Dragon Sky | Book by Laurie Woodward

Nov 12

Nov 12 Dragon Sky (The Artania Chronicles Book 3)

Book summary

In "Dragon Sky," dragons have vanished from Artania, leaving the realm in jeopardy. Alex, Bartholomew, and Gwen embark on a quest to restore these mystical creatures to the skies, facing aerial battles, formidable outlaws, and enchanted scrolls. Their journey tests their newfound strength as they confront an imposing adversary, and the fate of Artania hangs in the balance.

Excerpt from Dragon Sky (The Artania Chronicles Book 3)

Alex gripped his skateboard even tighter and tried not to think of how high the ramp was. So what if it was fourteen feet straight down? As dorky as his gear looked, with elbow and knee pads, a helmet and even wrist guards, at least he was protected. All Mom’s idea but he didn’t care what other kids thought. In 6th grade he’d almost lost her and now he’d wear an elephant costume if it meant keeping her weak heart from worrying.

Anyhow, he’d skated in rocky caverns with slime-covered monsters in hot pursuit and lived to tell the tale. This was just Santa Barbara. Okay, it was the Volcom Games with hundreds of people watching and he’d only been skating vert for nine months. But still his life wasn’t in danger.

He hoped.

He glanced at the audience below and saw his skateboarding buds, Jose, Zach, and Gwen, give him a thumbs-up. Not easy acts to follow. They’d each wowed the crowd with backside airs, fakies, and real clean kick flips. Alex raised three fingers for a quick wave wondering if his best friend had been able to make it, but Bartholomew’s white suit was nowhere to be seen.

“And next we have thirteen-year-old Alexander Devinci in his first competition. Give it up for the Southern Cal Kid.”

The crowd cheered.

Heart pounding, Alex stepped up to the ledge. He tried not to look down as he set the board’s tail over the coping. When he saw the dizzying height, he took a deep breath and forced himself to anchor the wheels in place with his back foot. Closing his eyes, he imagined that he was safe at home standing in front of his easel, paintbrush about to create wonder.

And he was there. Ready.

Like a furious hand slapping paint on canvas he stomped his front foot and dropped over the vert wall. Wind whooshed past his face causing the few curls that had escaped the helmet to whip and tickle the nape of his neck. His eyes narrowed as his wheels rolled ever faster.

He hit the bottom of the ramp ready to scale the other side when the doubts began.

Were his feet in line with the bolts on deck? He’d fallen buko times over the summer because of bad foot placement, ripping five pair of jeans, scraping his knees and arms, and even dislocating his shoulder. Mom wasn’t too thrilled about that but since he’d called Dad to take him to the hospital she only had to deal with it after the joint was back in place.

The glare of summer sun on the vertical blinded him for a moment. Blinking, Alex shifted his weight and tried to remember all the tips Gwen had given him about rolling up the transition. On the ascent, Alex tried to gauge his speed. Was he going fast enough for the backside ollie he planned to do over the rail?

“Go Alex, rip it!” Gwen cried from the crowd.

With a quick nod, Alex aimed his board at the sky. He’d lay it down just like Tony Hawk or Christian Hosoi.

“This Santa Barbara kid is holding his own,” the commentator announced over the loudspeaker.

Higher Alex rolled, aiming straight for the lip. Everything was perfect.

He looked up. There, amongst the wispy clouds he saw something red shimmering. No, it was a sparkle. A glistening reflection off the underbody of a creature.

The creature opened its long snout in a plaintive wail.

Dragons over Santa Barbara? What the?

And that’s when he fell.

Bartholomew Borax III was watching the games a quarter mile away from the safety of the pier when Alex started his run. He squirted a dollop of hand sanitizer into his palm and rubbed it in. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he squinted. The two-story ramp set up on the beach next to the cement boardwalk was bordered by swaying palm trees and had a couple thousand smiling spectators crowded around. Still he could pick Alex out of a crowd from much further away. Wild curls sticking out from under a day-glow orange helmet were hard to miss.

The blonde boy wished he could stand closer for a better view but with all that sand he might get dirty. Not that he cared, well maybe a bit, but he knew all too well what the slightest smudge on his sleeve would do to his mother. And since she only chose shades of white for all his clothes, Bartholomew had learned long ago to avoid any places that might stain his brilliantly bleached wardrobe.

Not that he blamed her, exactly. Hygenette Borax hadn’t had it easy. Raising a boy alone is challenging in the best circumstances. But having your husband drown in a mud puddle right outside your front door when you’re pregnant with your only child would be enough to drive anyone over the edge.

Bartholomew often wondered how life would be different if Father were alive. He’d heard that back then they’d had real plants and grass in the yard instead of plastic ones and astro turf. Supposedly Mother used to go out to all sorts of places without her present arsenal of disinfecting wipes and hand sanitizer. She’d even strolled in parks without having to rush back to their limo and leap into the bathtub in the back. But after Bartholomew’s father died, it slowly changed until eventually their house became a fortress of clean.

With her son trapped inside of it.

So, Bartholomew was forced to make up stories just so to get away. After telling Mother one of the hundred or so sneak-out lies he used, he stole out the back and rushed over to see Alex and the others compete at the beach.

Bartholomew relaxed into a sigh. Ahh. Two whole hours without Mother’s ever watchful eyes or the constant application of germicidal spray. Two hours without a maid running a feather duster over the already hospital clean shelves or Mother crying filth when a pencil smudged his forearm. Two hours to breathe in air that smelled nothing like bleach.

Bartholomew was in the middle of a resounding cheer for Alex when the cloud took shape. He thought it was his imagination at first but as colors changed he realized that it was happening.

Again.

The visions began right after he turned eleven; strange glimpses of painted things that seemed to want something from him. He dismissed them all at first; sure, that loneliness was driving him a bit crazy. But then, in 6th grade he and Alex discovered the truth: an enchanted race existed somewhere beyond.

The peculiar visions initially terrified him and angered Alex; they’d even accused one another of infecting or hypnotizing the other. But over time they realized that these mysterious mirages were real.

And one day they stepped into a painting and ended up in a magical world where all art was alive. Wild.

In Artania he discovered something amazing. He and Alex were Deliverers, those whose art guarded sleepers everywhere from an evil race of beings. These dream-invaders, the Shadow Swine, constructing nightmares that turned humans away from true art. The Prophecy said that only Alex and Bartholomew could save Artania from these beasts and safeguard children’s dreams on Earth.

The boys had battled long and hard on two journeys into that wondrous land. Because of them, Artania remained a kaleidoscopic world.

Only Gwen and Alex knew the truth. There were times when Bartholomew had almost told others but if he’d tried to explain that he’d been into another dimension where giant sculptures talked with Mona Lisa and Egyptian furniture fought monsters; people would think he was absolutely certifiable. So, he kept quiet.

Seventh grade had come and gone and now it was summer. Bartholomew was finally a teenager. Not that it made much difference.

Homeschooled again in Mother’s antiseptic bubble, he had to sneak out just to do the things that normal kids did. Like watching his friends in their first skateboarding competition.

It had been months since he’d had any visions but still he knew that they could return at any time. And it looked like July 17th was the day.

When the winged beast had appeared, Bartholomew stumbled back. Mouth agape, he stared at the sky. Still he knew enough to glance at the tourists and locals ambling along the pier. It was obvious that, once again, the vision was for his eyes alone.

Or was it?

His best friend had skated beautifully up to the top of the ramp. Then Alex faltered and fell. The crowd on the beach groaned. Now Bartholomew knew that Alex had seen it too.

The dragon opened its mouth and howled. Once, twice, four times, each one louder than the last.

“And the newbie eats it,” the announcer reported.

Bartholomew wanted to plug his ears as those words melded with the dragon’s keening. Beating wings pulsed like helicopter blades as it dove down. The dragon left a gaping hole in the clouds, its long snout aimed at Alex who stood in the middle of the ramp gawking at the sky.

Bartholomew held his breath, hoping the creature would veer away but it only drew closer to his frozen friend.

“Alex!” he cried. But his buddy was too far away to hear.

Bartholomew raced forward. In a desperate dash he swerved around skipping children and crowds of day trippers. People on the boardwalk stared but he didn’t care.

The dragon opened its mouth revealing rows of jagged teeth. Red flames shot over its forked tongue and whipped the air as if seeking prey.

When the monster tucked its wings and quickened its dive, Bartholomew tried to match its speed. If only he could get there before…. But the pounding in his chest told him it was too late; Alex would be in the belly of the beast before he could arrive.

Jostling a wheeled surrey, the laughing lovers who were trying to pedal stopped mid-chuckle. “Excuse me!” Bartholomew called over his shoulder.

The dragon was so close that Bartholomew could see the outline of each scarlet and gold scale. He looked for a clear path Where did all these people come from? He wondered wishing he could just brush them all away. Finally, he found an opening between a group of tightly packed lawn chairs and a picnic blanket and cut across the grass.

Faster. But the throngs were as thick as fresh clay. He quickened his pace, never taking his eyes off Alex.

Get back monster.

He pushed and shoved through the tightly packed bodies.

“Hey! Watch it!”

Fifty feet. Ducked under a sun umbrella knocking it over.

“Sorry!”

Twenty feet. He could feel the dragon’s hot breath scorching the sky.

Flames licked at Alex’s head. Was Alex’s helmet melting?

“NO!” Bartholomew cried as he sprung into a flying leap. He thrust his fist upward hoping to knock the creature off kilter.

But his hand met only air.

“Huh?” he exhaled.

The wind cooled into nothing but a soft breeze. The keening cries silenced. And the clouds returned to white. Bartholomew lowered his arm and exchanged a glance with Alex.

The dragon had disappeared. All that was left of the beast was the faint odor of smoke as if from a distant chimney.

“You know what this means,” Alex said with a heavy sigh.

Bartholomew nodded. “Task three,”

It was only a matter of time now.

The hunchbacked monster ran a palm over his slime-covered face to spread gelatinous goo over his spiked hair. Then he stretched each point higher to make himself appear taller. Even though Captain Sludge had a strong frame he’d need every advantage for his meeting with Lord Sickhert.

Here, in a cavern deep beneath Artania, scores of Shadow Swine were gathered on the bank of the River of Lies. Their bodies surged and swelled as they breathed in sulfuric fumes from the bubbling river.

These soldiers began creating nightmares in the vapors, their piggish nostrils flaring with each breath of blue-grey steam. Soon horrible dreams would turn people away from creating.

“Yes, make the humans cry out in terror,” Sludge said as his jackbooted feet drew closer. “Strike fear into every artist who dares sing with paint.”

One thin Shadow Swine opened his yellow eyes and exchanged a quick glance with his captain. Panting, he blew more dark mist into the air.

Ghostly images floated down from Lord Sickhert’s stalagmite castle. One by one the outlines of sleeping boys and girls drifted toward the hunchbacked soldiers.

One white shadow alighted in front of the lean private. With a sneering smile he said, “I’ll make this boy wish he’d never seen a paint brush.”

His claw-tipped nails snatched the ghost boy from the air as the captured dreamer opened his mouth in a silent scream.

“Turn paint into a drowning sea,” Sludge ordered his minion. “Choke the boy with bands of color.”

The private nodded. Hunched back heaving, he opened his cavernous mouth and blew. Dark smoke escaped from blood red lips in ashy wisps. Each curling twine wrapped around the boy’s head and shoulders.