The Dragon's Den

Hello, and apologies for the long silence.

So, it’s obvious that I haven’t made many posts lately. Book events have been stagnant for now, at least until September. I’ll technically be at Furrydelphia during the week of August 8th! I’ll be pulling around the Dragon Wagon again, carrying books and merch with me as I go through the convention, but that’s in less than two weeks. There are other book events I’ll attend, but for now, I’ve been trying to keep my head afloat.

The remainder of my Kickstarter rewards should be shipped by this week, save for one more person. That person will be the first to get my limited edition book, while the rest will receive the third book of the series. Work has been rough this summer, and I’ve been driving from place to place–inspiration and writing hasn’t been coming like it normally does. I have a few story-beats I need to hit for this upcoming book for the series, a prequel to the events of the main story. This is a side book that I want to push to be a recounting of Mysherra’s time passed down from person to person as a weapon. In addition to that, I have plans of making an audio book for both Sins of the Fire, and Sins of the Fire: Purgatorio– but I want to write a second edition to the first before I move onto the third and final part of the book series.

I’m also looking for reviewers to help with Book 2! I’ll be reaching out to some people that helped with the Book Tour a few months back to see if they can provide one.

Overall… things today are rough. I’m sure my readers are feeling that. But rest assured, we’re still waking up in the morning. Things may be rough, but your community, friends and maybe even your relatives are behind you. But, if you need a different kind of push, remember that spite is a lovely motivator.

Now, here: A preview of chapters to come!

It was a Sunday when it happened. A Sunday morning.

Mysherra’s ears twitched at the sound of geese flying above. Then, the church bell tolled. Her eyes snapped open. For a dragon of her caliber, she was aware of each hour of the day, her routine religious. By the time her eyelids settled, the bell would only toll for the first hour of the morning, once at noon, and once in the eve, when  the stars speckled the sky. This bell rang one extra time this morn. 

Danger was approaching.

The dragoness lifted her massive body up, tucking her wings in a practiced motion to push her way through the doorway of her barn. As soon as her torso left the security of her frame, she spread her wings. Current lifted her immediately, and with a great leap, she took to the skies, flapping fervently. 

The distance from her home to the village of Violl was negligible while in the air. The trouble came with scanning the perimeter for the danger. Below, the specks of people ran for safety; mothers by the water well scooping their belongings and rushing for the nearest home. Fathers rushed to the village square, some carrying whatever weapons or farming tools they had to protect what they had. Mysherra scowled. She gave explicit instructions to stay inside when the bell was rung. 

Her eyes looked ahead. From the outskirts of the village, just beyond the roving hills of green, a drove of brigands wearing nothing but skins and carrying jagged, obsidian-tipped spears sprinted toward the perimeter.  They moved with a feral, unsettling speed, their bodies painted in ash and dried blood. These weren’t the organized Christian Soldiers, nor were they the Nomadic Muslims. No, they were remnants of the Old Faith—Pagan worshipers that traded their humanity for the favor of their forgotten deities. Vile, animalistic shrieks came from the men, closing in on the first wall. 

Again, the dragon snarled. For these creatures to murder and pillage over an unseen being made her blood boil. Enough with these wars, enough with these Gods. Mysherra folded her wings and tipped her nose down.

The earth approached rapidly. The wild shouts were getting louder. The dragon’s eyes focused on the man painted in red at the very front of the charge. As soon as the shadow was cast over him, he did not have time to look up. A hawk to a mouse, Mysherra expanded her wings and with a mighty crash, her talons bore down into the man’s body. The earth shook, the screams stopped. The battlefield went silent. 

The valley of green was stained in red beneath Mysherra’s talon. Lifting the remains of the man, she tossed the mangled heap aside like a discarded rag. The red paint that had once signaled his status as a war-leader was now indistinguishable from the gore that coated the grass. 

The earth approached rapidly. The wild shouts were getting louder. The dragon’s eyes focused on the man painted in red at the very front of the charge. As soon as the shadow was cast over him, he did not have time to look up. A hawk to a mouse, Mysherra expanded her wings and with a mighty crash, her talons bore down into the man’s body. The earth shook, the screams stopped. The battlefield went silent. 

The valley of green was stained in red beneath Mysherra’s talon. Lifting the remains of the man, she tossed the mangled heap aside like a discarded rag. The red paint that had once signaled his status as a war-leader was now indistinguishable from the gore that coated the grass. 

Mysherra lifted her head above the ants beneath her. With their would-be leader dead, she expected the army to turn tail. And yet their pinprick eyes made her realize; they were not going to flee. 

The dragoness shook the blood from her palm, flecking what was left of the leader. “Wahid, ithnan, thalatha…” 

Each man she set her eyes upon she counted in the tongue that raised her. “Khamsa ‘Ashar,  sitta ‘ashar….”

Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. 

Thirty. No, twenty-nine. 

Twenty-nine at death’s door with one already in its home. 

Surely, this was not an ordeal a dragon needed to face. The archers stationed by the border would be enough. But, per the contract’s decree, if the bell tolls for trouble, she was the one to appear. The warriors shared glances with one another. Hushed whispers, slow, shifting movements—hyenas stalking their prey. Mysherra twisted her snout into a snarl.

“I am allowing you a single warning,” she called, “Leave this place, or be—”

A prick glanced at Mysherra’s cheek, enough for her eye to close. The offending arrow that dared pierce her scales bounced off of her and fell into the grass. It was a pathetic gesture, a tiny splinter of wood and iron that shouldn’t have been able to draw blood, and yet, a single bead of hot, crimson ichor welled up where the tip had grazed her. 

A single sigh was all she could provide the line at death’s door.

“Very well.”

Mysherra lifted her head above the ants beneath her. With their would-be leader dead, she expected the army to turn tail. And yet their pinprick eyes made her realize; they were not going to flee. 

There was nothing to compare the full weight and speed of a dragon to. An elephant moving with the speed of a jaguar would be an apt comparison, yet this was not the case for someone like Mysherra. Her movements were nimble, precise and coordinated. The hunters readied their spears of obsidian, but they could not avoid the approaching natural disaster that was Mysherra. Three were trampled in the charge, crushed beneath the weight of the dragon’s claws. Before five more could extend their spears, the dragon whipped herself in a circle. Her tail slammed against the line of warriors with the force of a battering ram. Ribs snapped like dry kindling, bodies soaring through the air, scattering them across the emerald hills like discarded dolls.

A body that massive could be overwhelmed by numbers. While warriors goaded the dragoness from the front, others came from the sides, the back, climbing, clamoring, stabbing where they could. They knew their weapons could not pierce the flesh completely, but if they pricked her enough, she would buck like a bull and reveal the soft underbelly where her scales were thinnest.

Mysherra could feel the frantic creatures scrambling onto her haunches, tiny needles pressing along her flank and side. She knew what they sought. They thought of her as a horse. Preposterous. Insulting. How dare they touch my body, she thought. How dare they try to pierce my scales!

Though coordinated, the warriors were foolhardy. Were they attacking any other dragon, they would surely leave it with more injuries. Mysherra, however, prided herself in her fire—a rarity amongst her kind, and a blessing from the God she hatched under, back in Egypt. Eyes flashing, the dragoness took a deep breath and kindled her flame. The biology of a dragon was still something scholars studied to this day, for even they did not know the extent of creativity that dragons could wield their own pyre. A beast with the breath of sunlight could harness the very flames across her scales; as comforting as a summer’s day or as intense as standing on its surface. She did not move, which drew the warriors closer—only for those upon her back to suddenly scream as their bodies began to burn. Their spears hissed, the wood catching fire after. Those too late to leave were next to ignite. One after the other, the living ran off of Mysherra’s back, others falling to the ground in agony, their screams joining the crackle of their own roasting flesh. The smell of charred leather and singed hair filled the morning air, a grisly incense offered up to the sky. The ground beneath Mysherra’s talons hissed. Green turned to black. The air around her warped, the heat becoming far too dangerous for any sane man to stay.

And sane they were. No one would think to try and fight the sun. Consciousness fought the corners of the eyes of the living, but they fled, turning towards the hills they came from. The raid was a failure. They would live another day. No more of them would die. 

But Mysherra was unsatisfied. There weren’t enough corpses. 

Pulling her head back, Mysherra’s concentrated gaze centered itself on the grouped attackers— cowards— fleeing. The kindled fire pulled inward, from the belly, towards her chest. Up through the throat. Drool fell from the corners of her clenched maw, white-blue fire mixing with her own spit. 

How dare they mar her pristine form. How dare they be stupid enough to try and attack this village, knowing she was the main line of defense. The air crackled, a droning hum of pure energy concentrated at the back of the dragon’s throat. 

There wouldn’t be bodies to bury. The remains would scatter into nothing.

Mysherra pulled her head back.

“Enough, dragon!”

A voice touched her ears—an interruption from a far distance. The pyre built in her throat flickered, then fizzled away, leaving Mysherra with a throat left like she swallowed pyreflies. Coughing, she spat what burning remains of her spittle onto the blackened soil, where it hissed and bubbled like lava. Her eyes, still burning with the residual light of the sun, narrowed as she swiveled her massive neck toward the sound. There, standing atop the village’s stone gatehouse, was Father Lucius. The old priest’s robes were disheveled, his face pale, but he held his wooden crucifix high. Beside him were the archers, quivers pointed downward, but faces just as aghast as the priest’s.

“Let them go! You’ve done enough!” Lucius cried out, his voice cracking against the wind. “Look below! Your anger has already burned the land we so loved!”

Mysherra glanced down, looking at the charred remains of the grass and flowers beneath her talons. Making a fuss over such a piddling issue drove her towards the wall. The archers readied their bows, pulling their arrows back on the string. Lucius stood stalwart despite Mysherra’s snarls.

“Would you have me check the ants for injuries too?!” She snapped, “Your village was about to be razed and you’re worried about the land?!”

“If any dry grass catches fire, we’d have much more trouble than these Pagans!” Lucius argued. 

“Under whose authority do you have to criticize my methods? I was conscripted by a blood contract under this village’s Baron, the Steward—”

“And the Holy Priest, which I am, and by God’s name, you will listen to reason if you are to honor the contract.”

Mysherra’s nostrils flared. She turned her head, snorting a plume of smoke away from the party of tiny men. When she faced them again, her furrowed brows were only a little less furrowed. “Letting them escape was a mercy I did not want to grant them. If they return—”

“They won’t.”

“They were foolhardy enough to charge me! A little singed grass is the least of your worries!”

“No, my worries are your fire, you beast! If you let your breath fly, how much land would be demolished as a result?! If that fire reaches our homes!? We’ll all be killed!”

“You don’t trust that I—”

“No! I cannot trust you! None of us can!”

A deathly silence held the tongue of the priest. Steeling his resolve he merely clutched his rosary tighter and dug his heels into the stone ground, “You may have some people on your side but the evidence lies bare before us. Your very nature is destructive—the people you killed may have sought to harm us, but your disposition is that of an unholy beast. Had they breached the walls, we would be just as dead as they are.”

Mysherra shot a glance back at the carnage. To her, the damage was minimal at best—a few blackened, hissing spots where her palms were, bodies strewn about with a small set of guards and men travelling to clean the remains. Remaining stoic, Mysherra kept her head high and her tone level. “Then you would have me never use my magic nor my flame to defend this place?”

“If you are to be a God-fearing dragon, you will not use your fire for anything—no matter how desperate the situation may be.”

“Fine. If it makes you feel safe I’m locking my breath away.” With that, Mysherra drew a line down her throat. A crackling ether trailed along her claw and within moments, the smoldering heat that settled in her chest was quelled. With the ridges of her snout coiling, Mysherra gave the priest a sneer. “Pray to your God that a dragon doesn’t attack. It won’t get a single spark from me.”

Mysherra spread her wings and took to the skies, back towards the barn. Back to her home.