The Legend of the Lightscale: Book Two of The Scale Seekers

  The Legend of the Lightscale

  Book Two of The Scale Seekers

  By A.R. Cook

  Also from Author A.R. Cook

  The Scholar and the Sphinx Series

  The Scholar, the Sphinx and the Shades of Nyx

  The Scholar, the Sphinx and the Fang of Fenrir

  The Scholar, the Sphinx and the Threads of Fate

  The Scale Seekers Series

  The Secrets of the Moonstone Heir

  The Legend of the Lightscale

  Short Stories

  “The Lady in the Moon & her Lantern” in Willow Weep No More

  “The Man Who Called Death’s Wind” in Shadows of the Oak

  “The Saintly Stew” in The Kress Project

  “Demons in the Pages” and “The Last Quest of the Drunken Wizard” in Chronicles of Mirstone

  Copyright © 2018 by A.R. Cook

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-10: 0-9971143-3-9

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9971143-3-1

  Cover Artwork by Trisha Stadel

  www.miraculux.de

  I dedicate this novel to all those who have put a little more magic in my life:

  my husband David, my family, my friends, and the readers who

  truly bring stories to life.

  Ah, so you’ve returned. Or are you new? I can never remember, when there are so many pressing matters to attend to, like stirring up a little fun…

  I’m Gothart Grandwitt, of the infamous House of Grandwitts. A pleasure for you to meet me, I’m sure. I see that curious look on your face, so let’s acknowledge the goat in the room. Yes, I’m a goat. As to why a goat is six feet tall, walking on two legs and wearing a suit, that’s quite a magnificent story, nearly as magnificent as I. But it’s also a secret.

  That’s not what drew you here, though, is it? No, you are more interested in my dear friend, Desert Rain. Poor girl, sequestered away in the desert for all those years, to suddenly be responsible for restoring lost memories to a Distortionist, and unleashing who-knows-what twisted horrors on all of Luuva Gros. That’s quite a turn for a hermit – quiet, lonely serenity, to unbridled chaos where everyone wants your head.

  Oh, wait, I’m supposed to present this in song, aren’t I? That’s how these things typically begin, with a bard singing a soul-stirring melody about heroes and history and all that nonsense. Let’s see then, I know I have a mandolin here somewhere… ahem…

  The Sages, great dragons,

  Knew that each life one day passes,

  So they bestowed their Ancient Magic

  To twelve lads and lasses

  To maintain the balance in the land,

  And to protect us from the Wretched siege,

  And the “dragon blessed,” they are called,

  The council of the Hijn.

  But there was one Hijn who hid away,

  Too scared to reveal her powers,

  Deep in the sands of the desert lands

  She idled away the hours

  Skin golden as the sun, ears long as the day,

  One eye brown, one green, laced with pain,

  And a moonstone mark shine from her face

  The curse of Desert Ra-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ain.

  Excuse me. I have a slight vowel elongation habit with my “a’s” when I sing. Stop snickering.

  Then one day, into her solitude,

  There came a Wretched of terrifying fra-a-a-a-ame

  Upon her doorstep he did lie, half-dead,

  Touched with compassion was Desert Ra-a-a-…hmm. Rain.

  Now don’t look at me like that. Yes, I led Katawa to her front door, left him there unconscious and memory-stripped for her to deal with, but it’s just business. One must make a living, you know. The Darkscale Clan pays handsomely to be rid of their…pests. And a Distortionist is no laughing matter.

  But I digress. Where was I?

  When his memories returned to him,

  The Wretched gave a horrid shriek

  Remembering the injustice done to him,

  And vengeance, he vowed to seek

  His Distortion rips through Luuva Gros

  Even stronger that the mightiest Knights

  Now poor Sir Skyhan is gone, we weep for him

  When he was defeated in the fight…

  I suppose it doesn’t help matters that Katawa kidnapped the Hijn council. Talk about adding insult to injury – or death, in Skyhan’s case. All we have now is Desert Rain, and the tree-lover. Leave the future of all Luuva Gros in the hands of a Hijn that won’t use her magic, and another Hijn who grows flowers. There’s a comforting thought.

  It would have really helped for her to have Skyhan’s sword Silverheart, before he, you know, blew up. Now that was a sight! And you should have seen the look on Desert Rain’s face, watching as the man she’s adored for years just vanishes in a blinding blaze right in front of her…

  Oooh, I really shouldn’t laugh at that. But if you can’t laugh, then you’d cry, and what good is that?

  Now Desert Rain and her stalwart group

  The Forest Hijn, a lizard- man, a Quetzalin,

  To the forest they seek refuge

  Before the Distortionist does them in.

  Drat. My mandolin string broke. And I know how much you were enjoying that.

  Dez must be dreadfully bored with her current company. I may just have to pay her a visit…

  CHAPTER ONE

  A Demon Storm Brewing

  Flying upon the back of a Roc with the merciless rain thrumming over her shivering body, it took all the will Desert Rain had to keep from getting air sick. She tried to turn her mind to other things, but all she could think about were what troubles were ahead of her. She opted to deal with the present problem of controlling the queasiness of her stomach. She tugged her blanket tighter around herself, although it did little to keep her dry or warm. The rain would only continue the closer they came to the rainforest Flyr Mi Oraellyn, which in the Mutual Language meant the Forest Overlooking the Sea. Wiping the rain from her forehead and eyes, she glanced around at her fellow passengers to see how they were faring.

  Mac Zarr was rather at ease, not at all bothered by the altitude despite being a person more comfortable in earthen surroundings—although if he were in his true reptilian form instead of his shifted human guise, he may have not been so relaxed. Even as the rain soaked his ruddy red hair, he nestled himself into his blanket and the Roc’s back feathers, while he curled his long red tail to shelter his face. The Quetzalin Chiriku constantly fidgeted, pecked absentmindedly at her blue feathers with her blunt beak, sighed, and moaned in boredom. Unlike those of pure Quetzalin blood, her traces of humanity were evident in her slouched posture and her toned arms crossed over her chest. A warhammer was strapped to her back, although it was of lighter make than the typical sort, crafted for a female warrior. Clova Flor was unusually quiet, being a verbally abundant Hijn by nature, and she glanced back over her shoulder occasionally to check on the others of their party. Her emerald-green hair, normally done up in a styled nest atop her head, blew freely in the wind. She had to keep tucking tresses behind her ears, which tapered to a soft point, a feature of her elven heritage. A deep green moss, Ahshibana, trailed across her skin in swirls and patterns, rendering her skin a pale green to match.

  Night washed over Luuva Gros in a film of cool hues, accompanied by an even cooler wind and the easing of the hammering rain. The silver smile of the moon Ia Ternaut peeked out between the retreating clouds. Desert Rain looked away from it. What had once given her courage now reminded her of her weaknesses.

  The Roc, Gus
t, glided along steadily, its wings slicing through the wind. It could fly in its sleep, using the air currents to keep it aloft, but the flight and cold were taking a toll on the others. Clova beckoned it to find a spot to land. They had been flying over mountain chain for days, but now it had become substantially thinner, and lush greenery decorated the land below. This was the overlap, where the Azokind Mountains and the Forest Overlooking the Sea collided. Gust gently glided downwards, scanning for a suitable landing spot, and selected a clearing near the foot of the mountains. Great trees encircled the clearing, and the earth was cushioned by tall wild grasses. Clova was clearly more comfortable in these green surroundings than in the stark mountains. Her skin, which had been fairly pale a few days ago, was already returning to its healthy jade tone.

  It did not take very long to set up a modest camp. They didn’t have many supplies – four passengers tested the limits of what Gust was able to carry. All they had were waterskins, travel pouches with tinderboxes, stale herb-cakes and basic pocket tools, and the blankets that they had picked up from a small trading post they had passed by shortly after leaving Vaes Galahar. They managed to get a small campfire going, with everyone gathering any bits of wood they could find, and Chiriku sparked a decent flame with the flint from her tinderbox. Clova sent Gust to search for food, and in a short time the bird returned with a beak full of berries, wild beans and mushrooms to complement their herb-cake rations. It then flew off to hunt for its own meal.

  Mac’s nose wrinkled at the vegetation before him. He scratched the fluffy mop of hair on his head. “More brush sc-c-cruff. That bird doesn’t-tkk know how to hunt meat-tkk?” he asked.

  The Quetzalin smirked. “I’ll go hunt something. I haven’t had a chance to use my hammer in a while.”

  Clova made a sharp frown. “If you wish to find sustenance through slaughter, you may do so on your own.” She turned up her nose, as she did by habit when it came to the topic of hunting animals. Chiriku did the same, although she turned up her beak at almost anything.

  Mac could not help but grin a little. Bird girl knows the quickest way to start an argument, he thought. But Chiriku did not go off to hunt, weariness affecting all of her muscles. She nibbled on an herb-cake, silently grousing. Mac shoved the food into his mouth so quickly that he nearly choked. Meat or no meat, he would make do.

  Desert Rain, meanwhile, never looked more miserable in her life. She sat near the fire, rubbing her arms and long, spindly fingers for warmth. Her ears, fringed around the edges and hanging down with rabbit-like floppiness to her shoulders, shivered in the chilly air. Goosebumps blossomed on her golden-ochre hued skin, and she had to wrap the ponytail of her long, dark hair around her neck as a mock scarf. Nights in her desert home were cold sometimes, but she would have been snug inside her underground home with a cup of warm cactus milk or tea. The chill that gripped her now lingered, and even the campfire could not chase it away.

  Clova had become disturbingly quiet, staring blankly at the sky. Desert Rain had never seen her so pensive, although it was no wonder why.

  “Do you think Kidran and Woasim have found out what happened yet?” Desert Rain inquired after a time.

  Clova Flor shook her head. “I doubt that they’ve arrived at Vaes Galahar, but both can hear the voices of the winds. They already may have felt the dark vibrations of that demon’s storm. I can’t say if they’ll come to meet us, or make their own plans. They can be so unpredictable. I hope they come to us.” She paused, glancing over at Desert Rain. “You should eat something, Dezzy. You haven’t had anything since breakfast this morning.”

  Desert Rain did not feel hungry. Most of this forest food was too sweet for her tastes, being so much richer in flavor from the food she scrounged up in the desert. She went to put a few mushrooms in her pocket, but her fingers brushed against another item already in there. She felt the velvety texture of the black pouch, the one that the cloaked thief in Syphurius had dropped during the battle between Katawa and…Desert Rain swallowed the pain of Sir Skyhan’s demise and let it settle like a glacier in her stomach. She drew out the pouch, holding it in both hands. She wanted to find that thief, to get back at whoever had the audacity to steal the legendary sword of the Swordmaster. That seemed to be a task she could handle better than the one she was on now, although she had as much an idea about where to find the thief as where to find Katawa.

  “What’ve you got there, Donkey Ears?” Chiriku chimed in.

  Desert Rain jerked her head up, startled by Chiriku’s voice. “Oh, this…it’s…something that was left behind.”

  “I remember that-tkk,” Mac said. “That fell off that no-good crook-kk that gave us the slip in Syphurius-ssck. That was right before you showed up, Miss-ssck Clova.”

  “A crook? Did he steal something from you?” Clova scooted closer to Desert Rain. “Is there anything in that pouch that would tell us who or what it belongs to?”

  It had not occurred to Desert Rain to examine the pouch before, as she had been preoccupied until now. She loosened the leather string on the pouch and peeked inside. She reached in and pulled out a wind-up toy that sat comfortable in the palm of her hand. A large gold key was in the toy’s back. The toy was the shape of a white goat.

  “Funny looking thing,” Mac interjected. “What’s-ssck that little note on it-tkk say?”

  Tied to the key was a paper note. Desert Rain held it before the fire light, making out the phrase, “Wind me up.” After a moment’s deliberation, she slowly turned the key in the toy’s back. The toy jerked to life, and twitched about in a sort of dance in the palm of her hand. Gradually, the toy’s movements became more fluid, until it barely seemed mechanical at all. Suddenly, it stopped dead. Everyone leaned in, staring expectantly at the little toy goat. With no warning, the toy sprang out of Desert Rain’s hand and flew high into the air. It seemed to vanish for a second, but then they saw it falling towards them, except now it had inflated in size. When the toy came back down to the earth and landed lightly on its feet, it was no longer a toy. It was the tall, lanky form of Gothart Grandwitt.

  “Ta da-a-achoo!” Gothart sneezed in the middle of his trumpeting. “I was wondering when you were going to look in the bag. It was rather dusty in there.”

  Mac, Chiriku, and Clova stared at Gothart, jaws gaped open. Desert Rain stood up, marched right over to him and got right in his face. “I should pop off your horns and knock you in the head with them!”

  “Hello to you, too,” the goat replied. “Is this always how you begin with old friends?”

  “We are not friends,” Desert Rain retorted. “This whole mess is your fault!”

  “Really? How do you figure that?”

  Desert Rain stared at him unbelievingly, finding it impudent that he should even ask that question. “You’re the one that stole Katawa’s memories! You left him in my house. And would you kindly tell me how Katawa’s memories happened to end up in the memory shop? What happened, your client went back on his deal and you wanted to get a few coins for all your trouble?”

  Gothart tapped a finger on his chin, a ponderous look on his face. “And somehow, by combining all those accusations, that makes me responsible for the fact that your Wretched went on a rampage?”

  Desert Rain paused. She did not need anyone besides herself to heap blame on her. “If you’re that same thief from Syphurius, you need to return what you stole from me.” She held the pouch up to him. “Where is Silverheart? Is it in here?”

  “Why don’t you reach in and find out?” he asked in a daring tone.

  “Oh, no. I’m not falling for any more tricks or surprises. If I reach in, I’ll probably pull out a snake or something.”

  “If that’s what you’d expect to pull out, you probably would then.” He took the pouch from her hand, turned it inside out to expose it as empty. Returning the pouch right side out, he slipped in his hand in a presentational manner, like a party magician, and began to feel about inside. He reached in farther, and farther, until t
he pouch was up above his elbow. He proceeded to extract a series of random objects from the bag: colored handkerchiefs, silverware, juggling balls, a mandolin with a broken string, extra pairs of white gloves, bells, horse shoes, a broom, a vase, boots (none of which matched), and he would have continued to pull more articles out but Chiriku quickly tired of the magic show.

  “Cut it out already!” she cawed. “Who’s this rubbish-eater anyway? Between this guy and Donkey Ears, I feel like I’m on a farm.”

  “I don’t-tkk suppose you have a chunk-kk of beef in that bag,” Mac said, more as a thought to himself than as a question to Gothart.

  “I don’t know what’s going on here, but the last thing we need is starting another spat,” Clova said, directing the last part of her statement towards Chiriku. She turned with her classic smile to Gothart. “Now then, Mister…?”

  “Gothart Grandwitt, of the infamous House of Grandwitts.” Gothart bowed deeply towards Clova.

  “Mister Grandwitt.” Clova nodded her head towards him. “From your sleight-of-hand display, I take it you are some sort of spellcaster?”

  “He’s a Trickster,” Desert Rain corrected her. “And even less trustworthy than other Tricksters, I can assure you of that.”

  “Now be nice,” Gothart chided teasingly. He suddenly realized he was chewing on the drawstring of the pouch, so he spat it out and tossed the bag back to Desert Rain. “Besides, how many Tricksters do you know, honestly? How can you claim I’m less trustworthy if you haven’t met any others to make a comparison?”

  “That’s not the point, and I really don’t want anything more to do with you. Go find someone else’s life to ruin.” Desert Rain walked to the opposite side of the campfire.