Dragon Sky

Acknowledgements

This book would not have been possible without the support of several friends and family. First, I would like to thank Next Chapter, and its CEO, Miika Hannila, for taking a chance on me. It is an honor and privilege to be part of a publishing company that respects and supports its authors. I'd also like to thank my critique group of Bart Gardner, Debra Davis Hinkle, Carter Pitman, Destry Ramey, Christine Taylor, and Susan Tuttle. For close to a decade, you have helped to mold me into a better writer. Very special thanks go out to Scott Parsons who spent weeks reading the novel, making notes, and sharing ideas.

I am so grateful to my father, Tom Woodward, for his generosity in carving out time and funding our family trip to Italy. You'll never know how many exciting plot ideas came out of that vacation. Not only did I spend a glorious month with my family, but I was also able to view great art up close.

Once again, I would like to acknowledge my students both present and past. Your beautiful hearts continue to give my life meaning while inspiring me daily to see the true artist in all of us. Also, to my fellow educators and school personnel: your hard work and dedication makes me proud to call myself an educator. Your extraordinary gifts often go unsung but know that children are finding the magic inside themselves because of what you do.

Most of all to my son and daughter: Nicholas and Jessica. All your lives, you have patiently waited while I scribbled away at my notepad or bent over the computer keys. Sometimes I was so lost in the dream that you might have had to call me twice to bring me back to reality. But neither of you ever complained. I think you always understood that when I got a distant look in my eye, I was not forgetting you. I was just dreaming of fantastical worlds. But these worlds could never have taken shape without the love we share. And finally, to my mother, Claudia Stuart. So young when I was born, you hardly ever had a childhood. Yet you still endeavored to do the best you could. Like the skateboarding Gwen, you have always modeled strength for me. For this, I am eternally grateful.

For Bernice Stuart who always saw the beauty within.

Chapter 1

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.

Chapter 2

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.

Chapter 3

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.

Terrify him. Now! Sludge ordered.

Like a hangman jerking his noose, the Shadow Swine pulled the dream-child beneath his dark cloak. Soon, twisting smoke erupted from the folds.

Captain Sludge smiled. He would have good news for Lord Sickhert this day.

The back of his neck usually prickled when he entered the twenty-story stalagmite, but today his boots pounded a confident march as Sludge passed through the castle's irregular doorway. His plan was so unique, so perfect, so brutal that Sickhert would surely be pleased.

His lord might even share a steaming mug of worm tea and with him. The two would stand on the balcony viewing the lava seep down the Window of Red. And never again would Sludge be punished in the burning Correction Chamber because of those idiot boys and their red-headed sidekick.

He strode up the twisting stair until he reached the twentieth floor. Just outside Lord Sickhert's chamber, two sentries stood watch, daring any who approached to enter their master's suite.

Announce Captain Sludge to your lord, he said. He swished saliva around in his mouth preparing to honor Lord Sickhert.

One sentry pulled on a cone-shaped lever near the doorway and a howl reverberated throughout the castle. When a second, deeper howl answered the first, the soldier nodded to Captain Sludge.

You may enter Sir, he said with a quick salute.

The door creaked open on ancient hinges to reveal their white-robed leader. Sludge took three steps forward and then dropped to his knees. Mouth full of sputum, he crawled toward the shining black throne. When he reached the obsidian chair, he did not raise his head. Instead he released the honorific spittle onto Lord Sickhert's maggot white feet and rubbed the foam into the chalky skin.

You may rise, the albino monarch said cracking his long talon-like toes with a satisfied sigh.

Thank you, my lord. Sludge stood and waited.

What news have you of the dream draining?

Sludge knew he couldn't lie. Sickhert had only to peer into his Lava Pool Gramarye to find the truth. And that waist-high mini-volcano was just a few feet away.

Many humans turn away, Sludge said. But still the Deliverers create their Knights of Painted Light making much of California immune.

Then we assault them with more nightmares than Knights can battle, Sickhert snarled. Overrun them with shadows of fear. His bone white eyes narrowed. Or you know what will happen.

Yet the soldiers craft terror, the captain spoke quickly. A chill rolled down his spine where he still bore scars from his first defeat. He'd need to be clever to avoid the Correction Chamber again. Right now, at the River of Lies–

Not good enough, Lord Sickhert said, cutting him off. Those Deliverers and their Knights have blocked too many nightmares.

Ahh, but we craft ever terrifying visions, Sludge argued.

Insufficient! Double your efforts. They must be trapped like rats in a maze.

Interesting you should mention maze, Lord. For a labyrinth is just what I had in mind. Sludge suppressed a smile. He had a plan but didn't want to give away the details until it was firmly in place.

Mount Minotaur? Interested, the despot licked his ashen lips and leaned forward.

Exactly. With its never-ending passageways, we can lure the Deliverers deep into the labyrinth.

So, they spend eternity lost in the puzzle. Forever confused and searching. And our power will grow.

Until Artania falls under your magnificent dominion, my lord.

Proceed. Lord Sickhert smiled and nodded.

Sludge exited, no longer needing to straighten his spiked hair for height. Lord Sickhert was pleased. Right then he soared even taller than a megalosaurus-mudlark.

Chapter 4

Gwendolyn Obranovich cheered the last skater of the vert competition on in loud whoops until the crowd's excitement had waned and her voice was hoarse. With a recent braces-free grin, she turned to Jose Hamlin and Zachary Van Gromen.

Hey, while we wait for the judge's results let's give Alex some props Gwen said. He did finish his run, even if he fell before doing a backside."

That was brutal; he had it down all month, Zach said shaking his head. His recently cut blonde hair barely moved from all the jell he had in it. But that was Zach, GQ Junior had been into fashion for as long as Gwen could remember.

I know. Alex was rolling like morning waves every time. Jose smoothed and retied his long black pony tail. But that puts me up in the standings.

Gwen stared at Jose. Mr. Zen usually was all about saving the dolphins in Japan or spreading peace. She didn't think he had a competitive bone in his meditating body.

Maybe so but let's not mention it now. Kay?

Yeah, Zach agreed. When a skater eats it, you don't show him an instant replay on your phone. He polished his nails on his designer t-shirt. Unless you look as good as me.

Gwen and Jose groaned before making their way through the crowd toward Alex.

Gwen was surprised to see Bartholomew leaning toward Alex as if sharing some secret when she arrived. She didn't think he'd been allowed to come. Ever since being busted for cheating in seventh grade he'd been homeschooled by his weird tutor. Poor guy was locked up in that hospital-like mansion and hardly ever got out.

Dude! Gwen called through the crowd. Congrats. You finished your first compy.

Alex turned, his face nothing like Gwen anticipated. In place of the disappointment she expected, were gnarly knots of worry. He looked like he was ready to do battle or something.

Finished, not. I missed the backside, Alex said, shaking his head.

That was not your f– Bartholomew's words were cut short by Alex's quick jab in his side. He choked oomph and cleared his throat. I mean, that is to say, after all your hard work, it was unfortunate.

It was just higher than I remembered. Alex gave Bartholomew a warning stare and both nodded.

If Jose and Zach hadn't been there Gwen would have asked if something freaky were going on. Like the year before.

You'll nail it next time, she said.

We all begin the competition path with scattered stones, Jose said in his Buddha voice. Then he added like he was totally full of himself. As I did.

Gwen mouth fell open. Then she got angry. She had just readied a quick quip to knock Jose's ego down a notch or two when then the announcer's voice came over the speakers.

The judges have tallied the results and in third place let's give it up for the amazing Brad Singh.

The crowd applauded and whooped for the skater with bleached spikes. Gwen didn't know him because he wasn't local but agreed that he had skills. After second place was announced everyone grew quiet, eyes drifting from Jose to the Brazilian champion. Gwen held her breath.

And in first place, put your hands together for the Santa Barbara kid with technical grace and style, Jose Hamlin!

Jose slapped Alex's hand, signaled hang loose to the crowd, and jogged up to the podium for his trophy.

Usually Singh dominates but this kid showed us just what SB can do, The reporter's voice resounded while he shook Jose's hand. Dude, you put it all on the line. How'd it feel out there?

Amazing. At first, I thought I wouldn't take any chances but then something made me want to go for air. Like the sky was calling me. So, I heeded the call.

The audience loved that. Gwen even saw a few giggling girls from their junior high scream like Jose was some freakin' rock star or something.

And it paid off. The emcee lifted Jose's arm into the air. Congratulations to Jose Hamlin, the official winner of this year's Volcom Games! Cham-pi-on!

This time the crowd went absolutely nuts. Gwen was happy for her friend and all, but did he have to look so superior about it? She turned back to complain to Alex, but he was deep in conversation with Bartholomew.

She narrowed her sea green eyes. Just what were these guys up to now?

Chapter 5

Far away, in Artania, The Thinker had gathered a pair of dragons inside the Golden Grotto. Inside the great cave, the bronze statue straightened his bent form, opening and closing his steely fist.

In moments, images of Alex's competition flickered in his palm. The Santa Barbara scene began to play as the great beasts bent their scaled heads to watch Alex tumble off his skateboard before a groaning crowd. They continued observing until Bartholomew sprinted to his side and leapt into the air. Then sparks fizzled down The Thinker's bronze arm and the images dimmed.

A moment later, there was a rumbling outside of the cavern. The bronze man glanced up to see a smiling red and gold dragon enter the cave.

The Thinker curled his sculpted hand into a fist and nodded a greeting. We appreciate your delivering the message, Flynn.

It was as easy as blowing smoke rings, the winking beast replied blowing a single misty circle.

But will the humans heed the call? the blue water dragon directly opposite, mused.

Of course, Wade, it's their destiny, Flynn replied.

We can only hope, the water dragon said quietly.

Next to Wade, the huge female dragon's emerald green scales quavered in the firelight. They must. I shudder to think what in heaven's name will happen if the Golden Dragon is not found. Soon. To all of us.

Yes, Erantha we know. Flynn said with a quick bob of his horned head. "Draco aureus is the one who binds. He blew out a quick puff of smoke. But still–"

You know how few they've become! Erantha