The Summershine Operation

Heroes of The Five Kingdoms: Book One

Chapter 1

The Summershine Operation

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. After the dragon civil war, most drakes had migrated far to their southern breeding grounds to replenish their ranks. Dragon eggs take 100 years to hatch, so no one expected to see another dragon for the rest of their lives. Still, some remained in self-imposed exile in the swamps and mountains of the Five Kingdoms. Disgraced by the actions of their race, they no longer wished to take part in the effort to repopulate. Then came the bad star. It fell from the heavens 45 years after the dragons departed and fell into the tumultuous waters of the Jagged Sea, which bordered the largest of the dragon nesting grounds. The impact could be seen all across the Five Kingdoms. It was believed the dragons had been wiped out. That was 250 years ago. But now the dragons have returned. Creeping up from the South, they’ve been reclaiming their old territory, displacing anyone who had since taken up residence. Their latest conquest was the Summershine Valley, a verdant home to many elven and human farmers and artisans. It is here that the Lord of Skyhold has dispatched a company of dwarves to investigate the cause of this sudden resurgence and reclaim this valley for the Five Kingdoms.

Gildor Firefingers drew his gaze across the great expanse. The valley below shimmered under the midday sun and the melodic flow of the river rose high above the swaying trees. Gildor, in full dwarven vanguard mail, rolled a dull red powder into a pellet with his thumb and forefinger. His company of dwarves bustled about the camp setting up a staging area for their operation. Combustion-powered wagons carted supply crates and weapons to different areas of the encampment. The dwarves pitched tents, prepared fire pits, and polished their arms, joking with each other as they worked.

“No better dragon-catchers than the dwarves,” said a voice from behind Gildor. “Everything here is fire-proof, even the tents.” Gildor stuffed the pellet into a pouch, picked up his blunderbuss, and threw it over his shoulder.

“No better dragon-tracker than Thraun Grimhollow,” said Gildor. “Skyhold sent word that you had arrived early. You shouldn’t have gone tracking alone.”

Thraun’s ragged black cloak swayed as he approached. A pale silver amulet hung at his neck and glinted in the sun. “I know how to avoid detection,” said Thraun.

“Any sign of our quarry?” asked Gildor.

“Some scratchings and signs of a fresh kill. I’ve narrowed its range down to a 3-mile stretch just north of our position where the river gains speed. It likely uses the noise to cover its own movements while it stalks its prey. Clever little devil,” said Thraun.

“How soon until we’ve found the den?” asked Gildor.

“I’ve laid out some bait laced with blister toad pheromones. Scentless and tasteless to dragons, but a favorite food of ivory snails. We’ll find the snails gathered outside the entrance to its den in the morning,” said Thraun.

“Ivory snails! Of all the creatures of Wormwood! You’re worth every coin, my friend!” said Gildor. Thraun smirked. “Well, you get what you pay for.”

Gildor and Thraun toured the camp. The dwarves had always been industrious, but their discovery of boom powder took their productivity to unforeseen heights. First came what the dwarves called ‘fire-arms,’ weapons able to propel projectiles at impossible speeds, then came machinery and contraptions that defied the imagination. These inventions and the advantages they conferred catapulted the dwarven race to places of honor and glory hitherto unknown, even to the mighty elves. Thraun stopped to watch a dwarf activate a tent-rigger, which, with a cacophony of clanks and whirs, deployed the frame of a large tent, to be used as a barracks. Two other dwarves hoisted the bronze fire-proof material over the frame and tied it down. The fabric shimmered as it came to rest. A quartermaster was busy taking inventory. Gildor slapped him on the back.

“Make sure to count everything twice, Sodor!”

“Aye, commander. Would you care to inspect our stock? I’ve brought everything you asked for, boom spears, splitter axes, and let’s not forget your favorite, shell hammers!” He handed one to Gildor, who gave it a few half swings.

“I remember the first time I let loose with one of these little pixies,” said Gildor. “Tore a hole straight through a giant’s arse!” Both dwarves whaled. Thraun humored them.

“Is it true that only dwarves can use them?” he asked.

“It is,” said Sodor. “Our low center of gravity and wide frame keeps us from being knocked out of our boots when the shell is loosed. Your arm would break into tiny pieces if you took the recoil.”

“I’m happy with my throwing ax,” said Thraun, rubbing his arm.

“More fun for us, then.” said Gildor.

The day’s preparations came to a close. With the camp completed and the sun drawing low, Gildor and Thraun found themselves at one of the fires making merry and sharing stories with the other dwarves.

“And then I told the bar wench, I might be half your size but I make up for it with twice the stature, if you know what I mean!” The laughs rose high with the flames. Thraun hacked a leg off the roasting pig with his throwing ax. Gildor downed a pint of mead. A cool breeze carrying wine and sorrow brushed against Thraun. He turned. There sat an elf on a rock just outside the camp. The setting sun wrapped her in its fiery embrace while she tuned her guitar and strummed a few chords, the tails of her red leather coat and the brim of her hat fluttering in the wind.

“Who is that?” asked Thraun. Gildor noted Thraun’s glance.

“That’s Zilraya, elven bard.”

“What’s a bard doing attached to a dragon-catching company?” asked Thraun.

“Not sure. But his Lordship was adamant that she take part in our mission. He neglected to say any more,” said Gildor.

“I didn’t think dwarves and elves got along anymore,” said Thraun.

“We don’t,” said Gildor, “she makes the brothers uneasy, but so far she’s stayed out of our way.”

“Perhaps she’s been sent to keep an eye on things? Elves have always held the ear of the Lord of Skyhold,” said Thraun.

“Perhaps,” said Gildor.

That night, unsettling sounds, like falling trees, scales colliding against scales, and the death howls of prey rose from the valley floor. Thraun thrashed in his sleep. The tendrils of a nightmare wrapped themselves around his mind- A great void. A sinister silence. Falling in all directions forever. Rage. Thraun bolted upright.

The moon skimmed the treetops. Thraun passed his hands through the tall reeds to calm his heart, startling three starlight pixies who zipped around him and darted into the sky, disappearing among the twinkling of celestial bodies.

“Bad dreams?” said a voice from above. Thraun froze and shot his glance upwards. Zilraya lay with her body strewn across a low branch. She was gazing up into the night sky.

“Yes. How did you know?” asked Thraun.

“Starlight pixies don’t like nightmares. They can tell when someone has just had one,” she said, her voice soft and lilting. Thraun shrugged. Zilraya’s golden locks fluttered in the midnight breeze. They seemed to dance in time with the leaves. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her.

“At least I’m not the only one who can’t sleep,” he said.

“The stars are my muse. I get all my inspiration from them,” she said.

“Thinking of a song to lull our quarry into passivity?” he said, gazing up at them.

“Duskmaws don’t like music,” she said.

“Is that so?” he asked.

“I’m counting on it,” she said, looking at him for the first time. Thraun furrowed his brow.

“Why are you here?” he asked. She smiled. “To make sure this mission succeeds,” she said, then winked.

Thraun gave a reluctant nod. “Well, we’re grateful for whatever help the Lord of Skyhold sends us. I should return to my tent.” He turned to go.

“Do you think the dwarves’ contraptions can hold that dragon for long, long enough to get the information you need?” she called after him. He glanced back.

“I hope so. The Duskmaw is the key to finding out what is going on with the dragons.”

“Good luck on your hunt tomorrow. I’ll be watching,” she said. Thraun ignored the heat rising in his chest. He turned back toward the tents and vanished into the darkness.

A large gathering of ivory snails greeted Thraun as he approached the riverbank where he had laid out his bait the day before. Gildor was with him, eyeing their surroundings, his blunderbuss at the ready. The site was clean. Not a trace of the deer Thraun had butchered remained. Several large water-filled tracks populated the site.

“The hunt is on,” said Thraun.

“How do you know the Duskmaw took it and not one of his kin?” asked Gildor.

“The tracks match, and most dragons are messy eaters, but the Duskmaw always takes its prey back to its den. Less chance of it being stolen by another drake,” said Thraun.

“The tracks disappear beyond the bait site,” said Gildor.

“Yes, Duskmaws prefer to glide. That’s why they’re so difficult to track without a pheromone trap,” said Thraun.

“Blasted beast,” said Gildor. “I’ve never seen so many ivory snails in one place,” he said, picking one up. “I wonder how they taste…”

“I wouldn’t,” said Thraun, “They harbor a rather nasty parasite.” Disgusted, Gildor flung the snail away. The high grass on the opposite bank rustled. Gildor raised his blunderbuss, his finger on the trigger. Thraun readied his throwing ax. Out from the tall grass stepped a quicksilver deer. It approached the river and lapped up the water, unconcerned. Sunlight caught the silver tufts of fur which danced across its body. The rare sight entranced the two men, so they didn’t see what was moving in the tree just above it. With a twitch of its ears and a kick of its feet the deer vanished in a flash of silver light. Thraun and Gildor shielded their eyes. Their movement did not go unnoticed. The spiny green drake screeched.

“Spine hurler!” shouted Thraun.

Gildor raised his blunderbuss. A lash of its tail sent spines whizzing toward him. With a single deft movement Gildor leaned into the barrage and several barbs shattered against his heavy shoulder pauldrons. The rest flew past him, striking the tree and ground at his back. He winced. Blood trickled down his cheek. “Dragon be damned!” he roared and took aim. The spine hurler launched into the air on leathery folds of skin headed straight for Gildor. The airborne horror bared its fangs. Gildor exhaled, his finger applying pressure to the trigger, then, a glint of steel, a yelp, and the spine hurler fell out of Gildor’s iron sights. In the mud at Gildor’s feet lay the lifeless beast, Thraun’s throwing ax buried in its skull. The ax quivered, broke loose and returned to Thraun’s hand.

“Enchanted gloves,” said Thraun, responding to the look on Gildor’s face. “They pull anything cut from the same cloth back to them, in this case, the leather wrappings on the handle.”

“I had him in my sights,” said Gildor, a divisive look on his face.

“The sound could have alerted the Duskmaw. We don’t want it leaving its den before we locate it,” said Thraun. “I’ve no doubt you could have slain it.”

“You're damn right.” said Gildor. He gave the corpse a kick. “Let that be a lesson to you."

“Get back to camp. Tend to your wound and have the men ready to move upon my return. I’ll find the Duskmaw,” said Thraun.

The trail of ivory snails guided Thraun through the winding tendrils of roots and vines. The trail was hardest to follow in the middle. The Duskmaw’s speed dispersed the toad pheromones across long distances causing the snails to spread themselves thin in their own search for the source. Thraun’s eagle eyes discovered them, however, only losing the trail twice. At long last their numbers began to swell again and Thraun grinned. Several large ivory snails gathered on the side of a rock led Thraun around the bend of a hill and into a dark hollow. Blood was in the air. He pressed his palm to the ground. Something big was alive in there. The wind began to shift and Thraun retreated before his scent could be carried to his prey. He made haste back to the camp.

Gildor winced while the dwarven medic cleaned his wound.

“You were lucky,” said the medic, “spine hurlers rarely miss.”

“Neither does Thraun Grimhollow, it seems,” said Gildor.

“Took it down with his throwing ax, you say? One clean shot?” asked the medic.

“Aye,” answered Gildor, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I’ve been told tales of the western nomads. I didn’t know they were true,” said the medic, “Hold still.” Gildor clenched his fists. “There we are, just four stitches.” He applied a pale green cream to the wound and patted Gildor on the back. “All done.”

“Thank you,” said Gildor, “Perhaps I’ll still get to fire my blunderbuss before the day is out. They clasped hands.

“That’s the dwarven spirit,” said the medic, “Don’t let that homeless ax hurler show you up.” Gildor smirked. “Mother Gora guide your hammer arm.”

“As she has yours,” said Gildor. A guard burst into the tent.

“Grimhollow has returned!” Gildor picked up his blunderbuss and followed the guard.

Thraun had gathered several of the dwarf engineers, vanguards, and sentries inside Gildor’s command tent. A map of the Summershine Valley had been sprawled across a long elfwood table. The group parted for Gildor.

“So you found it? asked Gildor.

“In a hollow less than a mile from the bait site,” said Thraun. A streak of red leather strode past the tent’s opening.

“Very well,” said Gildor, “Everyone listen up. As many of you already know, our target is a Duskmaw. It’s fast and doesn’t leave its den until the sun begins to set. Our task is to lure it out in the daylight when we’ll have the advantage and capture it before sunset. Engineers, your job will be to construct traps at each of several choke points the sentries will create.”

“Based on the location of the den,” said Thraun, “there are three viable choke points we can exploit before the dragon reaches open ground. Those locations are this ridge about 400 paces from the den, this bend in the river where the clay can hinder its movement, and finally, this gully just south of our camp which comes to a dead end on its eastern side. If the trap at that location fails, we can drive it deeper into the gully and use shellhammers to create a landslide to confine the Duskmaw and prevent it from getting enough momentum to glide out. I’ll act as bait to help keep the dragon on course.”

“I will lead the vanguards to the hollow,” said Gildor, “where we will flush the Duskmaw out and drive it into the choke points. Thraun will lay additional traps of his own at junctures where we can’t control the drake’s movements. This will keep it moving in the direction we want.”

“The timing of this mission is of the utmost importance,” said Thraun, “If the Duskmaw is not in one of the traps before sunset our labors will have been for naught.” Some of the dwarves glanced around. Thraun continued. “The dragons have been gone a long time. Much of what we knew about them was lost during their civil war, but one piece of information was preserved through my people, the Western Nomads- Duskmaws possess the ability to speak, but only during the hour of twilight.” Excitement stirred within the tent. “Once captured, we will question this dragon and discover whatever we can about its kin’s return.”

“How can we trust the information it gives us?” asked a sentry.

“Dragons are incapable of lying,” said Thraun.

“You have your instructions,” said Gildor. “Assemble your teams. We move out within the hour. Dismissed.”

Birdsong fell to silence as heavy boots trampled through the underbrush of the valley. Gildor and Thraun led a company of dwarven vanguard armed with heavy weaponry toward the hollow. Thraun signaled as they drew near. Gildor motioned for his troops to split up and Thraun and Gildor took up the middle. The blood-saturated air clogged the dwarves’ noses. Tall and dense, the trees blocked out much of the light and cast an eerie glow over the hollow. Thraun‘s eyes swept from side to side looking for any sign of the beast. Gildur’s hands clamped around his blunderbuss and his shell hammer held fast to his back. An eternity passed. Then Thraun’s hand raised into the air. Everyone stopped, all eyes on him. His hand lowered and pointed toward a depression in the land surrounded by a small thicket of trees littered with bones. One by one they all could make it out, the ominous rise and fall of a black dorsal sail which belonged to a sleeping Duskmaw.

At a signal from Gildor, the dwarven vanguard snuck around to the back of the thicket and selected the largest of several trees for their shatter axes to drop. Gildor took up a position behind a boulder with line of sight on the drake. Thraun loaded a sling with a ball of tar held with a twine netting and ducked behind a bush. Everyone held their breath. Gildor gave the signal. Shatter axes crashed into tree trunks. Their levers depressed, thunder erupted from the blade-mounted barrels. The Duskmaw awoke to a downward assault of trunks and branches. A crash and a roar raised the hair on Gildor’s neck. Eyes and teeth erupted from beneath the felled trees. Thraun leapt from his position, swung his sling and struck the drake on the side of its face. It clawed at the tar but to no avail. Its right eye stuck shut, it sprang free and swept its tail in the direction of the strike, but hit nothing. Another crack of thunder and more trees came crashing into the Duskmaw. It howled with rage and abandoned its den, darting toward the entrance to the hollow. A shot from Gildor slammed into a tree behind the dragon and drove it further out. Thraun had raced ahead and was now shouting at the dragon. It gave chase, following his voice. It spread its leathery folds and took to the air, sailing just above the valley floor. It was a head’s length from devouring Thraun when a volley of thunder from a ridge above rebuffed the beast and drove it into the ground. Its body set off a pressure plate and a dwarven trap sprung up around it. Metal clamps anchored to the ground fastened themselves to the Duskmaw’s limbs but its swaying head evaded the one meant for its neck. Free to maneuver, it tore at its bindings and freed itself in moments.

Drive it to the next choke point!” shouted Thraun. The sentries opened fire with their boom spears. The Duskmaw screeched and bolted forward. Thraun tried to lead it to the left but it turned right. Its front leg caught one of Thraun’s tripwires and loosed a hail of spine hurler barbs into its side. It hissed and turned left. Gildor and his vanguards raced to catch up with their quarry. They passed the first choke point and came upon the trap lying on the ground in pieces.

“Gora guide us,” he whispered to himself. He ordered the sentries above to maintain a perimeter behind the dragon to prevent it from doubling back and dashed off with his dwarves in pursuit. Thraun rushed toward the river bank and stopped at a line of trees. The Duskmaw clawed after him in fury. Thraun faced the charging dragon and jumped out of the way of its lunge. The drake crashed through the trees and into the thick clay of the bank on the other side. The beast’s limbs sank into the ground. The shadows of huge weighted nets appeared overhead and draped themselves over the dragon’s slender body. Dwarves sprang out from behind rocks and hurled ropes across the Duskmaw, pulling it closer to the ground. Gildor and his vanguard arrived to see the drake being brought under control. Thraun breathed a sigh of relief, but the tail which slipped out from under the nets ended all thoughts of victory. An upward swipe cut the ropes across its body. The dwarves fell back into the clay. It pulled two legs free of the bank and yanked a net off its head. “Get it to the gully,” ordered Gildor. His vanguards opened fire on the dragon’s flanks, driving it toward the final trap. Thraun flung a stone from his sling at its head. “Follow me, ugly,” said Thraun, racing toward the gully’s entrance. The Duskmaw gave chase. A volley from a group of sentries’ boom spears ensured he entered the gully after Thraun. Gildor took up a position above them and let loose shots into the ground in front of the dragon to prevent it from catching Thraun. Thraun reached the tanglewire trap and leapt between two tripwires anchored into either side of the gully. He glanced over his shoulder. The sun had fallen in the sky and its light was now glinting off one of the wires. The glint caught the dragon’s eye and it slithered up one side of the gully and over the tripwires. It pushed off the wall, spread its folds, and glided straight for Thraun.

“Thraun, get out of there!” shouted Gildor, as he sprinted along the edge of the gully.

“I’ll lead it to the dead end. Ready the shell hammers,” said Thraun, darting to one side to confuse the dragon. Gildor scoffed. “Vanguard at the ready,” he shouted.

Thraun reached the dead end and signaled the vanguard. “Now!” The vanguard above him slammed their shell hammers into the ground. A peal of thunder heralded the landslide. Rocks, roots, and earth collapsed into and filled the gully just behind the Duskmaw, knocking it off balance. Its tail swung wide and slammed into Thraun’s torso. He struck the gully wall hard, losing his breath. Gildor attempted to climb down to him but his men held him back. The dragon righted itself, found its bearings, and jerked its head in Thraun’s direction. The creature’s forked tongue licked the air as it positioned itself for the strike. Thraun, recovering from the blow, reached for the pale silver amulet hanging around his neck. A cool breeze carrying wine and sorrow brushed his cheek. Slender fingers strummed a guitar from above Thraun and red waves of light careened into the Duskmaw. Zilraya slid down the side of the gully and stepped between Thraun and the dragon. It coiled for a strike, bared its fangs, but its head was driven into the ground with another strum of her guitar.

“I hate dragons,” she said, playing faster.

The notes of her song took on a tangible form and flung into the dragon’s limbs, quavers pinning it against the gully wall, a prisoner in a dungeon. The Duskmaw roared in defiance before a final beam note pinned its neck as well.

“By Gora’s Summit,” said Gildor.

Rope ladders descended into the pit. Gildore was the first one down, followed by a medic and the vanguard. Sentries remained above and kept their boom spears on the dragon. Thraun rose to his feet. Gildor caught him as he stumbled.

“Easy, Thraun. You must have suffered half a dozen broken bones.”

“I’ve got about 200 hundred more. Zilraya, thank you.”

“If you wanted to hear me play, you could have just asked,” she said.

“I’ll remember that next time,” he said, and smiled.

“Well, boys, dusk is upon us,” said Zilraya. “Let’s interrogate a dragon.” They gazed up at the towering Duskmaw, its vertical pupils becoming more sentient as the sun drew low. Gildor shouldered his blunderbuss. “What should we ask it first?”