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Short Story: Chewing A Little Fat With The Mind Readers

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN Chewing a Little Fat with the Mind Readers There were an assortment of pathways leading up and into the mountain. Some were dead ends riddled with monsters who roamed in hordes amid the shadows channeling Gordok’s magic, drawing so deeply on his power that I could feel it like a brewing storm, preparing to lash out with lightning and hollering gusts of wind. Other paths were misleading routes that continued on into nothingness. But Aragon knew the winding trails and carefully guided us around the tight, dizzying loops, clear of the wild, windswept shrubs and lanky trees that looked more like torture victims, with gaping lesions. As we scrambled up, at least a half dozen battles raged on the hill. Winged beasts circling through …show more content…

“I won’t allow Gordok to destroy everything that’s worth living for. I would rather have my eyes plucked out than see him triumph.” “Oh, dear.” Matilda mashed her scaly claws together. “Doomsday and destruction . . . how soon?” I told her about our travels, Gordok’s attempts on my life, and our madcap quest to find the centaurs and read their minds. “But this idea of yours,” Matilda quivered, creating a landslide of jiggling red dragon flesh, “it’s possible.” “Like a doubled-over commando dragon loping through the weeds?” I asked. “Or a monster tumbling a baton.” She shrugged. “Touché, sweetie. I’ll admit there is no such thing as the impossible. Therefore, Aiden, I wish you both luck.” Aragon bent down, brushing my cheek with his long snout and drew me into his armored chest. “Well, here we are. I have taken you this far, but I can’t go any farther. It’s forbidden by the dragon decree. I hope you find what you’re looking for.” Then he hugged mason and we left him on the summit, standing beside Matilda as if the two were spending a dreamy afternoon …show more content…

Knowing Mason, I was sure he would miss him and nail me. I dove to one side. Whack! Mason slammed his club into the dwarf’s chest so hard, his eyes rattled in his head. Then he struck again. The dwarf fell forward and landed on his belly like a turtle on its shell—arms and legs straight out—suspended two feet off the ground by his enormous protrusion. “You miserable kids,” he howled, trying to kick himself upright. “Just wait. I’ll sprinkle you with a bash of paprika and wa-lah chicken paprikash.” I scrambled down the uneven slope as Mason darted in for another couple of passes. Crack. Thwack. Punch. S-l-l-lap. He sprinted past me faster than a sword fight in a phone booth. Once we reached the bottom, we collapsed in a sun-drenched meadow. Delicate, white, pink, and purple wildflowers were intertwined between ripping blades of grass. The blossoms though tiny infused the air with a warm fragrance that—for me—evoked summers of fresh picked strawberries and hay turning yellow beneath the sun. In the distance, I saw a stand of dark pine trees, and beyond them, a languid brook trickled softly on a bed of pebbles into a sliver lake. The field was surrounded by blue hills and Shadow

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