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  The Dragon’s Tooth

  Copyright 2014 Iain Andrews

  Published by Iain Andrews at Smashwords

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

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  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part One – A Murder to be Solved

  Part Two – A Quest to be Made

  Acknowledgements

  About Iain Andrews

  Other books by Iain Andrews

  Connect with the Author

  Prologue

  Things you’d better know about Arnwin...

  It’s closer than you think...

  Ever wondered why in all the legends time spent in Faeryland seems to pass quicker? Answer: the days are twice as long. And there are only six months, as shown in the diagram below.

  If you really want to find out more, including access to maps of the towns and countries described in these tales, then go to www.arnwin.com, where all will be revealed...

  Part One – A Murder to be Solved

  Chapter 1, Nordmon Mountains near Strathdu, Third Day of Tuschur, 706

  Owain knew that trouble was coming, but he just didn’t know how much.

  The sound of wind in the trees mutated from the soft caressing whispers of a lover to the screams of a thousand demons. Above him, the small blue window of sky visible above the tall treetops had vanished, as if night smothered the world in seconds.

  For a second he was blind, unable to see anything in the blackness of the forest. Then, for one brief moment, his world was lit up in dazzling white brilliance by an explosion of light, followed immediately by a crash of thunder that shook the ground like the stamp of an angry giant. The rain began to penetrate the forest canopy, at first gently but then with ferocious drumming that sounded like the approach of an army from hell.

  Storms like this should not happen in the Nordmon Mountains at this time of year. Perhaps two months later in Dadmer, the month of the deluge, when the melting of snows on the high peaks and the Spring rains combined to make the normally gentle River Du roar like the demented spirits said to haunt her upper slopes. Owain crossed himself, and muttered a silent prayer to Oden.

  He was scared, no question of that. Earlier in the day he’d set out on his first hunt alone, armed only with a sling, a flint knife, and a long pointed stick (known locally as a gerbata), looking for the small woodhogs that lived in these forest slopes. Stun the hog with a slingshot, kill it with a well-aimed stab from the stick, and return home a hero, a real hunter. It seemed easy in the safety of the village, just as easy as brushing off the warnings of his peers and elders.

  But now he was just a very scared thirteen-year old boy in a dark forest, miles from home. The lightning flashed again, and the boom of the thunder seemed to shake the earth at the same time. And this time, his terror escalated, as the fearful ferocity of the storm was overtaken by something worse.

  In that brief second of brilliance, he saw a face, a pale cruel face. Maybe twenty feet away, the eyes staring straight at him. He sensed the figure was holding something, something long and thin, maybe a bow. And then the darkness came again, and with it the rain.

  He was in a shallow valley where a small stream bubbled through, and he knew that behind him up the slope was a cliff. Valleys like this were not good places to be in a storm – these mountains were notorious for flash floods that could sweep a grown man off his feet and dash his life away against the ancient trees of the Thuadmaid Forest. Another flash, but the face was gone. Maybe it was an illusion... ‘Please Oden, let it be just a spectre of the woods or of my imagination’, he prayed.

  Owain scrambled up the soft ground till he felt scree beneath his feet followed by the comparative safety of the rock in front of him. He should be protected here from the storm at least. Another flash of lightning showed him what looked like the opening of a small cave to his left – big enough for a boy to shelter in. He knew caves might be dry, but they held danger. He felt his way blindly and cautiously across the rough rock till he was at the entrance and sniffed... no scent of animal. Owain moved inside till he could no longer feel the rain battering his skin, just as the noise indicated the intensity of the downpour outside had increased. He waited in his new haven, dreading what each flash would reveal. But all he saw were trees.

  Slowly, the intervals between thunder and lightning lengthened, as the eye of the storm crept towards the east. After a few more minutes, the rain stopped.

  And suddenly, the blue sky was back and the darkness was gone. Water still dripped from the mosses that clung to the high branches, but there was little other evidence of the storm. Unseen birds sang to greet the sun. Owain placed a large stone in his sling and looked around cautiously. No faces, no watching eyes. The minutes passed, and the world was as it had been before the storm.

  He felt strangely happy – he’d emerged from his first bad experience without mishap. He had maybe suffered a brief moment of panic, but finding the cave and checking it out before entering were the actions of a real hunter. He now had maybe eight hours before nightfall, as he’d started out about eighteen hours after midnight. The fifty hours of the Arwinian day meant a hunter could cover a lot of ground. Plenty of time to find a woodhog, kill it, and return to Strathdu in triumph. He stepped out onto the carpet of small rocks outside the cave, and made his way back down the grassy slope towards the stream, which was now flowing like a small river.

  Then he sensed movement and noise to his right. Something was coming through the trees just below where he stood. This was not the spectre he witnessed earlier. It was something bigger, something blacker. Maybe fifty paces away. Owain began to feel frightened again. He gripped his sling tighter.

  Then the creature emerged. Owain’s fear changed to sheer paralysing terror.

  It was a bear.

  The black Nordmon bear is the most feared creature in the forest. Other animals might attack a man, but only if wounded or protecting their young. The black bear sees man simply as another source of food. The slings and spears that can vanquish even one of the large cats that prowl these woods are useless against the Nordmon bear. A large male will stand eight foot tall, has claws five inches long, teeth like arrowheads, and can cover open ground twice as fast as a man. It can crush a skull with a sweep of its arm.

  This bear was large, and probably hungry. During the thirty days of Tuschur, the month that ends on the winter solstice, the bears fatten themselves up ready for hibernation on whatever prey they can find.

  Owain dropped his weapons and tried to run down the slope to his left. The bear let out a roar and began to pursue the boy. Owain had several paces start. If he could reach the trees, a tantalisingly close twenty paces away he might be able to outmanoeuvre the creature. He could perhaps climb to a height where the heavier bear could not pursue.

  Fifteen paces... ten paces... he could feel the bear’s feet shake the ground, hear its breath as the distance between them grew ever closer.

  Five paces... four... he was almost at the nearest tree. Then he felt his foot slip on a patch of long grass. Desperately he tried to regain his balance but it was useless. He fell sprawling on the ground, his head resting on an ancient trunk, straight and solid as a tombstone.

  With what sounded like a triumphal growl, the bear advanced, knowing its prey was now helpless.

  Owain looked up. When he’d first seen the creature he lost control of both thought and bladder. B
ut now, in these seemingly final moments, a strange calmness came over him. He thought of his mother waiting at home in the village that sat in a clearing in these woods, the only place he’d ever really known. He wondered what the OtherWorld would be like when he passed across.

  Then he heard the sound. It was like a sharp ‘whoosh’. The beast let out a strange cry, and turned away from him. Looking up, Owain saw an arrow sticking out of the bear’s leg. And then he saw the strange figure he thought only existed in his imagination, now standing among the trees around fifty paces away. The face was as he remembered it, thin, pale, the hair silvery-gold and long. The bowman was dressed in an outfit of green and silver. As Owain watched, another arrow was in place a matter of seconds after the first and the same sound accompanied its speedy flight towards the bear. The arrow struck the bear in its broad chest. This time there was no cry from the animal. It slowly sunk to its knees, and then collapsed on the ground, its head landing around four paces from Owain. The stranger disappeared among the trees, and the only sound Owain could hear was his own rapid breathing. The birds were silent again.

  For several minutes, the boy sat on the damp ground, gazing at the unmoving beast, occasionally glancing round for a sight of the pale stranger, and listening for a tell-tale noise above the gentle drips of rain and the murmuring of the stream. He heard and saw nothing else.

  Eventually, emboldened again, Owain decided that the bear might represent a greater prize than a woodhog. He went back up the slope to where he’d dropped his weapons, and then moved back to the animal. Perhaps, he thought, he might be able to carry a leg back to Strathdu. Owain pulled out his flint knife and began to saw through the matted black fur.

  He saw the arrow before he hear the noise. It appeared as if by magic, inches from his leg. Seconds later, another shaft struck a tree behind him. Owain dropped the knife, grabbed his stick, and ran. Through stream and bush, up hills and down into ravines, running, running, till his sides ached and his breath felt like it was almost gone. Ahead he could see the edge of the forest, and the thatched roofs of Strathdu. One final agonising effort and he burst out of the forest into the fields that surrounded his village. Only then did he turn and look where he had come from.

  The forest looked as it always did; a dense mass of trees and mystery.

  Chapter 2, Strathdu, Later the Same Day

  The village communal hut in Strathdu was a large circular building, with stone walls and a thatched roof. Inside, Harbard looked worried. He was the very portly Headman of the Village Council, and the members of that Council, which included Father Olave the priest, sat around in a circle. In the middle stood Owain, who looked even more worried. His eyes flitted between Harbard and the cleric. Harbard, as always, looked uncomfortable, a man who craved the power that came with being Headman but hated the responsibilities that went with it. Father Olave, at least to Owain, looked old. He was of medium build, with a lined face and thinning grey hair. His aquiline nose would have been his most noticeable feature were it not for the deep scar that ran down one side of his face, suggesting that his life might not always have been that of the gentle village priest.

  He didn’t really know what reaction he would get on his return. Sympathy for his ordeal, admiration for the way he’d survived a bear attack, even envy from his peers. But not being hauled in front of the Council like a criminal.

  Harbard cleared his throat, his double chin wobbling with the effort, a bead of sweat forming on his brow. He spoke in the dialect of the Strathcoul area. “Alright, Owain, ye must tell everyone again. Ye’ll no’ be in trouble if ye tell the truth. But if ye lie.....”

  Owain told his story again. He did not lie or leave anything out, except for the fact he wet his breeches. They didn’t need to know that. He didn’t trust Harbard. The man made it plain in the past that he was no friend of Owain or his mother.

  “Did ye see the arrows?” said Grant. Grant was the most experienced hunter in the village. He was in his late thirties, naturally tanned, tall and thin, but with powerful arm muscles. Owain wanted to be Grant one day.

  “I...I think they were s-s-ort of silver in colour” stammered Owain. “About two feet long... with white feathers at the end.”

  “Silver coloured wood?” snapped Grant.

  “I th... think so. Almost white.”

  Grant grunted and sat back.

  Dougal, the old farmer, made his contribution. “I ken whit’s happened. This man must be a bear hunter. Why else would he be there just after the bear? He’d probably followed it for miles. And then when Owain starts cutting it up he tries tae shoot Owain. Ye’re a lucky lad, and there’s nae doubt aboot that!”

  Harbard nodded. “Aye, ye’ve got it there, Dougal. A bear hunter. No’ a job I would relish. But a man could get rich selling bearskins. Grant, d’ye ken any bear hunters, especially pale-looking lads?”

  Grant shrugged. “No’ in this area. Maybe he’s a new lad come over from Asgaar.“ He turned towards Owain. “Did ye say ye saw the man or the bear first?”

  “I thought I saw the man” said Owain. “Only it was when the lightning came, and just for a second. So maybe I did’nae see him. I thought it might be a wood-spirit the first time.”

  Keln the horse gatherer cleared his throat. “Ye’re all wrong, ye ken that. White hair... pale skin... yon’s a fairy if ever I heard. They’re back, ye ken. Probably an army up in thae woods, waiting to come doon and kill us all. Aye, wipe us oot ! Men, women, and bairns.”

  Grant laughed. “So they’re going to kill us all but they could'nae even kill Owain. A wee boy, lying on his arse, and a fairy cannae shoot him. And his first shot nearly missed the bear!” He looked round, a gleam in his eye. “I’ve seen what the Sidhe can do. Split a hair at a hundred paces. And ye think they’d let Owain run doon here and warn us. Why not let the bear eat him for supper?”

  Father Olave stood up. “Grant speaks wisdom. The Asgaars are a pale people, and many have fair hair. And they hunt bears. We should be grateful to Oden for sending such a man from the north to save our child.”

  Harbard hurriedly rose to his feet. “Well, I think we’ve done here. We now ken there’s a hunter in these woods that won’t stop at shooting at anyone who gets in his way. The hunter lads better go in pairs, Grant, at least for a few days. Owain, ye can go back to your mither now. Faither, ye must tell him some prayers so he can thank the good Oden for his life.”

  The Council shuffled out one by one, all except Grant, Father Olave, and Harbard. Owain looked at them for a second then ran from the hut.

  Harbard waited until the departing Council members were out of earshot, then turned to the other two.

  “Well?”, he said. “Fairies?”

  Grant nodded. “Nae doubt. Ye want a bear to stop attacking someone? Hit him in the body, he won’t feel it. Two places to go for, the eye or the back of the leg. If the bear’s got his back to ye, ye’ve just got the leg. Bear running, that’s a hell of a shot.”

  “Why shoot at Owain?” asked Harbard.

  “Why did the bear die?” replied Grant. Harbard looked puzzled.

  Grant smiled. “The bear died because the first arrow wis poisoned. The second one just made sure. Ye’ve got a bear full of poison, and Owain then tries tae cut a bit off for tea. The fairy wisnae trying tae kill the lad, he was trying tae save him.”

  Harbard grimaced. “Ye’re no’ sayin’ the lad is under Sidhe protection?”

  Grant shrugged.

  Harbard shook his head. “I always knew that something was wrong with him and his mither. He dis’nae look like her. Maybe he’s a changeling. Faither... ye ken him better than most.”

  Father Olave smiled. “Yes, I know him better than most... and his mother. Most never wanted to know them that well.”

  “Aye”, snarled Grant.”We ken the mither’s a hoor.”

  Father Olave shook his head. “Just because some vagrant came through here and claimed she looked like a woman he saw in a Dugann brothel doesn’t
mean it’s her. She is a child of Strathdu who married a sailor and was widowed. The Church brought her here out of pity. They would not honour a whore in such a way.”

  “Aye, Faither, and you and the good Chryst would forgive her even if she was a hoor”, replied Harbard. “But my faither kent her faither and she was a wild young thing. She left thirty year ago and naebody kens why but it was all kept very quiet. “

  Father Olave smiled. “Owain is a good lad. He’s the brightest boy in the village and if you ask me, we should be looking to make him a priest, not a hunter.”

  Grant snarled. “Ye may think a priest’s better than a hunter. I dinnae. But keep treating him well, Faither. Make him a priest. I dinnae want him with me on a hunt in the forests. If he’s a fairy’s friend there’s nae trust frae me. Past years a lad like that would’ve been burnt.”

  The priest turned and walked away. He knew things about Owain and his mother that he wouldn’t share with the village. As a Chrysteon cleric, he’d been initiated into the Mysteries, those other secrets that the church carefully kept from its flock. But he was fast realising that there were secrets and mysteries about the lad that even he was unaware of.

  Chapter 3, Lasgard, First Day of Imis, 706

  In the east, Bright Belenus, as the poets call the sun, was rising above the hills in a clear blue sky, seemingly sending a message to mankind that the winter solstice was over and the world was being reborn. If the clouds did not return, the city could look forward to fourteen hours of sunshine to compensate for the thirty four hours of winter darkness that haunted each day in early Imis.

  On the preceding night Lasgard, like other towns and cities in Albany and most other lands, held a great festival to celebrate the birth of the New Year, and according to Chrysteon teachings, of the Chryst, only Son of Oden. But the expressions of the three men in the room were far from happy.