Ash, Dragon Heart Series Book 1

5

Coming from the farmer, being called a freak sounded like an insult. There was a difference when one spoke without malice and when one spoke with the intent to kill.

Ash stared at the flames reflected in the steel and felt heat fill his limbs. Just like the brew boiled stronger, heated by the fire, so did his heart pound faster, fueled by anger. And just as he thought he’d burn from the inside, he heard the word.

It was like nothing else in the world. Not a single audible sound, not any language spoken by either mortals or immortals sounded like it. Because this word was contained the pure essence of fire. Its flames both devoured endless forests and warmed lone travelers in the cold nights.

Ash welcomed the fire and allowed it to fill him to the brim. Its flames licked its skin, and whispered the word to him. Closing his eyes, he listened and then repeated.

Bloodcurdling screams filled the air, scaring off the birds that had nestled on the trees outside the house. They spoke amongst themselves about a young wizard who had learned the fire’s name.

And anyone who knew how to listen to the birds became aware that the winds of change were about to sweep over their nameless world.

Chapter 4

322 A.D. Age of the Drunken Monk, Middle Kingdom

I

rmaril shone brightly that night, illuminating the unnamed planet, and providing gentle and affectionate (sometimes fierce and merciless) light to the billions of its inhabitants. Some of them dwelled in cities surrounded by high walls, others in villages, while some preferred the dusty roads and cheap taverns over a comfy bed free of bedbugs and a roof over their head. There were also those who lived in caves, huts by the lake, in the lakes themselves, in the sky, in the fiery embrace of the volcano, at the bottom of the ocean, in the forests, on top of pine needles, in the buds of flowers, and even in the wind itself.

But more about them later.

The wind of change had brought the young Ash to the Middle Kingdom, a great land ruled by the wise Garangan and his wife Alessia. Everything from the Rose Sea to the Forests of Armund, which included four cities, half a hundred villages, and countless farms, belonged to them.

And in the north, at the foot of the Mazurman mountains, was a field dotted with flowers. Lakes of buttercups, hills of roses, and rivers of tulips... Birds flying over this colorful ocean would sometimes stop in awe, risking colliding with the rocky hills because of their carelessness.

In the center of this field, not far from the lake in which various fish splashed merrily, was a small house. So small it was that it could barely be called a house. It looked like a cabin. Inside, save for a kitchen, was one small room in which the owner of this house lay. He was young, about twenty-three, with a lovely face and a body shaped by years of hard work. Opening his eyes, the young man sat up and gazed over at a little box with colored lenses on the table next to the bed. One was brown, the other blue. Having given it a thought, the young man chose the blue one. Today he wanted to look the world with eyes the color of the azure sea, and not those the color of fertilizer.

Stretching, he got up, scratched his head, and sniffed. Rolling out of bed, he gathered his clothes and got dressed: patched-up and well-worn trousers, a canvas shirt with ribbons on the chest, and a pair of sandals made of hemp and wood. The look was completed by a wooden staff that stood leaning against the wall. It looked like the most ordinary staff; so plain and mundane…

“Breakfast,” the man yawned and hit the floor with the staff.

The air rippled, walls shook, dishes rattled and windows covered by boards rather than glass quivered. The logs in the stove caught fire on their own and cracked cheerfully; drawers opened and utensils flew into the air. A knife twitched and started cutting the lettuce that had flown onto the chopping block from the wicker basket by the door. The kitchen, which was a couple of feet from the bedroom, seemed to come to life.

The water boiled in the kettle that had once been a soldier’s helmet. Leaves of tea flew from their box into the mug. Slices of fragrant bread landed into the breadbasket and were quickly covered with lovely, golden butter without any knife.

The young man was a wizard, you see, and not the kind you meet at the carnivals that coax you into spending your hard-earned coin to see their cheap tricks. Sure, he didn’t know how to turn stone into gold nor did he know the secret of eternal youth, but he was still a wizard. Sitting down on a stool that ran up to him, the young man rubbed his hands and began his meal. A black scarf flew over to him from one of the drawers and wrapped itself around his ashen hair.

As he chewed his bread with pleasure and ate his fried eggs, wagging his finger at the confused pan, it had gotten it wrong again), the young man thought about what he’d do today. It was about time to go to the market and sell herbs, as he needed coin to buy more food. He couldn’t live on roots and berries forever.

Having finished his breakfast, he got up and hit the floor with the staff once more. The dishes spun and leaped into a barrel full of water. The kitchen towel wiped them clean, and they settled to dry.

The door opened on their own, creaking with its hinges as if it to say “Good day!” to the young man. The moment he stepped foot on the green grass, the seemingly solid house wavered as if it were made of fog and disappeared. There was only a small grassy meadow.

The illusion left much to be desired, but who in their right mind would come all the way here looking for something? Here in the mountains, there were no dwarves with their eternal fairs and cheap metals or monsters to hunt or the gloomy drows, with their protruding fangs and skin the color of wet stone.

Who then was this young wizard that so carefully gathered herbs and plants into his satchel? No one knew the answer to this complicated question. Everyone thought he was just a Ternite, but he knew for sure that he wasn’t human Worst of all, he knew he wasn’t a Fae either. The only thing he did know was his name.

“Ash!” squeaked something near his sandals.

The boy looked down and saw Maverie, a flower fairy, so tiny that she could fit comfortably in a teaspoon. Though, she insisted that she was just fine living in a tulip. Just like many other flower fairies.

Smiling, Ash squatted and held out his little finger. Maverie fluttered over to him, flapping her tiny little wings. Landing on his finger, she dusted her dress sewn out of blades of grass and petals so thin and delicate that a harder wind could tear them, and so valuable that any alchemist would gladly give a gold coin for a single petal. But Ash didn’t seem to care that he was holding a fortune in his hands.