In the world of Vast, year 1492 of the One Source, the Wooden Lass braves the Dragoon Ocean.

A sighting of hippopotamuses promises Axton Ash and his crew that new land is nearing. But with good reason, they fear it may not be so easy. A certain Soul Dragon has turned Axton around twice before.

The Wooden Lass’s Last Afternoon at Sea​

Violin music fills the one-deck ship. Inside, Leofric’s sickly green complexion contrasts with his chocolate-colored eyes, locks, and beard. Tripping over the hem of his lilac cloak and bumping into crammed passengers, he’s dripping with perspiration, imagining the music vibrations churning inside his gut.

One mariner says to another, “that Warlock wannabe deserves his illness, way he’s been playing with potions all fortnight.”

Leofric only sneers at him and every other commoner in his path. Ship creaking under his hurry, he proceeds to the latrine.

Upon arrival, two nuns in windblown, white attire stand guard, each one clasping an end of a curtain to give privacy for the head’s occupant. Sister Barbola, one of the two providing cover, lifts dilating, hazel eyes that show she’s no born citizen of their native continent, Ganes.

Ignoring the immigrant nun’s worry, Leofric pounds on the curtain and raises his voice over the wind’s howling. “You’ve been in there for a blasted hour. What do you have to say for yourself?”

A defiant fart thrashes back, secreting a pungent stench.

Leofric laughs maniacally. “So, you speak with your arse? Must be one of ten filthy prisoners granted amnesty to work this voyage. Think I can’t hold my own?”

As Sister Barbola re-institutes her objection, he gestures to stop her. This time, she screeches over him. “It’s Axton.” She settles down her voice, peering behind the drape and batting her eyes. “He’s risen to his feet and is wiping his—One Source, forgive me—his bottie.” Her voice then descends to a whisper. “So plump, but defined.”

The flustered nun regains composure, straightens her posture, and delivers a stern warning audible to all. “He’s pulling his trousers up and won’t appreciate you calling him a felon. Run.”

The smug look over Leofric’s face turns to one of shock. All there was to do was make haste. If only the echo of her words had not gone out to the others.

It’s heard by ten crew members in umber- hued robes, who rise up. Their angry faces are spread over different locations, but they’re damned sure assembling to come after him.

From out front, a bald and dirty woman says, “It’s one thing that you constantly look down on us, but now you’ve insulted the great explorer. If not for him, I’d still be locked away, awaiting hanging.” She turns to the others.

A splash rocks the boat, briefly stopping the mob. Leofric licks saltwater from his lips and begs off from his accusers. They seem to have only grown angrier, while the woman makes a tossing overboard motion.

Would they cast him out? Why wouldn’t they? After all, their violent crimes got them arrested in the first place.

Leofric blinks and sees they’ve paused, hard lines in their faces softening. Then, his breaths accelerate as he fixes his stare on Axton’s shadow cast amidst the blinding evening light.

The Wooden Lass’s Last Evening at Sea

The speechless ex-prisoners cower from the sight of Axton as he takes a stand next to Sister Barbola. Wind tousles his silver hair; mane of his beard reaches the breast of his dark jacket. He’s five inches taller than any other present and stopping them with a mere signal from his black gloved hand.

Voice deep enough to command waters, he says, “Behold, the sun, sunken but visible. Behold the sky, a deep and bold blue. And how about these clouds? They’re fluffy as castle pillows. This is no day to throw anyone overboard.”

Awaiting their reply, he smooths down his jacket, matte but sheened up by symmetric patterns of crystals from the ancient east.

The mob members shake their heads then grumble all the way to their seats.

Their attitudes bring confusion over his face. “Sister Barbola, what’s the matter with them?”

“They wish to know what will become of this man who has disrespected you.”

Both of them observe Leofric, who is bending over and grasping his stomach.

Thick brows furrowed, Axton smiles. “What will become of him? I gather he will take a shit.”

With that comment, the young Warlock dashes behind the curtain.

Sister Barbola guffaws. “You’re blunt but very gracious.”

Restored peace brings recommencing violins. But Axton obstructs them with a thunderous rebuke. “Pipe down.”

This renewed tension sends Sister Barbola into a rambling tangent. “Gracious, yes, but a fan of the Symphony of the Source, I suppose not.”

Inside the gleam in her eyes and the dimples beneath, he recognizes subtle confidence that convinces him to divulge only to her.

“Once we’ve advanced past the Soul Dragon, they may play to their heart’s delight. Until that happens, we cannot guarantee we’ll stand on dry land.”

“Ah-hah,” she says.

“Ah-hah, indeed,” he playfully taunts.

Now, he’s performing for all the onlookers. To their oohing, he unsheathes his legendary ripper blade, a sword with impressive length. “Don’t force my hand.”

A raucous laughter from the crew lightens the mood. Then, Axton’s heavy steps take him to a position overlooking the ocean. Until the sun sets in front of him, none will dare disturb his meditation.

The Wooden Lass’s Last Night at Sea​

After the heavens blacken, Leofric passes shadowy figures to reach Axton. Weak from vomiting all day, tired from figuring how he’d broach a touchy subject, he forces himself to step in Axton’s space. But can he find the courage to raise questions about his dead father to such a powerful man?

His voice trembles into the night’s dim atmosphere, over a sea only discernable when waves reach their peaks. His mouth moves, but what he’s been imagining saying does not materialize. Instead, he’s stuttering and choking back bitter tears.

Choosing to settle on another topic, he says, “Sorry to bother you, but thank you for keeping those froths away from me this afternoon.”

The explorer takes a draw from his cigar, then his chilling, low pitch arises over swooshes of waves. “Froths?”

Coughing on the cigar’s smolder, he replies, “They’re still wearing prison uniforms, aren’t they?”

“Things I’ve been celebrated for—” To slow pulsing, Axton passes his torchlight along the top of the ship’s stern, where the great ripper blade rests. There’s one nick of edge damage after another. “Some of my kills should have put me in a matching umber uniform. Those froths’ attires cost them years of their lives; how much did that cloak cost you?”

Leofric snaps his head back but regroups with a superior tone. “A modest one-hundred shillings.”

“Modest? That’s a year’s wages for the working class. Mind you, you’re amongst them.”

He swallows. “That will change. Prince Pelton has given me the chance to be here with you—to redeem my family’s legacy.”

With his eyes glinting in the torchlight; he’s toasting his cigar, again.

Sweat has now broken from Leofric’s brow. Through a cloud of smoke, he declares, “That puffing is no good for you.” He draws a breath.  “My entire life—I’ve been forced to argue vehemently against my own mother and siblings in order to escape disgrace. I’m better than these you keep company with.”

“Yeah, what of it?”

“I need to know.”

“About my relationship with your father? Now, he was a real warlock. Every natural resource I brought back, he extracted the magic, alchemized it with brilliance. These days, though, I no longer reminisce on his work. Rather, on life lessons we discovered together.”

“Together?” Leofric laughs with indignation. “They put my father to death for blasphemy, while they continue to sponsor your explorations. You’re no different than him, lowering the One Source flag from the ship’s masts. And you speak of a strange idea. Individualism.”

“I do.” Axton’s peering deep into Leofric’s eyes, seeing pools of desperation. “Your father’s only crime was that he stood against playboy Prince Pelton’s affairs, and well, the rest is history.”

“He did so at the expense of us, his family. How are you blind to that?”

“Are you going to cry? Know this. He wouldn’t.”

“This is no game; it’s my life. Mother makes him out to be a martyr, while that loathsome vagabond was no cleverer than to leave us as bad off as these commoners. Suffering.”

Axton again switches his attention from Leofric to the abyss. “You’re a brat.”

“Make a case that he showed cleverness.”

“Cleverness, I cannot say. Honesty, though? Above the pail.”

“I will be better than him. A cleverer warlock.”

“Oh, please. How clever.”

“Behold.” Leofric opens his hands to reveal a glistening fiery shell. “The Soul Dragon is a sea creature, no? I have devised a force so powerful that once used on this monster, you, Axton, will write about it in your next book. What shall you title it?”

“Reveries and wishes of a wannabe.”

* * *

Under surges of waves, the Soul Dragon detects the moods and desires of those voyaging by the Wooden Lass. Should she strike fear in them with a roar? Drown them with a sheer sneeze? Not by night. Wouldn’t be fair.

As all their thoughts muddle together and hurt her head, she zeroes in on the heart of the one who seems to matter most. His name is Axton Ash.  Yes, he’s feared, even in her realm.

She’s met him twice before. Brown hair, beard, fierce eyes, swift sword that ripped out the inwards of her fellow kind. He’d do anything to bring back the resources of her people’s land. Yes, he preferred diplomacy, but he would kill for what they refused to trade.

Except, he’s aged, and what is this loss that has shattered the iceberg around his heart? Has he searched his own soul and found something worthy?  Is that regret she senses? Is it wisdom? Has his loyalty switched from country to what he’s learned from his lived experience?

Does he finally have something valuable to trade to her children?

The Wooden Lass’s Last Morning at Sea

Amidst a sky that’s three shades of blue, the risen sun glistens an orange path to the Wooden Lass.

The fish life smells particularly refreshing as Sister Barbola passes by sailors oaring through burbling water. She hands each one literature of the One Source. Along her route, Leofric’s snoring loudly. “Hm?” She lays a scripture next to him and continues with long strides.

If ever morning faith is needed, it’s here. Some of them believe in the One Source, others Axton. Speaking of whom, he’s nowhere to be found.

A resting sailor smiles, takes the pamphlet, and motions upwards. After gazing up while blocking the sun with her hand, she gasps.

Axton’s standing atop the center mast, causing her heart to sink. His wife’s been passed away for a couple of years, and there’s none left to lecture him for this. She reasons what she must do, exhales, shakes her head, and begins her ascent.

Watching on, the sailor says, “Now where you going, lady?” Some laugh at her; more cry out.

She makes it just underneath Axton. He’s up in the crow’s nest, feet planted together, sword drawn.

The explorer, poised and not looking down, says, “Sister Barbola, this is not the time.”

The current is harsh and her tone urgent. “If you fall, we all plummet with you. I try not to scold you, ever, but you had better come down, right now, Mr. Ash.”

“If I don’t, will a spanking be an order?”

Flushed with surprise and undesired pleasure, she shakes her head. “Axton, no.”

“Oh, I’m an old-timer. Not a threat.”

“What in all Vast are you thinking?”

“The Soul Dragon is near.”

She hesitates, heart racing but demeanor unchanged. “How are you sure?”

“I heard it speaking. Recognize the female, raspy whisper from my previous two failures out here.”

“Do you need me to bring the language expert to translate?”

“No. Keep everyone at bay. This dragon communicates to spirits. I am presenting myself to her, head on, to reduce the risk for you and everyone else. Turn back, now. She’s in our midst!”

A long wave shoots around the ship. When it sojourns nearby, a scaly azure neck ascends. Hands made slippery by a big splash— Sister Barbola tightens her grip amid flapping sails.

* * *​

Down in the shaking boat, the men and women’s shouts and prayers awaken Leofric.

He reads the pamphlet next to him. The One Source is calling forth next century leaders. Next, he sees the roaring Soul Dragon facing off with Axton. “Shit.” He pats down his pockets, until he touches the bulging fiery shell. Finally, he shoves through the crowd to bolt up the mast.

Halfway up, he aims the shell with his shaky hands in preparation for blasting the dragon. He hears the withered voice of his mother. “We need money. Go back to work and forget about that voyage. Your fantasies are going to starve us all.” He’s nearly panting, and his motivation is like a begging dog’s, directed up, coveting reward.

* * *​

Up is where Axton remains firm, staring down the Soul Dragon’s spikey skull, sharp teeth, and two-pronged tongue. She hisses inside the explorer’s soul. “I’ll kill you.”

She heaves acid down upon him. He tilts back, catches the spew with his sword, made possible by a magic defense mechanism Leofric’s father built into his weapon. Feeling pain in his shoulder, as if his entire arm may rip off, he’s careful to swing and release her deadly bile away from her and the ship. Breathing heavily, he shouts, “Go ahead, kill me. I won’t run this time. But please spare the others.”

“You—you didn’t even try to throw it back at me? You really identify with those prisoners on this ship, don’t you?”

“Everyone deserves a second chance. I spoke on their behalf to our Prince, because not enough free citizens were brave enough to serve aboard. I wish no harm on you or your people. I warned my sponsors that I would fail again before I killed. I bring fair trades along with education, love, hope, and wisdom.”

“You spoke on the behalf of others? Stood up to your leader?  I’ve seen you before but feel as though we’ve never met. Your hair has grayed.”

“I’ve lived and died and lived again. I’m no more the boy I once was than the butterfly is the caterpillar. “

The dragon’s sigh echoes into his heart. She feels his peace like a calming storm, his desire to share it. “You’re telling the truth.”

At this statement, both the Soul Dragon and Axton see flashes of Elenor, Axton’s wife. She’s in their yard, greenish-yellow leafed trees, a swing, and children’s laughter in the backdrop. Nobly dressed in a wide brimmed red hat and lacy collar, she’s smiling ear to ear.

“Axton, you never bring anything sentimental back from your voyages.”

To the Soul Dragon, Axton says, “I wish to obtain something special for my wife’s grave. She persisted to be ever curious of this new land throughout her life.”

“You two had children.”

“Yes, and grandchildren.”

“You must understand this: the mortals on that so-called new land are mine. I’ve adopted them and have protected them for centuries.”

“You were wise to do so. But don’t you ever fear you’re isolating them?”

“They need to experience more. I’ve known this for five hundred years, but you’re the first to bring something I want for them. I— just don’t know.”

Axton pauses to think of an answer for her apprehension. Right when he will speak, a deafening blast nearly shakes him off balance.  In a blink of an eye, he sees an enflamed beam firing up to the Soul Dragon. After he gathers his bearings, a look of horror crosses his face.

The Soul Dragon is a volcanic, beating red color, and she’s shrieking in agony. She speeds away and explodes to pieces a safe distance from the ship. Amidst rising fumes, her last request whispers in Axton’s heart. “I protected your people. You protect mine.”

Eyes wide, Axton lowers his gaze. On a wrung beneath on one side is Sister Barbola with an expression of shock and concern. On the other, Leofric is breathing heavily, grinning, and holding open a now empty fiery shell.

Axton mutters, “What have you done?”

Leofric shoots down in triumph to the ship’s base. When his feet are lodged, he raises the shell, and shouts. “I did it. I defeated the Soul Dragon. You will embark on new land and owe it all to me.” The crew claps, violins play, and he’s hoisted by a couple sailors and celebrated by all but the ten in umber uniforms.

Instead, their eyes follow Axton. He’s in a daze, making his way to an isolated location.

Sister Barbola taps his shoulder. “I heard her talking to your soul. She didn’t deserve to die. What Leofric did was so…wrong and irresponsible. He could have blown us all up.”

After a long pause, he answers, “Do you see the error of this collectivism that you’re bound to? It’s fueling my crew’s adulation for the same violence you’re denouncing.”

Standing firm, she says, “Get out of your head and do something about it, Axton. Only yesterday, you had the power to have him thrown overboard.”

A swarm of birds dashes by. Vegetation has come into view. As the crew shouts and sings to loud music, Leofric laughs with delight.

Axton and Barbola exchange questioning glances, then fix their eyes on a new alliance and world. With his mouth hanging; he feels the strength of Barbola’s need for a leader pulling against his will to join Elenor in peace.

In a search down into the depths of his soul where the dragon had once been, he sees Barbola in her earrings, selling perfume on the cobblestone roads of the Ancient East. The pink leaves of nearby trees have fully bloomed and hover over a commotion of townspeople lining up to street merchant stands.

He’d only turned his glance from her enticing stare for a moment, and a loud pop turns his attention back.  Her uncle in his grand golden garment and curly white beard has his finger in her beaten face, which she is covering. “You will not be a working girl. You hear me. You will marry Lord Adam.” He sees his Ripper Blade drawn on the man, and her running to his breast.

The attraction he felt to have her for himself, back then… But he was married.

After he sails with her back to Ganes, he takes her inside a marble floored room with stairs as wide as her entire old abode. Surrounded by fountains and white statues of a faceless deity, he points at words etched in their base that read, “One Source.”

Now he stands against the very life he offered her, but this time she will not budge. “Axton, you have to get out of your head and stop this.” Beautiful with no earrings and makeup, her ageless face remains stern under her veil.

He nods and approaches the others celebrating. “Enough.” The music halts and the crew turn. Leofric’s cheery disposition whitens.

Axton slashes the air with his sword. “The Soul Dragon and I were on the cusps of diplomacy, before we brutally murdered her. Now, we owe it to her people in that new world to give them protection and peace. And anyone of you will go through me before a hair on their heads is taken.”

Leofric screeches, “What? You will dare hold my victory against this dragon—the one you twice fled from—against me?”

“No, I won’t. No more than I can allow myself to hold my failures against me. None of us will be judged from what happened a moment ago. Rather, we must proceed, no longer asking what we will conquer in this new world, but what we will do to prosper it.”

 

Subscribe For The Latest Publications
We’ll send you only the best works from our selected authors.