are you? Who wrote these questions?

“Jenka DeSwasso is in the newest series, Fatty.” The same hollow voice mocked. “And Prince Richard turned into the Paragon Dracus.”

12. Do you believe that you are suitably portrayed in electronic

A roar so loud it caused the interviewer to turn ghostly white and either scattered or paralyzed with fear, everyone who heard it still vibrating their bones.

When the terrifying sound subsided, a beautiful, voluptuous redhead strode in and smiled at Rikky. “Go get the heckler.” She flourished her arms pulling something from her shoulder as she did. “I brought a big leather sack to carry this one home in.”

What?

Rikky hurried toward where he thought the heckler might be, in a pegleg jog, which looked like he was skipping. “Good call on the sack, dear. He shit himself.” He called over his shoulder.

“Stop babbling and get in.” she ordered the man, but Rikky turned the corner around some shrubs and was out of earshot. He had to stop to try and make sense of what he was seeing, though.

There were two full sized human display skeletons positioned as if they were two people having a conversation behind an interview. Another man, this one with muscles and skin, looked to have ran a dozen yards before he fell and put his hands over his ears and clenched his eyes shut. Rikky started to hurry past, but one of the skeletons had a dingy ring around their skull. He acted like he was moving on but kicked the legs of that one as hard as he could.

When the skeleton yelled and started stumbling and cursing, while the other one hobbled off losing some finger bones and a forearm in the deadfall as it went, Rikky nearly filled his own britches.

“No Rikky,” the one he kicked held up its hand bones in supplication. “Don’t kill me.” It let out a hollow sounding guffaw.

“Who are you?” Rikky couldn’t get to enjoy killing someone who was clearly already dead, so he took in a slow deep breath and exhaled some of his frustration. He might still get to kick all the bones apart though.

“Every up-and-coming King of the Realm has to have a messed-up sibling. I am Prince Glendar.”

“Mikahl’s brother? The one the wizard tricked into leading all the men of fighting age out of Westland?”

The skeleton just sat there.

“Hey Clover,” Rikky called. “Did we bring another leather sack?”

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Interview of the Royal Wizard Pael

M. R. Mathias — Mon, 23 Jun 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Suzza Sarra's Interview of the Royal Wizard Pael from:

The Sword and the Dragon by M. R. Mathias aka @DahgMahn

1. How did you first meet your writer? I do not remember, nor do I care. Will this take long? I have potions to prepare and concoctions to render.

2. Did you ever think that your life would end up being in a book? Being a main character in a great epic lends a bit of immortality to my life don’t you think? What I think about it is irrelevant.

3. What are your favorite scenes in your book: action, dialog, romance? I am the Master Wizard Pael, wench. Ask me something about my plans to take Queen Willa’s palace at Xwarda, or how I will level Wildermont, or I will liquefy your skeleton while it is still inside you!

4. Did you have a hard time convincing your author to write any particular scenes for you? Who is this author you keep speaking of? I was alive long before he jotted down tales about me!

5. Do you infiltrate your writer’s dreams? Bah! Me, wench! This interview is about me!

6. What do you like to do when you are not being actively read somewhere? I do not like to be bothered with this sort of trivial matter I assure you.

7. Are you currently engaged in a relationship? If you consider my bond with Inkling, my imp familiar, then I suppose I am attached.

8. Are you happy with the genre your writer has placed you in? I am a wizard. I can be anywhere I want to be! I suppose I could be in another genre like that fool Dresden, but fantasy is where I belong.

9. If you could rewrite anything in your book, what would it be? The climax, I assure you!

10. Do you like the way the book ended? Bah! You are testing my patience. Shall I set Shaella on you?

11. Would you be interested in a sequel if your writer was so inclined? It has already been written.

12. Do you believe that you are suitable portrayed in electronic books or would you rather be in paperback only? I would rather you asked a question worthy of my time!

13. Did you have any input into the book cover design? I should have. That blasted dragon stole the glory from me.

14. What is the lamest characteristic your writer has attributed to you? My cackling laugh! I feel like an old witch when I laugh. It is tiresome!

15. If you could give yourself a superpower, what would you choose? I have no need of a superpower as my power became superior when I opened Pavreal’s Seal and assumed the demon Shokin! Now leave me to my sorcery wench. My daughter is about to collar a dragon and I have a continent to destroy!

Start reading The Sword and the Dragon here:

https://www.amazon.com/Complete-Wardstone-Trilogy-Book-ebook/dp/B00FW72EDC/

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Welcome to the World of Egod, my 33 book fantasy series.

M. R. Mathias — Thu, 8 May 2025 00:00:00 +0000

The World of Egod.

I have settled on a name for the world of my massive 33 book fantasy realm.
Welcome to the world of Egod.
It is no small thing creating a world this big. A few authors have done it, and their effort inspired me. I honestly believe if you read all 2+ million words of this series you will emerge infinitely wiser and with at least some arcane ability.
The World of Egod spans approximately ten thousand years across several continents. But while kingdoms come and go, dragons and elves sometimes live thousands of years. Some humans, after being affected by powerful forces, might even be immortal. In the last series, Devious Arcana young heroes must use a pocket-watch that allows them to travel time. They run into a few champions of old and join forces in order to face a terrible new foe. They must reset the end with a new beginning, or maybe reset the beginning with a brand-new end? You'll have to read to find out, but make no mistake, the story is massive and immersive, and the conclusion is cataclysmic.
Get ready for the time of your life.
Author's Note:
I do not think reading the series in timeline order is necessary, but it will enhance the experience, because stories of characters from the past, especially the dragons, often continue into and through the following books.
I will list the reading order again
Perpetual Fantastica: The Complete Four Book Collection
The Complete Wardstone Trilogy
The Complete Crimzon and Clover Short Story Series: Stories 1-8 +Bonus Content
Dragoneer Saga - Confliction Compendium: Books 1, 2, & 3
Dragoneer Saga - Blood of Royalty: Books 4, 5, & 6
The Legend of Vanx Malic: Complete Collection
Devious Arcana: Trilogy 1
Devious Arcana: Trilogy 2 - in progress
The 2nd Devious Arcana Trilogy (Books 4, 5, and 6) bring this truly epic series to an end so exciting and mind blowing, you will reflect on it for the rest of your life and be thankful you read every word.
I am almost finished editing Devious Arcana Book 4, and books 5 and 6 are coming by September 2025 all three are available for Pre-Order at Amazon now.
~M.R. Mathias

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A Message to ALL M. R. Mathias fans

M. R. Mathias — Thu, 13 Mar 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Fans,

My new Devious Arcana series is written like The Legend of Vanx Malic, with several 275-325 page books, instead 600-800 like Wardstone and Perpetual Fantastica. The main characters (in book three) just bought a property with a Heart Tree on it, very much like the Heart Tree in Vanx Malic, and in book four the group has to travel forward in time to fix a sextant tower in the age of Vanx Malic, with Hyden Hawk, Braxton, and Kifferd.

Book one of Devious Arcana-Nefarious Allure

Book Two - Reluctant Deception

Book Three - Perilous Defiance

Are all available and all residing in a top 100 list or two. Books 3 and 4 will be available before Summer.

Since all my series are set in the same world (except Dragon Racers) And since the characters in Devious Arcana have found a pocket watch that lets them travel time, so they might come across Hyden Hawk Skyler from Wardstone, and then jump forward in time and find Jenka DeSwasso, and his daughter Amelia from The Dragoneer Saga. Then they might even go thousands of years into the future to the time of Vanx Malic, Gallareal and Chelda.

The entire Devious Arcana series is intended to act as book 11 of The Legend of Vanx Malic series, book seven of The Dragoneer Saga, book 4 of The Wardstone Trilogy and Book 5 of Perpetual Fantasitica. Crimzon and Clover might even get a few scenes.

What ties all of the above worlds together is the strange otherworldly towers that are found in each. The Spire where the Summers Day festival takes place in Wardstone is one of these. The Sea Spire on the cover of Vanx Malic book 6, and the tower in Harthgar on the cover of Vanx 7 are all called Cardinal Towers. There is one at the North and South poles and one at each of the world's Cardinal positions. So far only Clover and Vanx Malic have figured them out, and they have only scratched the surface.

That is why the new series is called Devious Aracana. Because it is far more than one series. It is the icing on the cake of all I have created.

M. R. Mathias

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