Dragons in Our Midst, Volume 2
The Candlestone
Bryan Davis
The Candlestone
Copyright © 2004 by Bryan Davis
Living Ink Books, an imprint of AMG Publishers
All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in printed reviews, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (printed, written, photocopied, visual electronic, audio, or otherwise) without the prior permission of the publisher.
The Candlestone is the second of four books in the youth fantasy fiction series, Dragons in Our Midst.
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise noted, are taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE, copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977 by the Lockman Foundation. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Print ISBN: 978-0-89957-171-3
ePub ISBN: 978-1-61715-001-2
Mobi ISBN: 978-1-61715-030-2
DRAGONS IN OUR MIDST and ORACLES OF FIRE are registered trademarks of AMG Publishers.
First printing–October 2004
Cover designed by Daryle Beam, Market Street Design, Inc., Chattanooga, Tennessee
Interior design and typesetting by Reider Publishing Services, West Hollywood, California
Edited and Proofread by Jeannie Taylor, Barbara Martin, Becky Miller, Sharon Neal, and Rick Steele
AUTHOR’S NOTE
To the keepers of the light
When we set flame to a candle, we bring light to the world.
When we build stone upon stone, we erect the temple of God.
But when candle and stone are removed from the foundation,
The light is captured, imprisoned, destroyed.
How great is the darkness!
Let us never forget our first love,
And our light will spread across the world.
CONTENTS
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Merlin’s Prophecy
Chapter 1: The Art of War
Chapter 2: Counting the Cost
Chapter 3: The Dragon’s Lair
Chapter 4: Excalibur
Chapter 5: Through the Veil
Chapter 6: The Chamber of Light
Chapter 7: Speaking to the Dead
Chapter 8: Voices in the Dark
Chapter 9: The Transluminary Triangle
Chapter 10: Love Lifts the Veil
Chapter 11: Old Wineskins
Chapter 12: The Valley of the Shadow of Death
Chapter 13: The Gates of Hell
Chapter 14: Seeing Red
Chapter 15: Daddy’s Dream
Chapter 16: To Summon a Dragon
Chapter 17: Through a Glass Darkly
Chapter 18: The Chasm
Chapter 19: Catching the Light
Chapter 20: Restoration
Chapter 21: Collapse
Chapter 22: Scorched Earth
Chapter 23: Heaven’s Gates
Chapter 24: Song of the Bard
Other Books by Bryan Davis
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my faithful wife, thank you for being an enduring light in my life.
To my seven torches in the wilderness, may this book inspire you to carry your lights in every sphere of influence you reach. You were called to be lights in dark places, and for as long as I live, I pledge to lead the way, following the Light of the World to the ends of the earth and beyond.
To my friends at AMG—Dan Penwell, Warren Baker, Rick Steele, Dale Anderson, Trevor Overcash, and all the staff—thank you for keeping the light burning.
To my editors –Jeannie Taylor, Barbara Martin, Sharon Neal, and especially Becky Miller – thank you for helping me polish all those smudges to make this book shine.
MERLIN’S PROPHECY
When hybrid meets the fallen seed
The virgin seedling flies
An orphaned waif shall call to me
When blossom meets the skies
The child of doubt will find his rest
And meet his virgin bride
A dragon shorn will live again
Rejecting Eden’s pride
A slayer comes and with his host
He fights the last of thee
But faith alone shall win the war
The test of those set free
A king shall rise of Arthur’s mold
The prophet’s book in hand
He takes the sword from mountain stone
To rescue captive bands
CHAPTER 1
THE ART OF WAR
With sword and stone, the holy knight,
Darkness as his bane,
Will gather warriors in the light
Cast in heaven’s flame
Out of the blackness a growling voice rumbled, “She will come.” The rough words reverberated, bouncing off shrouded walls that echoed dying replies.
A solitary man listened in the dark room, lit only by flickers of soft light coming from his hand, a dozen fireflies in a jar. They danced with hopeless wings in stale air, waiting for death to arrive, their distress signals only serving to guide the scientist as he paced the stone floor. “And what makes you so sure she’ll come?” his voice replied, tiny and squeaking by comparison. “She won’t trust me. Why should she?”
The rumbling voice responded. “You don’t understand her; you never did. She listens to a call that rises beyond your senses. . . . she has faith.” The growl changed to a deep sigh. “But, alas! What would you know about faith?”
“More than you think.” The scientist held up the jar and watched the dimming flashes. “I do know this; it was by her faith that you’re in this predicament. I hear she was quite handy with that sword.”
The growl deepened, its bass tones making the ground tremble. “If you really think she knew I would end up in this prison, then you’re a bigger fool than I thought.” After a few seconds, the echoes died away again, and the voice became soft and melancholy, like the lowest notes of a mournful cello. “You have no worries. She will come. She is driven by forces you cannot possibly understand.”
The last flicker of light blinked out. The scientist picked up the jar and opened the lid. With a quick shake he dumped the dead fireflies onto the floor. “Very well.” His voice stretched out into a foreboding snarl. “We shall see.”
Swish! The gleaming sword swiped by Billy’s face, its razor point slashing the air and its deadly edge humming a threatening tune in his ear. He jumped back, his cheeks turning red hot. What an idiot I am! Another mistake like that and this fight will be over in a hurry! He planted his feet on the tile floor and raised his sword, careful to keep it from stabbing the low ceiling. Eyeing his opponent warily, he slowly counted to ten. Gotta keep my cool. I’m never going to win if my brain’s fried. Besides, this sword weighs a ton. No use wasting energy. Drops of sweat pooled on his brow and streamed down, stinging his eyes and blurring the light from the ceiling fan’s globe. The fan’s whirling blades blew a cooling breeze through his hair, a welcome relief in the spacious but stuffy rec room.
His opponent charged, his sword raised to strike. Billy dodged, swiping at the attacking weapon from the side as it passed, and the clank of metal on metal rattled his brain. His opponent twirled and set his feet, bending his knees to brace himself. With his sword held out in defense, he waited.
Billy puffed a loud, weary sigh as he readied his sword for an attack of his own. Heavy, sweat-drenched clothes clung to his body, and the weight of the hefty blade dragged his tired arms downward. He dared not let it fall.
His opponent, a tall, lanky man of considerable years, was quick and agile at the start of the battle but now slower and deliberate. He had spunk, though, a real kick
start in his old engine, and that last charge proved his stellar swordsmanship.
Billy lifted his sword, pointing it at his mentor and remembering what he had taught. A knight opposes his enemy face-to-face. A stab in the back is the way of the coward; a pre-emptive strike of death is a strike of fear. If you must fight, attack your enemy head on. That is the way of valor.
Billy took a deep breath and charged, pulling his sword back. His opponent met the blow, and the swords clashed once again. This time Billy pushed downward, then back up in full circle, wrenching his opponent’s sword from his grasp and flinging it away. He dashed to where the ringing blade fell and stamped both feet on its polished steel. He lifted his own sword, and with a pretend scowl, dared his opponent to approach.
“Way to go, Billy!” a young male voice shouted.
A female voice joined in. “Yay, Billy! You were awesome!”
A surge of heat prickled Billy’s face, and he drew in a deep, satisfying breath while nodding toward his friends, Walter Foley and Bonnie Silver. Walter slapped Billy on the back and helped him remove his helmet. “I told you you’d win if you used my helmet. Hambone licked it for good luck.”
Billy accepted a towel from Bonnie and wiped his forehead, pushing his short wet hair to the side. Bonnie pressed her thumbs behind the front straps of her ever-present backpack, as locks of her straight blonde-streaked hair caressed her navy polo shirt. Her blue eyes sparkled, greeting Billy with silent messages of congratulations.
Billy smiled. His training was paying off. He felt stronger than ever, certainly not like he did on the mountain, the last time he wielded a sword in a real fight. He had nearly lost his life battling Sir Devin, the dragon slayer. Next time, if there were to be a next time, he would be ready.
A hearty voice boomed from nearby. “Well done, William!” The heavy British accent made its owner easy to identify, his teacher, his mentor, his friend, and now, his conquered opponent, Professor Hamilton. The professor approached with deliberate, stiff steps and his tall form cast a shadow across Billy’s face. “William? You seem rather pensive. Are you all right?”
Billy wanted to say, “I’m fine,” but his muscles ached, a good, satisfying ache.
He lifted his wet shirt, peeling it away from his shoulder. “I’m sore, but I’ll be all right. I was just thinking about the fight on the mountain.” He laid the sword on the floor and pulled off his protective gloves. “Do you think I’m ready? I mean, we’ve still never fought all out. And we’re not really using the same equipment those guys had, you know, the authentic battle armor and stuff.”
“No, we’re not.” The professor picked up his vanquished sword and slid it into a scabbard on his back. “We battled ‘all out,’ as you say, with foam swords early in your training. Just now we did restrain our thrusts with our metal replicas, but it was still a strenuous workout. Yet, until we can combine the weight of authentic swords and armor with the passion of unrestrained zeal, we’ll not be sure you’re ready.” He unfastened the scabbard and tossed it onto a nearby sofa. “You see, I have no true armored helmets, and my fencing guards are inadequate for mortal combat, so I’m afraid it’s not safe to attempt an unrestrained match.”
Billy ran his thumb along the edge of his blade, leaving a shallow slice in his skin. “Is it ‘safe’ if we don’t prepare for real?”
The professor slid off his headgear, a modified Washington Redskins helmet, his white matted hair pulling up with it, creating a frenzy of wet strings. “Your point is well taken, William, but we would have to find a better sparring partner for you. Your potential opponent will not likely be a creaking old man such as myself.” He ran his hand through his tangled hair and examined the logo on his helmet. “And I’ll have to find suitable armor. The authentic helmets I’ve seen don’t have an American Indian on the side.”
Walter took Billy’s sword from his hand. “This sword is so cool!” He rubbed the etchings on the blade. “This looks like a picture of two dragons fighting, but what do the other marks mean?”
The professor stroked the blade with his index finger. “There’s quite a story behind these runes.” He gave a tired sigh and gestured with his head toward the hallway. “Walter, I trust that your father won’t mind if we build a fire and sit in the den while I tell the story. Although our swordplay generated considerable body heat, we will cool off quickly. But first, I must visit the water clo—I mean, the restroom, and clean up a bit.”
Billy tugged at his plastered shirt again. “And I have to change these sweaty clothes.”
Walter ran ahead. “I’ll start the fire!”
Bonnie joined Walter in the den. He was already holding a lit match next to a rolled up newspaper stuffed under a pile of logs in the fireplace. The end of the paper flared, but the flame soon died away.
Bonnie adjusted the left strap on her backpack and peeked over Walter’s shoulder. She had been wondering what Walter had seen on the mountain after he kept the dragon slayer from following her that day back in November. Now was her chance to probe her friend for the truth. Had he discovered her dragon wings? She gently cleared her throat. “I was just thinking, Walter. When I was watching Billy fight just now, it reminded me of when you hit Devin with the tree limb.”
Walter tore a second match from a matchbook. “Yeah? It wasn’t much. It’s not so brave to bash someone’s head when he’s not looking.” He struck the match and set the end of the paper on fire again.
Bonnie watched the struggling flame and shifted her weight to her heels. “I . . . I was wondering, though, about how you showed up in the field to help us, right when we ran into the search party. Did you follow us down the slope?”
Walter struck a third match and held it against the newspaper, waiting for it to catch. He shrugged his shoulders. “I saw your tracks in the snow. It wasn’t hard.”
Bonnie crouched next to the hearth. “What I mean is, did you see us on the way down? Or did you just follow the tracks?”
“Ouch!” Walter shook his hand and sucked his scorched finger. “I was super pumped after whacking Devin, so everything’s sort of jumbled in my memory. I don’t remember all the details.” He stood up, still sucking his finger. “What difference does it make?”
Bonnie straightened her body and folded her hands behind her. “When you met us at the bottom of the trail, did you see . . . anything peculiar? I mean, it seems like you’re Johnny-on-the-spot all the time, so—”
“So you’re wondering if I ‘spotted’ anything?” Walter dried his finger on his jeans and flashed a grin. “Maybe I’m like an angel. Maybe God puts me in the right place at the right time.”
Bonnie smiled back, reading Walter’s playful tone. “You think so?”
“Why not?” He pointed toward his back. “Except I don’t have any wings. That would be cool.” He stuffed the empty matchbook into his pocket and rushed toward the doorway. “I think Dad just bought some starter logs. I’ll go get them and another matchbook.” He almost slammed into Billy as he dashed from the room, deftly spinning around his friend. “Back in a minute. Gotta get something to start the fire.”
Billy, now wearing a fresh long-sleeved shirt and his favorite cargo pants, pushed his moistened hair back. He spied the blackened matches at the front of the fireplace and then winked at Bonnie while nodding toward the door. Crouching at the hearth, he leaned toward the stubborn logs and waited for Bonnie to block the room’s entrance. She stepped into the doorway, using her body as a shield to hide Billy’s deepest secret, the dragon trait handed down to him by his father. Walter was a great friend, but Billy didn’t want to let him know about his dragon heritage. Not yet.
Billy took in a deep breath and blew a stream of fire at the pile of oak, spreading it evenly across the wood. Within seconds, the logs ignited, shooting flames and smoke into the flue above.
“Knock, knock.”
Bonnie spun around. “Walter!”
“Mind if I come in?”
Billy jerked himself up to hi
s feet, and Bonnie jumped away from the door. Walter sauntered in carrying a bag of paraffin kindling and set it next to the hearth. He nodded toward the blazing logs and smiled. “Nice job. You got better matches than I do?”
Bonnie put her hand over her mouth, apparently holding back a snicker, and Billy folded his arms across his chest. “I guess you could say that.”
The professor entered, his face washed and his white hair plastered and parted down the middle. He carried the sword at his side and sat in an easy chair next to the fire. His face beamed. “William, I must reiterate my pride in your effort. You were outstanding with the sword.”
“Yeah,” Walter agreed. “You rocked!”
Billy bowed his head, his face burning. “Thanks.”
The professor’s eyes narrowed at Walter. “Rocked?”
“Yeah . . . rocked. You know; he was awesome. He really kicked . . . uh . . . gluteus maximus.”
“Is that similar to being the cat’s pajamas?” the professor asked.
“The cat’s pajamas?” Walter repeated. “What’s that?”
“It’s an American idiom. It refers to someone who is well liked because of his accomplishments. I see, however, that it has passed out of common usage.” The professor gestured for his three students to gather around. “Shall we discuss the sword?” He placed the blade on his lap and pointed at the etched writing.
“Some of these lines are inscriptions in an ancient dialect,” he explained. He rubbed his finger along one face of the blade. “This one says, roughly speaking, ‘May the Lady’s purity never depart from the one found worthy to draw the sword.’”