Ian's Realm Saga

  The Complete Trilogy

  Ian’s Realm Saga

  The Complete Trilogy

  Ian’s Realm Saga

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are works of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Ian’s Realm Saga

  Copyright © 2016 by Dianne Lynn Gardner

  Ian’s Realm Saga is a collection of three books previously published as

  Deception Peak, Dragon Shield, Rubies and Robbers

  1st Editions Hydra Publication,

  2nd Editions PDMI Publishing

  Ian’s Realm Saga published by the author

  D.L. Gardner

  9385 Olalla Valley Rd Se Port Orchard WA 98367

  ISBN-13:

  978-1534672000

  ISBN-10:1534672001

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016910042

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform,

  North Charleston, SC

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any matter whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Printed in the United States of America

  Part I

  The Realm

  Fierce flames burst from the dragon’s mouth. Sparks flared from its nostrils. Before the blaze consumed Ian, poof, the sparks turned into the popcorn texture on the ceiling. His heart beat so loudly he could hear it thump. He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again, and blinked the sleep away until he focused. Was that a dream?

  Once Ian realized where he was, still in his bed under the covers, he moaned. The moon cast a cool glow across his blanket and illuminated the cluttered desk, his homework, and an empty soda can. The pencil drawings of swords he’d drawn that afternoon still fluttered in the draft from the open window. Sounds of the lazy neighborhood filter into his room. A motorcycle engine switched gears in the distance. Someone’s television across the street announced the baseball game and was hastily turned down.

  Ian propped himself on one elbow, eyeing the closet door which was held slightly ajar by yesterday’s jeans rolled in a bundle on the floor. Dirty socks peeked out from the dark beyond.

  Ian rolled over and closed his eyes, letting the breeze bring comfort, and hopefully sleep.

  The breeze turned into an icy wind that numbed his body. Again he fell. He plummeted past the cold jagged boulders on a dark, lonely mountain. Landing on the cliff, bits of gravel stuck to his flesh as his body rolled. The salty taste of blood filled his mouth. His burning hair sizzled and curled before finally being snuffed out in the dirt. He trundled off a ledge and again dropped through the air. With his hands, he shielded his body from stones and rubble that were airborne with him as he plunged even farther down the mountainside.

  Men dressed in deerskin with quivers on their backs, and carrying bows ran out of a cave as he flew by. Arrows spun past him toward the dragon. Whether any hit the flying serpent, he did not see. He crashed into the icy bank just as one of the arrows planted itself deep in the snow next to him. A tombstone. The shaft vibrated as a silent lament.

  It was then Ian realized he wasn’t the one who had fallen. A stranger lay in a snowdrift, limbs hanging loose at his side, face bruised and swollen. The man smiled at him and then his blond lashes sealed his eyes shut.

  A voice broke the silence. “Father!”

  Ian woke again.

  Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead and trickled past his ears. The curtains that framed his open window ruffled like ghosts dancing in the night. Neighborhood dogs barked at the moon.

  Letting his heart settle he lay there as he did every night, hoping for a restful sleep, one that didn’t take him back into the world he’d been seeing ever since his mother died.

  Amleth

  On the parchment of time a scene is drawn

  Whispering lines taking animate form

  Like pages of life its corners are turned

  Again and again until lessons are learned

  A breath of sweet wind and motion is given

  A Realm is created; a Life is within.

  Young Amleth tossed his strawberry blond curls over his shoulder and steadied his eyes on the door. The wind whistled outside. The skins of the yurt flapped like a muted drum, and the oil lamp flickered dancing shadows on the walls. The chill crept under the doorway, making the children huddle closer to the fire.

  The old woman’s voice was barely above a whisper, beckoning the young ones to lean closer so they might hear her. White braids hung over her shoulders. Her plump body, wrapped in woven blankets, rocked to an unsung melody.

  “The Songs of Wisdom weep,” she said.

  “Weep? Grandmamma, is something wrong?” When the little girl who spoke shivered, her older sister wrapped another fleece around her, combing her long golden locks with her fingers.

  “Something is always wrong here,” Amleth said, folding his arms across his chest, and settling his gaze on the flames.

  “Sit down, Amleth.” The old woman patted her sheepskin as an invitation. “I’ll tell you the stories that my grandparents told me.”

  “I already know the stories,” Amleth said with a hiss. His stomach knotted with anxiety. He didn’t want to be here. with the orphans and the village grandmother. He was restless. He wasn’t an orphan. After supper, all he could do was pace back and forth like a caged cougar. He knew he should be out in the storm with the men looking for his father. They had refused his help, and had said at twelve-years-old he was too young.

  The old woman took the littlest girl in her arms. “The wind has a name. Our people call it ‘The Songs of Wisdom’.”

  “Do the Meneks call it that?” A little boy peeked out from under his blankets.

  “No. The Meneks don’t know it by that name. They’re afraid of the wind just as they’re afraid of Stenhjaert, the dragon,” the woman answered.

  “They’re fools,” Amleth sneered. “The Meneks are slaves to the dragon, and will be all the days of their lives.” The boy turned to warm his back, and to glance anxiously at Grandmamma. “Why do we bother to help them?”

  His father had left for the mountain three days before. Everyone in the village knew it was a dangerous journey. Whenever the moon was a smiling sliver in the night, the dragon rose from his lair on the dark side of the mountain. The bravest Kaempern men would set out to Deception Peak. There they would risk their lives in an attempt to slay the dragon, and save the Meneks from its tyranny.

  As always, their plans failed. The dragon saw the men, and Amleth’s father offered himself as a decoy to save the lives of his friends. He was struck by the dragon’s powerful tail and thrust from the mountaintop. Though his friends had escaped to tell the story, his father was now lost in a snowstorm and a search party had been sent to look for him. As of yet, no one knew if he were dead or alive.

  Amleth kicked at the fire, breaking the burning logs, and sending a stream of ash into the room.

  The old woman shook her head. “Dear child, you are so much like your father. Settle down and let me tell the story. The children need to know the Kaempern legends.”

  Though heat from the warm flames in the fireplace comforted Amleth’s shivering body, there was no solace for his aching heart.

  The old woman cleared her throat and began. “The wind sings when it passes through the trees, the valleys, and through the tall fjords to the north. You never know what its voice will be like. Sometimes…”

  She looked at the wide eyes of the children as they sat up on their sheepskins, listening to her, and to the gust outside.
“Sometimes it is sweet and light, like snowflakes that tickle your nose on a quiet winter’s day.”

  The children laughed, exchanging glances with each other. Amleth watched them somberly.

  “And yet,” her wrinkled face scowled, her voice deepened. “Sometimes the voice of the wind is deep, like the iron bells that ring off the shores of Skerry.”

  “To warn the fisherman of the sandbar?” a boy asked.

  “To warn all the sailors.” She put her finger over her lips.

  The oil lamp flickered and died, sheathing the room in darkness. Gasping, some of the children hid under their covers. Amleth walked to the pile of wood near the doorway and set a log on the coals. He blew on the embers and soon the wood burst into flame. Again the shadows danced across the walls.

  “In the summer, the Songs of Wisdom cause the dandelion feathers to fly. I’ve seen you all frolic with them.”

  The girls giggled.

  “The summer is too short. It’s easy to forget its beauty when the dark and cold of winter drags on.” Her brow narrowed and she glared into each of their eyes. “You must not forget the summer. Even though it becomes a howling cold wind, it is still the keeper of our world. It talks to us. It keeps its promise to cleanse our world of evil: of the wickedness that grows in the deep, dark…” She pounded her fist on the ground, “…dungeons below.”

  One of the little girls whined and buried her head under her fleece.

  “Whenever the Songs of Wisdom meet with darkness…” With a raspy voice, the old woman threw her hands into the air, “…A squall rises and picks up the rubble. With a mighty gust, the songs blow the stench through the open window of the world.” As if throwing something out the window, she tossed her arms, causing the girls to cry out. The boys clapped their hands.

  “Is that what’s happening now?” a boy asked.

  The old woman looked at the door of the yurt as it flapped violently. The red bear that was painted on the rawhide moved in a rolling motion, its two black eyes keeping rhythm with its round body. The image of an arrow hung over the animal, marking the sign of a hunter’s home.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “What about the dragon? The dragon is the evilest thing in the world,” Amleth contested. “Is there a storm big enough to blow the dragon away?”

  He studied the old woman’s face. Amleth abhorred the dragon more than he pitied the Meneks, the dragon worshipers who lived by the sea. It was the Meneks who had banished him and his father from their village and forced them to forage in the wilderness. It would have been a fate worse than death had they not been trained hunters. Amleth and his father had finally joined with other outcasts, and together they formed the Kaempern settlement. Amleth never understood why the forest people risked their lives to free the Meneks from the dragon. Such a sacrifice became a way of life for the tribe.

  “It would be a horrendous storm. Our people could not survive that big of a storm,” the village grandmother said.

  “What if it happened?” Amleth pressed. He had to know. If the dragon were gone, no one else would die. There would be no more orphans. “What if a horrendous storm came and took the dragon out of the world? Could it get back in? Or would it be gone forever?”

  The other children looked to Grandmamma for an answer.

  “That’s a difficult question. No one knows the answer. However, deep in the mountain, under the dragon’s lair, lies a crystal sphere. No one knows exactly where. It is told that one day a man will come from far away, from through the window perhaps. He will find the sphere and then the dragon will be uprooted from its nest and cast from our world. The sphere will seal the window shut and evil will be gone forever. That day our people will know peace.”

  “I know that legend.” Amleth’s voice sharpened for he had a hard time believing that story. “A curse haunts the caves where they say the sphere is hidden. No one can find it. Our fathers search the mountain, see visions, and come home wild and crazy, if at all. We wait for them, caged like wild animals, wondering if we’re orphans…” Amleth’s voice fell short, fading into the sound of the wind.

  “You carry a heavy burden, Amleth. I am sorry,” she said.

  Amleth faced the fire. He felt as though he would burst, yet he didn’t want the other children to see him weak. He was the brave one, the strong one.

  “What’s on the other side of the windows of the world?” another boy asked.

  The old lady laughed. “You children are filled with too many questions tonight.”

  “They don’t want to go to sleep,” an older girl said with a smile.

  The old lady nodded, a twinkle in her eye. “There is a Great River, A Great Man, on the other side of the world, who washes all the evil clean. This Man will not wash the dragon from our world. Instead, he will send it far away to the land of fire where it belongs.” Grandmother stood. “Now it’s time to sleep.”

  The children nestled into their sheepskins as the woman covered each of them, gently resting her hand on their heads, and whispering in their ears.

  “Lay, and rest, Amleth,” she spoke softly when the others were tucked in their beds.

  He took out a sheepskin from a pile of blankets and laid it down apart from the other children. He’d rest, still, how could he sleep knowing his father was in the snowstorm?

  The woman stroked his hair. “They will find your father.”

  He wanted to believe her. He wanted to hold on to hope.

  With the children tucked in their beds, the woman settled into her own fleece and whispered, “Maybe the winds will rest in the morning.” She closed her eyes.

  Before dawn, a violent rapping at the door awoke Amleth. The woman sat up and looked around the room. The fire had died to ashes and all the other children were sleeping. He looked at her anxiously.

  She rose, picked up her shawl and walked to the door, opening it slightly. Snow blew in through the crack and coated her skirt.

  “They found him.”

  Amleth jumped out of his bed and raced to the woman, looking out at the messenger.

  “They’ve brought him to the House of Helbrede”

  “The House of Helbrede? Then he’s alive?” Amleth’s heart raced with excitement.

  “Barely,” the messenger said.

  The old woman turned to him. “Go. Be with your father.”

  Amleth grabbed his woolen fleece and left with the messenger.

  The Window

  Ian grimaced at the classmate leaning over his shoulder. “It’s none of your business.” He concealed his artwork with his hand.

  “It’s none of your business,” the boy mocked.

  Ian gave him a dagger-eye and then folded the text book closed. “Get a life, Johnny Cramer.”

  It had taken him twenty-five minutes to complete the drawings. Finally, a perfect little sword graced each corner of his textbook. He flipped the pages and watched the weapon rotate. Pleased with his animation, he bent the lower corner of the book back in shape.

  The classroom was disturbingly quiet. When Ian looked up, several of the boys eyed each other and giggled, disguising their grins with bowed heads. Abigail Bradshaw turned around to face the whiteboard. The teacher looked directly at him.

  “You would think that a fifteen-year-old would pay closer attention in class. Did you hear me, Ian Wilson?” Mrs. Evans said.

  “No, ma’am.” He gazed at the gray-haired instructor as she stared at him from behind her wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Perhaps if you didn’t find so much amusement in trivial distractions, you would pay more attention to your teacher.”

  “Perhaps,” he responded. Ian heard snickers behind him.

  “Are you writing in your textbook, young man?”

  “Drawing,” Ian glanced at the pencil sketch of the sword. Laughter came from the back of the room sending a rush of anger inside of him. He shifted in his chair to see who was cackling. No doubt Johnny and his cronies.

  “See me after class.”

&
nbsp; When the release buzzer blared through the intercom, the other teenagers scrambled out the door. Ian stacked his textbooks on his desk and then tucked his notebook under his arm. He stepped up to Mrs. Evans.

  “You’ll have to pay for that book,” she said. “Do you have your outline ready for me?”

  “It’ not due until Friday.”

  Mrs. Evans pushed her glasses further up her nose and gave him a cold glare. Ian pulled his papers from his notebook, handed them to her and watched as she thumbed through his work. She studied each page, her mouth bent in a frown. He stood quiet.

  After a thorough examination of his outline, she picked up the collection of papers, tapped them neatly together on her desk and handed them back to him.

  “Your actions tell me you are somewhat bored in my class.” She studied his eyes, one brow raised higher than the other.

  He shrugged his shoulders, hoping Mrs. Evans didn’t misunderstand his body language, like she usually did. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  “I find it hard to tolerate the lack of respect you demonstrate in this class,” she went on, “or your smart mouth. I do not appreciate your sarcasm, young man.” She scowled.

  Ian opened his mouth to speak and thought again. Mrs. Evans misunderstands everything he says. Why bother saying anything?

  “Perhaps if you’d been raised by a mother you’d be different,” she added under her breath. The words were barely audible yet they were like a trumpet in his ears. His felt the blood rush to his cheeks. Why did she have to bring Dad into this? It’s not his fault Mom died.

  After clearing her throat, she continued. “Unfortunately my policy is to grade a student according to how well they do with their assignments; otherwise I assure you, passing this class would be one impossible feat for you. Depending on your test scores, however, I have the option to move you on and out of my hair next semester.”