Published works of Carol Dennis...

DRAGON'S ROOK

The day of the long-planned vacation departure had arrived, but Mirza had doubts.  “Baloo, the baby Bright One, claims danger exists out on the rim.  When I coaxed him back to sleep, he was worried about what he sensed.  Lor confirmed the threat.”  She frowned slightly, remembering.

               “We’re not going over that old discussion again, are we?” her husband, Jarl, asked.  “Baloo went back to sleep over five years ago.  The Shadowlord has stopped using the name Lor.  I can’t believe you’d trust him.  He’s the mage who almost turned you into a mass of creeping green goo.”  Jarl kissed her cheek.

              “You agreed on the need for a vacation.”  Jarl materialized a showy white Stetson on his head and prepared to shout, “Ya-hee!”

              “Hold it, cowboy.  Going away on a vacation is a major change,” protested Mirza.  “You’re forgetting Murphy’s Law.  Anything that can go wrong always does and at the worst possible moment.  This is a double challenge of the status quo.”

                 A wave of Jarl’s hand produced an official-looking parchment scroll titled, “Proclamation”, which he pushed under her nose.

                 Mirza plucked the scroll from his hand and started reading.  She lifted her head, distracted by the energy crackling around the portal she and Jarl planned to use.  She noted the mountain of luggage – and Bright Ones knew what else – already piled in the middle of the gate’s surface.  They stood at the edge of a twenty-foot circular gate etched in the black granite surface surrounded by the low limestone wall that guarded the portal.

              Mirza peered at Jarl, who stood with his arms crossed, obviously impatient, looking down at her.  Why must he wear a cowboy hat for gate travel?  His plaid shirt and jeans were certainly a notch more casual than her outfit.  She wouldn’t say a word.  After all, they were taking a vacation.

              Mirza looked back at the parchment.  It wanted to roll up by itself, and smelled fresh.  She felt like blowing on the ink.  She frowned.  “Why is this proclamation necessary?  Why put Seren in charge instead of Argen?  Seren’s been on Earth for the past fifteen years.”

              Jarl eyed his wife.  “You have position; but I get everyone’s problems.”

              He scowled at her outfit.  Without her robe of office, she didn’t seem like the Head Gatekeeper of Realmgate.  Her present outfit – a long, pleated skirt, functional jacket and walking shoes -- made her look nondescript.  He much preferred her in short skirts and scoop-neck blouses.  Thank goodness she hadn’t picked a dress.  She looked better in pants than long skirts.  He sighed gently.  Saying anything would result in at least a day’s delay.

              Jarl emphasized, “The Proclamation gives Seren the authority to handle problems.  Honey, picture them walking into a room.  I’m not being a proud father when I say Seren has command presence.  It’s hard to believe Argen and Seren are brothers.  Argen would trip over the rug, and his socks seldom match.”  Jarl grinned at the scene he visualized.

              Mirza shook her auburn curls.  “Argen isn’t going to like this.  I hope his feelings won’t be hurt.  Besides, don’t you feel the least bit guilty dumping all these potential problems on Seren without a word to him beforehand?”

              “Do you remember anyone warning me before I came to Realm with the dragon mage Wyrd wrapped around my wrist all those years ago?  It’s not my fault that Seren never comes home to visit us.  We always visit him on Earth.  He doesn’t know that people from all the known worlds have brought their problems to Realmgate for resolution since Wyrd left and proclaimed me Dragon’s Knight.

              “I agree once we are gone on this vacation, something is bound to happen – so this document provides guidance,” explained Jarl as he duplicated the proclamation.  He placed the original on the castle wall where anyone entering or leaving through the gate could see it.  He levitated the other copy to the attending keeper, Librisald, who watched from the balcony that overlooked the courtyard of the gate.

              “What worries me is that Seren doesn’t have a dragon companion,” protested Mirza.

              “Neither does Argen.  Only their sister, Lealor, has sense enough to follow our example.”  Jarl kissed Mirza again.  “Besides, Love, handling all the other worlds’ problems will make a player out of him.”

              “Do you know something I don’t?  I thought the reason we were going now was because everything has been calm for so long.”

              Jarl shook his head no again.  “All those years away from Realm on Earth playing soldier haven’t necessarily made a man of our oldest son.”

              “Darling, Seren’s almost thirty-five.  Don’t you think he’s man enough already?”

                Jarl smiled and pointed at the gate.

                Mirza glanced up at her deputy keeper, the old librarian.  “Maybe I should tell Librisald where we’re going if you’re expecting trouble.”

              “No!  We agreed, no itinerary or schedule.  We haven’t been on our own for years.”  Jarl hugged her.  “Seren will do all right if there’s a problem.  After all, now he’s got my authority over all the worlds.”  Jarl placed his arm around Mirza’s shoulders and pulled her closer to him.

              “Argen probably won’t come out of the library long enough to notice, let alone get his feelings hurt.  Trust me.  You don’t see much of the world with your nose forever in a book.”

               “You may have something there,” she admitted.  She glanced up at Librisald sitting at the table on the castle balcony, frowning.  Mirza giggled at his expression.  His disgust was apparent.  Everyone knew Librisald didn’t like visible demonstrations of affection.  She waved before he could return to reading in the Book of Worlds.

              “Finally,” muttered Jarl under his breath.

              Mirza took Jarl’s hand.  They stepped into the gate and disappeared, luggage and all.

CHAPTER ONE

              The wind blew though the open doorway to the balcony, moving the drapes and ruffling the edges of the bed canopy.  Mari felt chilled and groped for a cover.  A loud banging on the heavy bedroom door caused the leprechaun queen to stretch and raise her head, cracking one eyelid open.  The position of the moon through the long vertical windows told her it was past midnight, but far from morning light.  The shape of a form indented the bed next to her, but no Rory, her part-time consort.  She wondered if he had disappeared when the noise started.  Rory always put his pot of gold first.  Finally, Mari managed a sitting position.  "Enter," she commanded, exasperated.

              Instead of the usual servant, her leprechaun chief-of-staff, Padraic, stuck his head through the door.  "A thousand pardons, Your Majesty.  The Sidhe are in an uproar."

              Mari snorted.  Padraic had disapproved of giving the Sidhe refuge on the richly forested world of Eyre.  His remark sounded suspiciously like an I-told-you-so.  She glared at her current tormenter before Irish humor overcame her temper.  His robes of state were pulled haphazardly over his pajamas.

              Her mind darted back to her world’s guests – silly fairies wanting to be called by that old Irish name.  Most people couldn't pronounce it, and the spelling was atrocious.  Few knew enough ancient Gaelic to say "Shee" for Sidhe.

              "Come in.  I'm halfway decent.  Even if I wasn’t, I doubt I have any charms you haven’t seen."  A little temper reasserted itself.  "Do you have a reason this couldn't wait until later in the morning?"

              The leprechaun edged into the room, concentrating on the artwork on the walls, his eyes averted from the fancy bed.  Mari’s anger caused his embarrassment to give way to fear.  "One.  One of their males teleported into their palace, semi-conscious, cut to ribbons, with large holes, maybe bites, covering him.  He keeps gasping about a multitude of huge black things as he drifts in and out of consciousness."

              "All right.  Send a servant to help me dress.  Locate Rory.  The three of us will visit the Sidhe enclave to see if we can find out more about this."  Mari waved her hand in dismissal.

              Padraic left the room, eyes still averted.

              A few minutes later, Mari swept into her throne room.  Only her chief-of-staff, his ministerial robes straightened, but still over his pajamas, awaited her.

              He shrugged.  "We couldn't find Rory anywhere, Your Majesty."

              That sounds as if Rory left before this uproar, thought Mari.

              The room shimmered and Mari felt herself abruptly seized by a magical spell.  The majesty of her palace dimmed, and then vanished in the silvery mist.  She appeared in front of Arthurian, King of the Sidhe.  Mari stamped her foot in anger, recognizing she stood below his throne so that he could sit above her.

              "An unsafe world you've got here," started Arthurian, his silver eyes blazing down on her.  "We've lost another male.  We can ill afford that.  After all the skirmishes trying to capture other worlds, there aren't many remaining."  He held up four fingers.

              Mari was surprised that the Sidhe were reduced to four males.  She knew Arthurian resented the fact that leprechauns were numerous compared to the Sidhe.  "Unsafe indeed.  You didn't have many choices left after your behavior on other worlds.  Remember, I allowed you to settle here on Eyre," snapped Mari, her eyes glaring. 

              Unpleasant and stiff-necked as he might be, Arthurian was her kingdom’s guest, she reminded herself.  "I suppose from your complaint, your injured subject died.  Did you learn any more about the attack?"

              "No," sighed Arthurian.  "He died without regaining full consciousness.  We are so few," he repeated.  His doleful manner indicated more anguish over his peoples’ racial loss than concern over the individual who had died.  "Your subjects outnumber the Sidhe by a hundred to one.  You are a mighty host by comparison.

              "So, what do you intend to do about the menace that killed him?" demanded Arthurian.

              Frustrated at being on the defensive, Mari shot a mental bolt at Arthurian.  Menace?  What menace?  You don't know any more about what happened than I.  I'm going to do what you're doing.  Relenting at the sight of Arthurian holding his hand to his head in pain, Mari noted her guest's unusual lack of stoic pride.  Typical Sidhe fixation, the loss of breeding stock, outweighed all other dangers.

              "Doing what?  I am presenting the facts to the proper authority," said a puzzled Arthurian.

              "You're passing the buck.  I’ll make that my plan, too.  I'm off to Realm.  I'll dump this mess where I take all problems, the Dragon Knight’s lap.  Care to come along?"

              Arthurian recoiled in horror at the idea of leaving his palace.  "Deal with humans?  Never!"  He finished talking to empty air.

              Mari had disappeared.

*          *          *

              Mari used gate travel rather than make the trip to Realm using her own magical powers.  The distance was too great without a wizard's boost.

              When she came through the portal at Realmgate, she noticed that the ancient human, Librisald, and not the head gatekeeper, Mirza, monitored the impact zone.  She thought the frail Librisald had retired to run the library on Realm years ago.  Then she remembered, Argen had recently seized control of the library.

              "Where's Mirza?" she asked Librisald. 

              "Gone."

              "I need to see the Dragon’s Knight.  Where can I find him?"  Seeing Librisald’s blank look, Mari stamped her foot in frustration.  "You know who I’m talking about – Jarl."

              "Gone!" repeated Librisald and turned to leave.

              "What is this, an echo chamber?  Where are they?" demanded Mari.  She grabbed Librisald by the arm and turned him to face her.  "If they're not here, who's in charge?"

              Librisald shook himself free and looked down his nose at the leprechaun queen.  "How dare you touch me?  I am the keeper of this gate.”

              Mari repeated her question.  “Who’s in charge?”

              "Here on Realm, Argen, maybe.  Read the proclamation." Librisald pointed to a parchment posted on the wall of the castle.

              "All right.  All right.  Where's Argen?" asked Mari, in a more respectful manner.  No sense in alienating the old duffer any further.  Losing control of the library to Argen and returning to gatekeeping had affected Librisald’s former helpful personality.

              "Argen’s in my library, for all the good it will do you."  Librisald stalked off, leaving the gate temporarily unattended.

              Mari thought for a minute.  She hadn't visited Librisald's dusty tome-laden cavern often enough to teleport into the library on her own.  She snapped her fingers.  "I remember.  A large mirror hangs on the wall in the foyer."  She wrinkled her nose in disgust.  "I hate passing through glass," she muttered, disappearing.

              The silver of the mirror formed a mist, letting her enter the room.  Through the large archway, she saw Argen in the main library, fast asleep at a nearby table, snoring.  Mari grabbed a book and slammed it on the table next to his face.

              Argen disappeared.  His voice rang out from somewhere.  "What do you want?"

              "I want to see your father, Jarl.  So far, I'm getting the runaround."

              "Jarl and Mirza took a vacation."  An outline of Argen shimmered into existence at the table.  "Why take out your temper on an innocent book?"

              "Because I've got a problem I don't know how to handle.  I'd set my mind on dumping it on the Dragon’s Knight – only to find he's on vacation.  So, are you taking his place?"

              "Instead of putting me in charge, Jarl left this proclamation."  Argen handed Mari a copy of the parchment that she had ignored on the castle wall.  "I'm good for emptying waste baskets.  Otherwise you’ll have to see my brother Seren."  Argen’s pout would have supported a whiskey glass.

              "Okay, where's Seren?"  Feeling some empathy for Argen and his injured feelings at not having any authority, Mari let her temper cool.

              "On Earth, learning to be a military genius."  Argen eyed Mari's now tapping foot and crossed arms with concern.  "Don't get mad all over again.  I'll send Rory to Seren’s apartment to fetch him.  I can assemble Prince Rand, Fafnoddle, and other advisors if you explain the problem," grumbled Argen.

              "My consort is your errand boy?  How can you find Rory when nobody else can?" queried Mari with interest.

              Argen’s smile resembled a smirk.  “You know Rory and gold.  I control the gold.”

              Mari frowned and launched into an explanation of the situation with the Sidhe.

*          *          *

              Rory landed on the seat of his pants in Seren’s strange apartment.  He picked himself up, his dignity wounded.  "Blasted Argen is no better than the Fire Wizards for world travel," he grumbled, looking around.

              Where was Seren?  The apartment looked neat and orderly – much too organized to suit Rory.  He kicked over a footstool with satisfaction.

              "Seren must keep some spirits round here for medicinal purposes," Rory muttered before he set to work locating liquid refreshment in the kitchen, leaving cabinet doors open and items scattered on the countertop as he searched.  Finally, he found some Irish whisky, but no, there weren’t any leprechaun-sized glasses in the kitchen.  Waving his hand, Rory materialized one into midair.  He grabbed it cheerfully and started on his refreshment.  When the once-full bottle was almost empty, he grinned.

              "That’ll teach him to be home when I call," he said, quite coherently for a drunken leprechaun.  He nodded off to sleep stretched out on top of a cabinet dreaming of his pot of gold back on Realm.  His foot rested against the open whisky bottle as reassurance that it was there.

              The once shipshape kitchen looked as if a tornado had made a pit stop.  The shambles, typical of Rory's unannounced visits, awaited the unsuspecting Seren.