DRAGON’S EYE - A fantasy.

By J. M. Clay

Two teenagers Gwyl and Liz are drawn into a timewarp and join the denizens of the other-world in the constant battle between the powers of the Light and the Dark. They seek the Dragon's Eye, a huge flawless amythyst crystal which holds the power to influence the battle either way. They discover the Eye but it is lost to them and all seems in vain. Years later with their friend Giles they are once again drawn into that otherworld which now has intruded into their own. It is Giles alone who has to face the Power of the Dark in a final great conflict. He wins the battle but at the cost of his own life. Most of the characters of the otherworld come from folklore and the places actually exist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798823082945

Book preview

DRAGON’S EYE

- A FANTASY.

J. M. CLAY

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AuthorHouse™ UK

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Bloomington, IN 47403  USA

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: UK TFN: 0800 0148641 (Toll Free inside the UK)

UK Local: (02) 0369 56322 ([phone] from outside the UK)

© 2023 J. M. Clay. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  05/27/2023

ISBN: 979-8-8230-8295-2 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-8230-8294-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023910224

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in

this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Prologue

Part 1   The Great Crystal

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

Chapter 18

Part 2   The Last Battle

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

The woods are winter-gripped. There is no wind, no sound. The air is frozen. The branches of the dark trees are weighed down with snow. The small creatures of the forest lie deep in their winter sleep, snug in their shelter of dead leaves, moss, bracken, and hollow trees. Between the crowded trunks, under the twisted branches, there are shadows—deep, formless shapes that, though motionless and without life, still seem to be alive and lie waiting, waiting. The wildwood sleeps. But at one point, in the deepest shadow, there is movement. A shadow blacker than the others creeps between the trees towards a bare patch of moonlight, where the forest has retreated. A shape like no form of life ever created moves into the cold glow of the winter moon. It is a shape so monstrous, so unbelievably foul that it defies all imagination—a huge, swollen, maggot-like body three metres in length with eight bulbous, toad-like legs but no head. Instead, on the top of the body, there is a protruding lump from which a swaying tentacle probes the night, and at its very tip, one green glowing eye. The monstrosity crawls across the bare patch of moonlight and disappears into the black shadows beyond. It leaves no track, not a single mark on the smooth, white surface of the snow.

PART 1

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THE GREAT CRYSTAL

CHAPTER 1

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One spring morning, Gwyl Preston reined in his pony, Blaze, on the top of the ridge and sat gazing westward at the distant mountains of the Welsh Marches, their tops still white with the last of the winter snow. This was his country, his home. Below, in the valley, his family’s farm lay surrounded by small fields, stone-walled and ancient, like most fields in the hill country. People had farmed here since time began, hunter-gatherers who had realised that growing your own food was better and easier than ranging the dangerous forest country looking for it. The forest had gradually been cleared, and small plots had been planted up with cereals and herbs—and so it had gone on and on. Gwyl was very proud of the continuous line of farmer stock from which he came. He felt himself part of its history, part of the constant struggle against the land and the weather.

He sat and sniffed the early-spring air. How good it was!

His eyes strayed southward, down to the next valley where the forest began, a limitless sea in shades of green and one of the largest remnants of the ancient wildwood which had once covered most of Britain. The forest was nearly two miles wide and covered the length of the valley for a good six miles. In places, it was fenced off where the fields bordered it, but there were many places where the forest encroached onto the farmland, the trees thinning down into rough scrub, gorse, fern, bramble, and coarse grass. Many animal tracks pierced the undergrowth at the forest’s edge: deer slot, badger trod, fox tracks.

In the very centre of the forest lay the strange area of the Doom, a vast patch of close-growing conifers that shut out the sunlight and choked the undergrowth. The Doom was different. It did not welcome you in as the forest edge did. It seemed to grow in on itself, a secret, close-growing world which excluded life. But there was life. The bats roosted there, the owls found perches, and the ravens nested in the moss-covered outcrops of limestone, but of other wildlife there was none, neither songbirds nor insects. It was a place of utter quietude, even when the summer breezes sighed through the rest of the forest. Only the bitter gales of winter penetrated its dark fastnesses, drifting the snow between the black trunks of the menacing trees. The farm folk never went near it. It was cursed with the Old Magic, they said. It bred evil and spread it around. If cows caught disease and died, if lambs were stillborn or deformed, if the hens stopped laying, if crops failed, that was the Doom. No one knew why it stood there in the centre of an otherwise different forest. Environmentalists, botanists, and naturalists had all given their opinions, but none had been conclusive. The Doom was just there, to be avoided and feared.

Gwyl turned his pony and urged it to a trot across the flat top of the ridge. But before the pony had gone ten paces, a shriek came on the wind, and the pony stopped dead, ears laid back, eyes staring. Again, the shriek came, high and long, more frightening than a scream. Was it human, animal, or something else? The hairs on Gwyl’s neck tingled, and his breath caught in his throat. Instinctively, he kicked Blaze into life, and boy and mount hurtled away across the heather towards the track that led downhill to the farm, to safety, and to normality, away from whatever had given voice to such a dreadful shriek.

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The wildwood is still. Winter has passed, and early spring is finding its way into the forest. The trees are beginning to bud, the tiny first fronds of the bracken are appearing among the dead leaves of last autumn, and the air breathes a warmth that promises better weather to come. The forest edges have lost their closed-in look, but in the Doom, there is no change. Yes, the snow has melted, but the ground is still hard and unyielding. The dark trees still shut out the light and warmth of the strengthening sun. There are no buds on trees, no spring growth in the dark ground. The Doom lies dormant but watchful. There is a tension in the cold air, a reek of fear under the still branches, for something has happened. There was a shriek that echoed through the cage of branches, a breath of sheer terror in the atmosphere. The few creatures that inhabit the Doom are lying low, hiding, fearing. There is something in the Doom that no human should see or even know about. Something is moving.

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Gwyl sat on his bed in the little room under the eaves, his legs drawn up, arms round his knees, staring at the small, gabled window. After he had come hurrying into the farmhouse after stabling Blaze, he had eaten his meal without really tasting it, and now he was alone in his room. This had been his particular space, his special place, since he’d been very young. In some ways it was the centre of his world, normal and familiar, although he was part of a close-knit family who looked out for one another. He was never lonely, never shut out, but this small room was his very own, and he had imprinted his personality on it.

Now he sat perfectly still and petrified. That awful shriek had pulled his safe world apart. It had penetrated his natural defences in a way he would never have imagined. He no longer felt safe, not even in this little den of his own.

What had made that dreadful noise? An animal in terrible agony, caught in some devilish trap? A human being in the same predicament? Some creature beyond his imagination? The more he tried to think sensibly, the more bewildered he became. Then another thought entered his head: what was the use of sitting there wondering? What if there was an animal out there, or even a person? He really ought to find out.

Gwyl was the sort of boy who, when his mind was made up, acted immediately. He got up, grabbed his anorak from the chair, and was downstairs and out of the house in no time at all. He had heard the sound when he was on the hill, so that was the place to look. He set off up the farm track that led to the upper pasture and then onto the open hillside, striding purposefully with no clear plan in his mind. And from the edge of the forest, hidden in the tangled bushes, a single eye watched him.

Gwyl reached the crest of the ridge and stood awhile, undecided. Yes, it was here that he had heard that spine-chilling shriek. But where had it come from? Further along the ridge where the rocks heaved their grey bulk above the heather or down in the forest? He stood gazing down at the vast spread of green below him. Whoever was in trouble could be anywhere. The words needle and haystack came to mind. Then, as he stood there, he heard it again, that awful shriek, and it came from the woods below. With no further thought, he started down towards the trees, and behind him on the crest of the ridge, a weird, wrinkled face watched him, its iridescent green eyes unblinking.

The limestone cliffs of Hobland Crags towered over the forest floor on the side of the valley. They were the last remains of glaciation from the last ice age. Now they crowned the side of the valley, their buttresses weathered and seamed with cracks, fissures, and here and there, the entrance to caves and old lead mines. Lead had been mined here since Roman times, and later mining had left tunnels and workings, most of them now in danger of collapse. The workings twisted and turned, following the mother lode, the richest veins of ore, sometimes breaking out high on the cliff face. There was an old belief that the ancient workings were inhabited by a monster called Hob, though what this creature looked like no one knew. Hob was an old word meaning elf that gave rise to the more common hobgoblin.

Gwyl moved cautiously through the trees along the valley side. The day was still. No wind. The forest seemed to be asleep, but Gwyl knew it wasn’t. It was always alive with the movement of small animals, birds, and insects. He continued along the slope of the hillside until he could see, between the trees, the grey rocks of the Hobland against the blue sky. Was this the place? he wondered. Had someone or some animal gotten trapped in some fissure or crack in the rock? He angled up towards the base of the crags until he came to the first of the cave entrances. It was half-blocked with the leaves of last autumn, and nothing had disturbed them. He moved on along the rock face, passing tiny holes only large enough for fox and badger, until he reached the big cave, the old workings. Should he go inside and have a look? He knew the dangers of a sudden rockfall, but by now, he was not only worried but curious. What was happening in the wildwood?

His mind made up, Gwyl carefully stepped into the mouth of the old lead mine. The walls were veined primarily with the colours of lichen and moss but also, here and there, with the reddish-brown of iron and the grey of galena, the lead ore. In places, the old timber pit props of the original level remained. There was no sound now, apart from the steady drip of water from the cracks in the roof of the tunnel. Then his foot struck a stone lying in the wet mud of the cave floor, and he heard a slight sound, a weak, quavering moan which he knew instantly was human.

CHAPTER 2

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Hi! Gwyl called softly. Where are you?

Help me, came the weak answer from the wall on his left.

He moved over and bent down to look. Two shoring timbers had shifted, bringing down some pieces of the rock wall, and peering up at him from between the rotten wooden spars was a muddy, frightened face. Gwyl went into action.

Hang on there! he called. Don’t move, or you might bring down the rest of the roof. I’ll see if I can shift some of these lumps to give me more space.

Carefully, he took hold of the nearest stone and slowly eased it away from the unstable pile of rubble. He paused for a moment, watching for any sudden shifting of rock or timber. There was none. He took hold of another rock and then another and gradually made a gap in the wrecked wall. He could see more clearly now the head and shoulders of the trapped person. It