Awakening

  Rise of Dragons – Book 1

  Awakening

  © Gemma Clatworthy 2021

  Find more at www.gemmaclatworthy.com

  The moral right of Gemma Clatworthy to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Cover illustration by Sanjay Charlton (Beehive Illustrations)

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Other Books in This Series

  About the Author

  Foreword

  Thank you to the amazing first readers, terrific typo hunters and grammar gurus – you are awesome!

  Come and join my readers’ Facebook group, Gemma’s Book Wyrms, for updates and chat about dragons or find me on www.instagram.com/gemmaclatworthy and join my mailing list at www.gemmaclatworthy.com

  Chapter 1

  I tugged my hand through my thick brown hair, wondering if I needed to wash it before meeting Aloora, my gnomish friend, for drinks later. I was thinking about closing early to get in a quick shower. My hand snagged on my enchanted welding goggles I was wearing on my head. They weren’t standard goggles and I’d had them made in the steampunk style I favoured; brown leather and brass studs. I’d even paid extra for brown rather than black tinted lenses. They helped me see the enchantments I worked on my own magical jewellery and were part of my everyday wear in the shop.

  I sensed a magical presence outside the shop but thought nothing of it. Many magical and half magical beings live in Cardiff, tolerated by the mundane beings albeit mostly ignored. It wasn’t unusual for them to pass through Royal Arcade to visit any of the boutique shops housed there. Gundersson’s Dwarven Delicatessen, in particular, was a perennial favourite and was a couple of doors down from my own jewellery shop.

  The silver bell outside my shop tinkled merrily and the door opened. I stifled a sigh. So much for closing early and having a wash.

  An elf entered, tall and slender with long blonde hair hanging loose to his shoulders. He was dressed in ripped jeans and a dark green shirt, tucked in at the front but casually untucked at the back. I was immediately on guard. Elves were notorious snobs and I’d had problems in the past when elven customers sensed I was only a half-dwarf and not full blooded. They hadn’t been overly aggressive. Being elves, they were more about snide comments than outright fighting. The comments hurt though and dented my confidence, which was always fragile when comparing my short, stocky frame to willowy golden elves.

  I caught his eye with a shopkeeper’s smile on my face. It wasn’t as if I could afford to turn away any business if I wanted to save enough to buy my own place. I stopped my thoughts from wandering to luxurious, tastefully decorated Victorian detached houses that I frequently looked up on property websites, even though they were outrageously above my price range, and launched into my welcoming spiel.

  “Welcome to Amethyst’s Treasures, providing jewellery and artefacts for any occasion,” I mirrored the chirpy sign outside, “I’m Amethyst, how may I be of service?”

  He looked me up and down, with a haughty gaze as if he’d summed me up in one look. His eyes paused on my goggles, shoved into my bushy brown hair before moving down to meet my eyes. He gracefully walked across the wooden floors where I stood behind the painted white counter. Flecks of darker wood shone through the white paint, giving it a distressed look I called “shabby chic” but Aloora called “just shabby”.

  “How indeed?” he murmured in a deep voice with a Welsh accent. He was attractive as all elves were, and this close his glamour was palpable. He almost seemed to glow with a golden aura. I found myself blushing as his green eyes dropped to my chest and then back again. I could see why people fainted over elves and thought briefly of the pop singer Cirian who had been in the press recently when record numbers of fans had fainted at his latest concert at the Millennium Stadium here in Cardiff.

  Annoyed with myself for being taken in by his glamour, I echoed his gaze, dropping my eyes to his trousers and back to his eyes whilst reaching for my ancestral axe, Bane. It was named for the famous axe held by dragon slayer Lieffson. I placed it calmly on the counter between us. My father, renowned weapons forger, Dafydd Haernson, had given me the blue steel axe as a coming of age present and it was infused with runes and dwarfish magic. I wasn’t usually so aggressive with customers but the act of touching it immediately countered any elvish glamour and I left my hand on it as I replied.

  “You are looking for some jewellery perhaps?”

  The sight of the axe made him back up and he moved away to peruse the glass display cases in my shop. I considered leaving him to it, but in truth I needed a sale so, leaving the axe on the counter, I walked lightly to his side.

  “Those charms offer protection,” I offered, noticing his eyes on the steel beads that made up my charm range, “and they go well with these braids.” I indicated the woven leather braids on the shelf below, wondering if he was buying for himself or someone else.

  He moved his hand to the case and tried to open it. I smiled as he couldn’t manipulate the dwarfish lock charms I had placed over the very secure human padlocks I had purchased.

  I let him struggle for a moment more before stepping in. “Allow me,” I held up my key. It looked ordinary, at least to human eyes, but it contained the magic required to open these and indeed most locks.

  I took the tray holding the protection charms out of the case and held it out for him to have a closer look. Unfortunately, this meant it was in front of my chest or more accurately my large boobs, currently pressed upwards in a leather corset with steampunk-like brass clasps. I willed myself not to blush and inwardly cursed my love of steampunk fashion, and that I was already dressed to go out with Aloora tonight.

  He had the grace to look moderately uncomfortable and even gave a nervous cough.

  “Yes, I need protection. Which is the strongest charm?” he asked with a note of strain in his voice.

  I selected my most powerful charm in the case and handed it to him, noticing the callouses on his palm as he held his hand out. An archer, I wondered. I wasn’t surprised, many elves practised archery. They had even pulled some strings to hold weekly practice sessions in the grounds of Cardiff Castle, a favour I couldn’t imagine being granted to other magical races. He nodded as it touched his palm, sensing the magic.

  “It has innate magic,” I told him, “it will compel most who intend to harm you to turn away.”

  “Most?” he queried with an eyebrow raised.

  “Powerful magic users may not be affected, I cannot guarantee 100% effectiveness,” aware I wasn’t doing a great sales job, I smoothed my voice and added, “it does also have an activation word. Say the Dwarfish word “sheld” and an invisible barrier will appear, stopping any but the most powerful magic users from getting close, for around 10 minutes.”

  “10 minutes…I see. Yes, I’ll take it,” He c
losed his hand around the charm and walked towards the counter whilst I re-secured the remaining charms in the display cabinet.

  I stepped back behind the counter and priced it up, stopping myself from asking if he’d like it gift wrapped when I noticed he’d already strung it onto a plaited leather band on his wrist. He hesitated as he handed over the money, resting his palm on mine. It felt soft and cool against my warm and calloused hands. No matter how much expensive hand cream I used, my hands were toughened by years assisting my father and working at my own smaller forge. I could feel something else as well; a sensation similar to the buzz of electricity. Elvish magic I assumed, though I wasn’t an expert.

  The axe was still on top of the counter and I considered grabbing it when he started to speak softly, not quite meeting my gaze.

  “I, uh, hear you are also a, uh, weaponsmith…” he let the words hang, flicking his green eyes to meet mine before lowering them to the floor.

  So that was it. He wanted quality dwarven craftsman – or woman-ship either without paying dwarven prices or without the weapons being registered.

  Any weapons made by full-blooded dwarves were added to the Dwarven Arms Council register and were technically not for sale but were rather leased, although those leases could last for thousands of years. However, should any dwarf-forged weapons be found attacking dwarves, that lease could be instantly revoked and the owners would find themselves suddenly at the attention of some heavily armed bureaucrats from the Dwarven Arms Council requesting the weapons back with extreme prejudice.

  It was true, I had made magical weapons before, and I was glad my reputation for quality workwomanship was getting out, so I hesitated only briefly before nodding.

  “What are you after? I have some limited stock here or if you wanted something more bespoke…”

  I didn’t finish the sentence but the time and cost of a bespoke item was implied.

  “I will look at your stock,” he responded, “I need something today.”

  “Oh?” I asked.

  “I was told your silence is part of the service,” the elf glowered at me.

  “It is,” I replied, “but I would like to know if I’m going to get questioned about any activity my weapons might be involved in…my silence then costs extra.”

  “I can pay,” he replied

  “Right,” I breathed, elongating the vowel and making it clear I didn’t quite believe him. Still, I would now add a hundred to my price. “Follow me,” I said, turning and walking into the back room that held my small forge. Unlike the shop, the floor here was slate and my brick forge was built into the existing chimney. The previous owner had been complaining of draughts and strange noises from the chimney so not only was I paying a bargain rent, I had been able to put in my own forge after clearing the birds’ nests from the chimney.

  Errol, my wyrm, a small creature said to be a descendent of dragons, lifted his red head. He had been a coming of age present from my Uncle Owain, a wyrm breeder with no eyebrows and a perpetually singed beard. Errol opened his amber eyes and tilted his head as if to ask if he would be working tonight.

  “I might need you later,” I confirmed in a soft voice, reaching out to scratch his head. I was never quite sure if Errol understood me but he reached his head into a bucket of coal next to him and ate a lump. He would be fuelled if I did need his fire tonight.

  I turned back to the elf, who was looking at my wyrm with something approaching amazement in his eyes.

  “That’s Errol,” I said nonchalantly. I wondered if he had ever seen a wyrm before. They were eclectic pets but not endangered and I sometimes saw them on the streets on stout chainlink leads. They were status symbols for the elite, especially the golden coloured ones and I had even once seen one perched like a chihuahua in a pink Prada handbag. Judging by the smoke rising from the wyrm’s nostrils, I hadn’t fancied the handbag’s chances and a shriek a little later on had confirmed it. The wyrm had escaped into Bute Park and I had laughed heartily as I had regaled the tale to Uncle Owain later that night.

  “Errol?” the elf asked with one perfect eyebrow arched.

  “Errol,” I repeated, “Like the dragon in the Discworld novels…you know, by Terry Pratchett,” I added as he still looked confused. He immediately went down even further in my estimation as it was clear he had never read any Discworld books.

  “Right,” he replied, clearly trying to fake it.

  I stifled a disapproving noise that had automatically tried to leave my throat and managed to turn it into a passably convincing cough. I reached under my metal workbench and pulled out a black roll of cloth. As I unfurled it, I was satisfied to hear a gasp from the elf. He clearly wasn’t expecting the beauty or deadliness of the blades I had unveiled.

  There were several small daggers, being faster to make and easier to store but I also had one pair of throwing axes and two longer swords in my collection.

  The elf contemplated the swords, picking them up and testing them as best as he could in the small room. He eventually settled on the longer one. I wondered if it was because of the green leather I’d wrapped carefully around the hilt. He lifted his finger to touch the blade.

  “Don’t,” I stopped him. He looked confused so I continued, “It’s very sharp and ready to be enchanted. It wants blood and will cut you no matter how careful you are. These aren’t for show.”

  “Good,” he replied and he looked carefully at the blade before putting it back down. “Can you add any other enchantments?”

  I squinted and rubbed the back of my neck. Of course I could, but I would charge him a pretty penny for the privilege. “What did you have in mind?” I asked, pitching my voice in what I hoped was a tone that wouldn’t convey I was already back to dreaming of Victorian detached houses…with gardens.

  “My friend has been…taken,” he stated as a response. “I’m going to get her back and need any help I can get. Protection, luck, accuracy…what can you do?”

  I hadn’t expected to get any information out of him, so I was taken aback but quickly recovered. I bit back my immediate question about whether the police were involved. The mundane police force wasn’t quick to pursue magical kidnappings and the Magical Liaison Office weren’t that much better.

  “I can enchant the sword with many runes, but it won’t be cheap.”

  He nodded as if he was expecting that.

  “And it will take time, I can have it for you next week.”

  “I need it tonight,” now he sounded exasperated, “How much can you do tonight?”

  “I’m going out, to meet my friend,” I replied.

  He threw a bag onto my workbench. It jangled heavily. Curious, I opened it. It was more money than I would usually make in a month. Playing it cool, I placed the money in a drawer next to my workbench and looked him in the eye.

  “That will pay for my time today. This sword can adequately hold four enchantments, any more and it may start to split apart with power.”

  “I thought dwarfish blades were strong,” he put an edge to his voice but we both knew he wouldn’t back out of our deal now.

  I put an equal edge to my voice, “As I said, bespoke costs extra. I didn’t fashion these blades to take more than four enchantments. That is more than adequate,” I paused then added, “…for a competent swordsman.”

  His eyes narrowed at that, “I am a competent swordsman.”

  “Then four enchantments should be sufficient,” I replied smoothly, “now, what would you like? I would recommend protection, true strike, luck and heat or ice, but you know more about how you’re going to use it.”

  “I’ll need all the luck I can get,” he almost cracked a smile, almost, “so yes luck, true strike, protection and…” he paused considering another option, “ice,” he decided finally.

  I nodded, took my phone out to text Aloora I would be late, locked the shop, pulled my goggles over my eyes and then got to work.

  The elf had taken the seat in my shop as I worked the blade in the ba
ck room with the door pushed shut. I wouldn’t let anyone see me working on this crucial part of the enchanting process, I may only be a half-dwarf but I protected their secrets as my dad had taught me.

  It took two hours of work with Errol lending me his heat, but I was satisfied with the result. The runes were etched beautifully in the hilt and I had no doubt they would work perfectly. I called him through and presented the sword.

  “This rune represents luck, it will automatically make you lucky with hits and blocks when you are wielding the sword. There will also be some residual luck when you are carrying the sword on your person without drawing it. You might get lucky on a scratch card but I wouldn’t bet on a full lottery win.”

  I pointed to the second rune. This one seemed to glow blue in the light of my forge.

  “This one is true strike; again it doesn’t need a word to activate it and the sword will be more likely to hit your intended target, although if you’re wildly off with your aim, it won’t help.” I couldn’t resist the jibe at his swordsmanship. His eyes narrowed but he let me continue.

  “It will also make your sword seem thirsty for blood,” I rushed on as he seemed about to interrupt, “I can’t explain it well, but you’ll know in battle. It’s like when in the songs the famous blades are battle hungry, you might sense something like that from this blade, although it won’t be as strong as Bloodbane.”

  The elf nodded. Everyone had heard of Lieffson and his trusty axe, Bloodbane. It had been one of my favourite tales growing up and my dwarven kin often sang it on the alleged anniversary of the slaying of Meltar, the fire breathing dragon who had terrorised earth millennia ago. Supposedly my family were related to the famous dwarf. I didn’t believe it, mainly because practically every dwarven clan claimed a relation to several of the old dwarves of legend. Either they were particularly promiscuous or, more likely, the clans made parts of their heritage up, similar to British kings and queens, when creating family trees. Still, our family’s ancestral axe was called Bane in honour of our proclaimed relation to Lieffson. I was surprised the Dwarven Arms Council allowed it. They were usually hot on protecting the names of famous weapons, but one of my real ancestors had led the Council at one point so he’d probably pushed through any paperwork needed.