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Dragon's Draught
Dragon's Draught
Dragon's Draught
Ebook26 pages23 minutes

Dragon's Draught

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For fifteen years, Darminor has limped through life on a withered leg, envying the world around him while perfecting the banned art of potionmaking. Now, after all this time, he finds that healing may be within his grasp. He need only brew the dragonclaw elixir, the rarest of potions—and then steal it from those who hired him. It’s his one chance at health and freedom. Can Darminor muster the courage—and the wiles—to succeed in his plan?

Dragon’s Draught is a 6,200 word fantasy short story.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherMark P. Kolba
Release dateOct 26, 2012
ISBN9781301224593
Dragon's Draught
Author

Mark P. Kolba

Mark P. Kolba lives in northwest Indiana with his lovely wife and daughter, and he has enjoyed reading and writing epic fantasy for many years. Growing up, he was steeped in the world of The Lord of the Rings (what fantasy fan wasn’t?) and found himself fascinated by tales of adventure, magic, and battles between great forces of good and evil. Tales that provided a fun and exciting escape from the real world yet also resonated long after the story was finished. He hopes that through his own writing he is able to open windows to worlds that are full of wonder, struggle, and fantastical delight. He hopes that you find his stories to be a place where adventure begins. And he hopes that you come along for the ride.

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    Book preview

    Dragon's Draught - Mark P. Kolba

    Dragon’s Draught

    by Mark P. Kolba

    Copyright 2012 Mark P. Kolba

    Smashwords Edition

    All Rights Reserved

    Dragon’s Draught

    Darminor gritted his teeth at the jagged pain slicing through his leg like a woodsman’s saw. The leg dragged along behind him like a great lump of oak, a dead limb amidst the swirl of health and vigor that walked the market road up ahead. A velvet-swathed merchant passed him with a sidelong glance, and a farmer at one of the stands took sudden notice of a blemish on a tomato. Curse them for their health. Darminor’s fingers tightened around his staff and he forced himself to limp on. He would not show weakness.

    He caught the sound of rapid footfalls scattering pebbles on the road behind him. One of the city urchins come to mock him? He turned, ready to swing his staff. But it was no child—a bedraggled peasant charged down the road towards him, waving his arms over his head like a potionmaker fleeing the magister’s inquisition. Darminor glared at him. He used to be able to run so much faster than that. He could have left that poor slob choking on a cloud of dust.

    The man stopped directly in front of him, gasping for breath in whistling heaves. The king is dying, he wheezed.

    Ah, said Darminor. So that was what the ruckus was about.

    The man looked up, urgency etched in his bloodshot eyes. The king is dying!

    Darminor snorted. Dying, eh? So was everyone else—some a little faster than others. How unfortunate, he sneered, and he turned away.

    But the man persisted. He needs help. He needs it now. Are you a potionmaker?

    Darminor froze. Who dared to ask him such a question on an open road? Was this a trap? He couldn’t risk it, didn’t

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