Legends of Windemere

The Cock of the South By C.S. Boyack

C. S. Boyack has a new book out called “The Cock of the South”. This is his first attempt at writing fantasy. It involves a group of conquered peoples banding together to ensure they have a place in the world. It is set in a Greco-Roman environment, rife with everything fans of those stories might expect.

Here is a little teaser. Cobby is the main character, and a Southern Dwarf.

I used a lot of fairytale structure in this story. This scene is the start of magical gifts from friends. Cobby just rescued a rooster from a tar pit. At least he thinks it’s a rooster. Someone just called to him from the twilight forest.

***

Cobby slowly scanned the woods, but saw no one. “Is this your rooster?”

“Over here, in the crotch of the tree,” she said, “and it’s not my rooster.”

It was a fairy, no bigger than Cobby’s hand. She wore a blue gauze dress that left nothing to the imagination, and calf high sandals like his.

Cobby looked away.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you like my dress?”

“I can see right through it.”

“Most boys like that best.”

Cobby looked again, she had the same dark complexion he did, with black hair. She was voluptuous, and possibly the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

She turned around so he could see her wings and said, “Comfortable now?”

She had four clear wings on her back, like a dragonfly, but shorter and wider, like a bee perhaps.

“No,” he said.

“I’ve seen a lot of strange things in my day, but this is one for the campfire,” she said. “Strangers have been pouring into the marsh as the forests are all burned. We have many dwarves, but I’ve never seen any of them help a creature like him before.”

She stepped into the dying light as the first stars made their appearance. “I’m Iris, and who, Master Dwarf, are you?”

“C-Cobby.”

“That’s it, just Cobby?”

“Yes.”

“We like to know who’s tromping around in the marsh.”

“Would you like your chicken back?”

“He’s no chicken, he’s a cockatrice.”

Cobby dropped the bird’s neck and held his hand toward Iris. “Cover your eyes, my lady, he’ll turn us both to stone.”

Iris fell on her branch and laughed, a breathy sort of laugh that sounded like wind through autumn leaves. She made an adorable little snort at the end. “And how’s he going to do that, Master Cobby?”

“By gazing at us. Run away, fly away.”

Iris laughed again, harder this time. “I suppose you read that somewhere.”

“Yes.”

“Master Cobby, he cannot stare at us and turn us to stone. There are many kinds of wyrms in this marsh, and like all wyrms it’s his breath that kills.”

Cobby slid away from the cockatrice and backed toward Iris.

“What are you afraid of? He owes you a debt. Besides, he’s just a baby. Pit fighters call a similar rooster a stag. He won’t develop a breath weapon until he’s older. He hatched in a sand bar not far from here this spring.”

The cockatrice stepped forward and shook. Bits of tar splattered along the ground. He flapped his wings and crowed defiantly.

The tail was not matted rooster feathers at all, but that of a dragon. The tar covered wings were leathery and featherless, with a clawed finger at the crook. His head and neck were covered with ginger hackles that blended into the black feathers of his breast. A row of spines, like an iguana’s ran down his neck all the way to the tip of his tail. The crowning touch was a blood red comb and wattles like an actual rooster’s.

“No breath weapon you say. Is he good eating?”

Iris laughed once more, “You’re certainly a dwarf, Master Cobby. The Gods would be angry if you killed him. I can sense him, and he is loyal to you. I’m afraid you’ve made a new friend. A formidable friend once he grows up.”

“What was he doing on that dead beast?”

“Feeding. The goat attracts beetles, flies, maggots. He was hungry. They aren’t chickens, and are alone the second they hatch. The first year can be hard on them.”

“So what am I supposed to do with him?”

“Have you never owned a dog or cat?”

“No. My mother had cats.”

“Try that for a start,” she flew over, reached up, and scratched the cockatrice under the chin. “See, he likes it.”

Cobby timidly copied her.

“What you did was a noble act, even if you didn’t intend it. It’s deserving of a reward, and reminds me of something from long ago. I’d like you to have it, come with me.”

“I need to get this wood back to Uncle,” Cobby said.

“It isn’t far. Many years ago the road ran along the other side of the tar pit. There’s something hidden in the old campsite litter that you should see. Take it or leave it, and you can return to your uncle.”

***

You can follow Craig at the following places:

His blog, Entertaining Stories. http://coldhandboyack.wordpress.com

On Twitter. https://twitter.com/Virgilante

You can pick up a copy of The Cock of the South at http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00P4H37WC