Becoming the Dragon Read online

  The Dragon Inside

  Book 1

  Becoming the Dragon

  Alex Sapegin

  Copyright © 2017 Litworld Ltd. (http://litworld.info)

  All rights reserved.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase another copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contents

  Contents

  Part 1: Portal Voyager

  N-ville, Russia. Andy.

  Part 2: Black Dragon

  The northwestern border of the Kingdom of Rimm, the Wildlands.

  The Marble Mountains, No Man’s Land, the Valley of a Thousand Streams, Karegar, Jagirra.

  Northwestern border of the Kingdom of Rimm, the Wildlands.

  Part 3: Fire of the Soul

  Raston, the capital of the Kingdom of Rimm. Nirel.

  The Northwestern border of the kingdom of Rimm, the Northern trade route, the Happy Horse Inn.

  Kingdom of Rimm, the northern trade route, Raston. Andy.

  Kingdom of Rimm, Raston. Nirel.

  Raston, the Royal Hunt. Andy.

  Part 4: Birth of the Dragon

  Raston. Nirel.

  Raston, Nirel. Two weeks prior…

  Raston. Alo Troi. One week, four days prior…

  Raston, the Royal Menagerie. Andy. One day prior…

  Raston. Andy.

  Raston. Nirel.

  Raston. Andy.

  The Marble Mountains, No Man’s Land, the Valley of a Thousand Streams.

  Part 5: Wings on my back.

  The Marble Mountains, No Man’s Land, the Valley of a Thousand Streams.

  Epilogue

  GLOSSARY

  Book Recommendations

  Part 1: Portal Voyager

  N-ville, Russia. Andy.

  “I’m heading out! I won’t be back ’til late!” Andy’s mother grabbed her purse from the coffee table and threw her cell phone and keychain into the side pocket. “You’ve got this, right?”

  “I got it, Mom.” Andy frowned. “There’s food in the fridge, pizza in the freezer. Feed Olga, get her dressed and ready, then make sure Irina takes a warm sweater, a coat and bug spray with her to her game. Did I forget anything?”

  “Don’t go into your dad’s study. He’s downloading something; it’ll freeze the computer. You know very well, he’ll be fuming about it until next Christmas. Are you going to Sergey’s house?” Andy nodded. “Then take Olga to Grandma’s. Okay, bye.” Helen kissed her son on the cheek and slipped out the door. The company minibus had already honked a couple of times.

  The clatter of claws on parquet came from the living room, and Bon scrambled into the entryway with his leash in his mouth.

  “You’ve already gone out boy! You woke me up at the crack of dawn.” Andy said to the pup. Bon sighed loudly and wagged his tail, showing he wouldn’t mind going for another walk. “All right, fine. You talked me into it, you smooth-talking devil. But just to the bakery.”

  Andy took the leash from the dog and hooked the carabiner to his collar. Bon leaped joyfully in circles around his owner.

  “Quie-e-et!” Andy snapped at the dog. “You’ll wake the girls.”

  He needed to make a trip to the bakery anyway. Olga and Irina wouldn’t eat breakfast on a Saturday without cinnamon rolls, and they were out.

  Andy preferred sausages or bacon in the morning; Bon did, too, but the pup rarely got them.

  ***

  Andy bought the cinnamon rolls at the bakery and a carton of milk at the store next door then headed home.

  He was wide-awake with nothing to do, and he looked resentfully at Bon. “Why wake me so early on a Saturday, Boy?” The pup only wagged his tail in response.

  He was struck by an old urge to jump on the computer and play some of his favorite online games, but soon an inner voice reminded him, “Don’t go in your dad’s study. He’s downloading something; it’ll freeze the computer.”

  “Ok,” he said to himself. “Forget the computer.”

  Andy hadn’t played computer games in more than two years, and he’d done just fine. But sometimes, something would come over him, and he’d want that escape into another reality.

  He sighed loudly, making Bon turn to look at him as if to say, Are you copying me, Master? Andy smiled as he reached up to scratch a little scar at the base of his neck—courtesy of a lightning bolt, no less—a sad reminder of the danger of standing under trees during storms. For more than two years, Andy had been branded with the scar just above his right shoulder, but the memory of that fateful moment was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday…

  ***

  His homeroom teacher, Ms. Nichols, had long promised to take their 6A class on a field trip to the woods, and that day was finally here. After an hour of belting out songs on the bus, each kid singing at the top of his lungs (out of tune, but with feeling), they arrived. Mother Nature’s wonder spread out before the young tourists in all its glory. The weather was beautiful—not a cloud in the sky—and the birds were singing. There was fresh May grass growing and no mosquitoes.

  The idyllic scene was ruined, however, by signs of human neglect. Litter was scattered everywhere, and the strong smell of a public toilet came from the thick brush at the end of the field opposite from the river. To make the best of things, the children spent the first half-hour picking up paper, plastic bags, cans, cigarette butts and other trash from the meadow. Certainly, no one thought of going into the river where broken glass glittered near the shore.

  Andy sadly recalled the days when he and his mom had visited his Uncle Rob. They had walked in the forest, collecting mushrooms and pinecones. Now, that’s a place of open spaces and natural beauty! Towering cedars three arm’s lengths around, their tops disappearing into the sky; even rows of round hilltops going off into the blue distance; and not a single tin can for hundreds of miles. He had longed to share that with his classmates.

  The day went by fast, but starting around lunchtime, a gloomy haze curled up on the horizon.

  “I love May's first storms!” one of his classmates shouted.

  A strong gust of wind lifted last year’s dead leaves into the air, and a clap of thunder, like the rumble of empty barrels, made them all duck.

  Ms. Nichols began herding the whole class back to the bus stop, but the wind picked up, and the storm worsened. One flash of lightning followed another. There was still a half-mile to the bus stop when the heavens opened and soaked Andy and the others. Miserably, the class huddled under trees that at least gave the vague illusion of shelter from the rain.

  Andy chose a young oak with sparse spreading branches. He had just gotten situated under a thick branch when a close flash of lightning blinded him. When he came to, he was already on the bus…

  ***

  Andy’s friends were waiting for him when he arrived home from the hospital. They all gathered around, filled with questions. First on the list, had the lightning awoken anything supernatural in him?

  No! he thought gloomily, I can’t read minds, see the future or communicate with the spirits of the dead. What a crock! I was struck by lightning and don’t even get anything out of it!

  It wasn’t long, however, before Andy learned the lightning had left a rather unusual effect behind. As soon as he sat down at or lingered near a computer, it would slow down and freeze up. The television flickered with static if he came within five feet of it. Andy was forced to withdraw permanently from his lifelong
love of gaming. He could never have expected such a cruel blow from Mother Nature. A scar on his neck was one thing—complete with bragging rights and a sort of war story—but to be sentenced to life without computers? That was punishment fit for the wretched.

  When it became clear he could no longer use a computer, Andy fell into a deep melancholy. He felt his life was over and transformed almost overnight from a happy goofball to a pensive guy with an intense, piercing gaze.

  In time, he realized he had no choice but to accept his new life and rediscover the world around him. Books (so many books!), his bicycle, rollerblades, the gym in the evening, and, oddly enough, even a passion for cooking…

  ***

  One afternoon, Andy was idling around the house alone. His younger sister, Olga, was at daycare, and his older one, Irina, was at a friend’s house. His parents were at work and he was starting to feel restless. In order to distract his mind and save himself from an attack of melancholy, he decided to leaf through a cookbook. Then the idea occurred to him to try cooking something—all by himself.

  His first attempt at a meal was an eggplant-based lasagna, constructed mainly from leftover veggies in the fridge, and the result was mouthwatering! For a long time, his mother couldn’t believe he had prepared something so delicious on his first try. She had expected him to be like Irina, who was capable of producing passable scrambled eggs at best.

  For the next month, the family spent all of their spare money on various groceries and ingredients so Andy could prepare new and exciting culinary delights. Olga, a very picky eater, suddenly devoured the dishes her older brother prepared, dirtying both cheeks in the process and gaining three pounds as a result. Irina threw her diet out the window and joined her younger sister in the feasting. They teased each other about who could put on weight the fastest.

  And there was no question their parents loved Andy’s cooking. His father joked that his son could make a salad out of nothing. Still, Andy soon tired of his cooking phase and took to new hobbies, such as renovating the guest room to make it livable again. The added upside was his own space, since sharing a room with his little sister had become awkward and sleeping on the living room couch wasn’t very appealing either.

  Next, he tried sports to distract his ever-busy mind. He retrieved an old bicycle from the garage and fixed it up, and repaired some broken roller blades. Andy began to spend all of his time outside, convincing his friends, Sam and Sasha, to join him. Instead of Counter-Strike and Call of Duty, Andy persuaded the boys to experience skating in the park and the real-to-life world of paintball.

  It was after one particularly grueling game of paintball that Andy first encountered Sergey, and his life took yet another unexpected sharp turn.

  ***

  Sergey Usoltsev was a local celebrity and known eccentric. Old lady from next door used to mutter about him as he walked past. “What can you say about someone who collects old bows and restores them? What a ridiculous way to spend money, and on such useless things!”

  Andy and the guys were coming back from the latest game of paintball, and Andy was distracted by some large welts on his backside, courtesy of Sasha, the sharpshooter. He continually stopped to rub them, slowing their pace, and as they plodded along, a sound like donn followed by a biting click caught his ears. Andy turned his head when he heard it again—donn, click. Sam saw Sergey first and tapped Andy on the shoulder, pointing past the fence of a two-story house. A tall, hoary-haired man with a wide chest and chiseled arms stood in the yard twisting an M-shaped bow in his hands. After looking around, he pulled an arrow out of the ground, raised the hand holding the bow and deftly set the arrow on the bowstring. He pulled it back almost to his ear and fired. The bowstring let out a ringing donn and clicked against the thick leather glove that he wore on his left hand. In a flash of feathers and with a dull thud, the arrow pierced a wooden pole dug into the ground 50 feet on the other side of the yard.

  That was awesome! Andy thought to himself. Sasha and Sam stood with their mouths open. Like a whisper of olden times and epic heroes, it wasn’t something you saw every day. I would love to learn to shoot like that!

  The boys waited ten minutes for another show, but the man pulled the arrows from the pole, went into the house and didn’t come out again.

  ***

  The next day, Andy stood at the intricately carved wicket gate and rang the bell. The archer from the previous day appeared.

  “What do you need, son?” he asked, glancing at the boy.

  “My name is Andrew! Teach me to shoot like you do!” Andy blurted out, looking the man in the eyes.

  “I don’t take apprentices!” Sergey answered and slammed the gate.

  Andy thought for a minute and settled down on a little bench near the gate. He had firmly made up his mind to learn to shoot a bow; he just had to get his future teacher on board. When it grew dark after a few hours, Andy finally got up from his spot. Sergey hadn’t deigned to leave the house again.

  ***

  The next day, the bench was once more occupied by the stubborn boy. This time, Andy brought a couple of books with him to help stave off boredom. All day, the homeowner showed no signs of life, although the tulle curtains did flutter from time to time.

  ***

  On the third day, Andy repeated the whole process. He had decided patience was the key to success. New books helped the hours go by.

  “What are you reading?” someone said from behind his ear.

  “The Land of Crimson Clouds by Arkady and Boris Strugatsky,” Andy answered and raised his eyes from the page. The archer stood at his gate.

  “And the other one?”

  “Yurii Kachaev, a historical book. There are a couple of stories in it: Above the Forest Ridgepoles, and Beyond the Whistling Arrow of the Chanyu.”

  “Aren’t you sick of hanging out by my gate?”

  “No, my father has a large library. It’ll last me a long time. I’m not bothering you, am I? Or are you worried I’ll rub the paint off the bench?”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake! Would you like to come into the yard and drink some tea?” the man unexpectedly offered, and for the first time, he smiled.

  “I wouldn’t say no to that,” Andy answered. “Although I’d like some Fanta even more…”

  The man opened the gate and let Andy into the yard. “So, you want to become a bowman?” he asked.

  “I want to become a bowman, and maybe try to make my own bows.”

  “But can you stand the training? I won’t coddle you,” the archer said, again smiling with just the corners of his mouth.

  “Yes!” Andy declared.

  “Well then, come in!” The man opened the door to the porch for Andy. “My name is Sergey.”

  “Andy.” He reached to shake the outstretched hand.

  ***

  That was two years ago. Andy smiled thinking back.

  “Tell me what you know about bows and shooting them,” Sergey said as they sipped on their tea.

  Except for Robin Hood, Andy couldn’t think of anything, so he said so. Sergey winced visibly at the sound of the name and launched into a lecture on the topic of bows.

  “Robin Hood, indeed! What stories they tell you young folk! The English bowmen were beating the French at the Battles of Crécy and Agincourt… That’s all nonsense! At Crécy, they knocked out the horses and forced the knights to the ground, and then the tired Frenchmen were massacred. King Phillip should’ve been beheaded for organizing a battle in such a way, but the knights did right, you know. One must always listen to his commanding officer.

  “What’s an English bow? Even a Western European bow in general?” he continued. “A piece of wood remade and fashioned accordingly. That kind of bow was made from one piece of a certain kind of wood. Most often, they used elm and yew, but they made use of ash and hazel, too. To have such fine material as yew available and not bring it to perfection was the height of extravagance on the part of the Europeans. The English could shoot their bows
just over a hundred yards, with the record-holders hitting the target at about 220. When firing at random, without a target, an arrow fired from a recurve English bow could reach almost 550. And that’s the last good thing one can say about recurve bows. They didn’t do well with moisture, always lost the battle in heat and cold, and God forbid you should drop such a bow in the water!

  “No matter what the Europeans said, Eastern bows outperformed their English counterparts in all respects, and bowmen in the East were much better than the English. I’ll give you a couple of examples: a randomly fired arrow from a Russian compound bow can fly up to 875 yards. In Russia, there was a measurement used for distance called ‘arrow’s flight’ or simply ‘flight.’ It dealt not only with how far an arrow flew but how far it could fly and retain its deadly force! It wasn’t all that much, around 240 yards, but still not bad. You can up and do that right now if you like; it was nothing special.

  “Tatar, Arab and Turkish bows surpassed European bows by far, both in efficacy during battle and in technical excellence. And there were no English or Italian yews there! They had to bring the materials they had readily available up to standard. The same Ugrians or Hungarians—the ‘threat of Europe’ of the tenth century—were knocked off their chain-mail-clad cavalry by Mongol bows at the Battle of Mohi.

  “But…back to bows. An Eastern compound bow can withstand cold, heat, or moisture; if you had to, you could dip it in water, and it wouldn’t lose the battle! See…”

  Sergey ran into another room and returned with the bow Andy had seen him use. “It’s an exact reconstruction of a compound bow from the tenth to eleventh centuries. It consists of two wooden planks glued together lengthwise, on the inside.”

  He ran his finger along the inside of the bow. “A juniper plank planted on fish glue; here and here, there are sinews. If you took the string out now, the sinews would pull the bow the other way. This bow has been glued with boiled birch bark.

  “Later on, people began to strengthen bows with decorative bone plates. They made plates of iron, too, but that was at the request of the epic Russian warriors of old. The strings were different, too. In the West, they generally made bowstrings out of hemp. In Russia, they used silk or animal tendons. A string made of specially dressed dorsal skin was considered especially chic. The Arabs preferred to use the dorsal skin of scrawny camels for this purpose. The bowstrings prepared by special methods could withstand heat and moisture. You could fire an arrow in the rain!”