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Adrian Murphy, Author
Bonus Prequel Short Story
Galindra and the Troll
A celebration turned to sorrow. A troll with an appetite for flesh. Can a young dragon-shifter avoid being a meal for her mortal enemy?
Long before becoming a top-notch investigator, Galindra takes her first flight in dragon form using her magical powers. It’s almost her last.
Lost and surrounded by enemies in a remote mountain fortress, Galindra finds an unlikely ally. But can she evade the cook pot and escape from her fearsome captors?
Will she master her abilities before her vengeful dragon father incinerates the entire castle and triggers total war?
Galindra and the Troll is a standalone prequel to Adrian Murphy’s cross-genre fantasy action-adventure thriller series, The ForeSender Chronicles. If you enjoy emerging special powers, a desperate struggle for survival, ruthless foes, and friendship forged in the fires of adversity, then this fast-paced short story is for you. Perfect for fantasy fans everywhere.
Read it for free to learn how the second dragon-troll war began.
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Excerpt: Galindra and the Troll
Bonus Short Story
Chapter One ~ Captive
“Hey, do baby dragons taste good with salt?” Distant calls and the stomp of steel-toed boots drifted down from the sentries patrolling the castle rampart. Logs crackled and spat in the relit fire beneath the capacious main oven of the isolated fortress.
“Dunno, Corporal Grolf,” came the slow, measured response, as if the speaker had needed time to cogitate and chew over the words.
There was a sigh, resembling the sloughing of wind in the treetops. “Well, I need to know,” Grolf grunted. “How do I season the beast, if we’re going to cook it? And do I leave the wings on or off before I put it in the oven, eh, Blister?”
Though I’d just as soon not cook the cute little creature at all, Grolf thought.
He rubbed his meaty fingers on the apron draped around his muscular middle. Once upon a time, the grubby covering had been white with light blue stripes and heavy with starch, the kingdom’s coat of arms displayed on the front. Now the insignia was almost unrecognizable beneath the accumulated layers of grime and grease.
“This wasn’t what I had in mind when I volunteered for military service, you know.” Grolf toyed with one of the garment’s strings that trailed down his back. “I remember when the recruiting officer came to my home cave. I can still picture her perched on the communal ash tip, bellowing: ‘Become the troll you were meant to be. Join the Midnight Brigade.’ So, I did. And now look at me. On kitchen punishment duty. My ma would have a fit if she saw me wearing this filthy apron.”
“It’s a very nice apron tho’—suits ye,” said another voice. The gravelly tone always put Grolf in mind of the movement of loose rocks before a landslide. It had a certain hollow quality, since the newcomer was just stepping out of the opening to a broad stone staircase.
“Slasher, I didn’t hear ye come in.” Blister hastily leveraged himself to a standing position. He had been leaning against the door frame of a storeroom, trying and failing to look busy while doing nothing.
“That’s Sergeant to you, Private Blister.” Slasher tramped into the middle of the vast, round chamber that served as the stronghold’s main kitchen.
He planted his feet in front of the unfortunate Blister, who cowered. The sergeant was a good head taller—and a great deal wider—and carried a long mace, topped by an iron ball with vicious-looking spikes, that he loved to wave around whenever the urge took him.
“When’s supper goin’ to be ready?” Slasher grated. “My belly’s growling so much, the rest of the garrison will think we’re under attack by mountain terrawolves.”
“The big oven had gone cold, right, it’s being heated. How were we to know dragon’d be on tonight’s menu?” Blister said in a querulous tone, sounding put upon but wary all at the same time, his eye on the menacing mace.
“How could ye, seein’ as I only caught it with my crossbow and net not more’n an hour ago? The half-pint dragon didn’t stand a chance against me! An’ you,” Slasher turned to Grolf, the spiked ball whistling past Blister’s chest. “I wants the meat to be tasty. We’re givin’ some to Captain Argolde, an’ ye know how he likes his meals to be flavorful an’ fresh.”
Grolf nodded. “It’ll be fresh, alright. It’s so fresh, it’s still alive.”
“What!” The head of the mace knocked stone chips out of the nearby wall as Slasher gestured with the weapon. “I ordered ye to kill the beast, didn’ I?”
“It’s the big soulful eyes starin’ up at me, Sarge. I just couldn’t do it,” Grolf said. Even as a youngling, he always had a soft spot for stray animals. His desire to save lost or injured creatures resulted in the gradual development of what amounted to a small zoo in a distant meadow of the family estate. His bemused parents had indulged their second son in what they regarded as a passing hobby, since it kept him out of more serious trouble.
“Are ye a troll or a rat?” Slasher prodded Grolf in the chest with the index finger of his free hand. Unlike the timid Blister, Grolf didn’t flinch when confronted by Slasher. He was every bit as tall as the sergeant, and just as broad and muscle-bound.
Grolf often wondered what it would be like to snatch the mace from the other’s hand and see how it would sound reverberating off his superior’s bony skull. Maybe someday, he mused.
Slasher pointed with the mace. “Bring the stinkin’ critter here.”
