SPARX Incarnation: Mark of the Green Dragon (SPARX Series I Book 1) Read Online Free Page B

According to legend, they destroyed their own city before leaving it behind and gave up seafaring altogether, although I have also heard that they continue to build magnificent watercrafts that grace the lake they now call home. As far as I could tell, no one really knew why they abandoned their city so readily and without a fight. Gariff did not have the map.
    “Haven’t actually… uh… seen’er yet Nud,” he said. “I was sorta hope’n Kabor’d bring it along.”
    I just shook my head… typical Gariff.
    Kabor returned, appearing out of nowhere.
    “I thought you took off,” I said.
    “Changed my mind,” said Kabor.
    Gariff looked to his cousin, expectation in his eyes. “Do ya have the map, Cuz?”
    Kabor shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “I keep it hidden back at the Flipside.”
    That sealed the decision to head for home. I didn’t tell Kabor about the flickering stone that day, and by the time he found out, it didn’t really matter much. I was right about one thing though. He would want it for himself.

Chapter IV
    The Mire Trail
    A fter my fourth “crossing” of the day, the three of us clambered up the creek slope and met the Mire Trail, heading home. Until mere weeks ago, light watercraft and mucky portages were the only way in or out of town. We had no worries though.
    Two tall and full weeping willows marked the entrance to the trail. Their serpentine roots spread along the ground and curled in and out of the watery mud. The smell of algae and wood rot saturated the air.
    The woods all but disappeared beyond the trailhead and into the bog. Poplar edging gave way to heavy border stones that had been set to define and contain the neck of the trail. That marked the beginnings of a section of corduroy road. Here and there along the water’s edge, densely packed alders grew in clusters together with other mixed species of small trees and shrubs. The alders’ slender and silvery trunks twisted up and around like corkscrews, as though avoiding unseen obstacles suspended in mid-air. Dainty triplets of thin yellow catkins dangled from the tips of lithe branches.
    We plodded on, trudging past a lonely brotherhood of dull and rolling hillocks into a view plane that opened up to the outer reaches of the surrounding expanse. It was the largest single section of actual bog in the so-called “bog lands” – the unofficial but common name for the network of bogs, ponds, and all manner of wetlands encompassing Webfoot.
    The terrain unfolded and flattened into a shallow waterscape, spotted with grassy tufts and old standing deadwood that crackled and knocked whenever the wind blew. Pools of still water mirrored the evening sunlight, splotching with orange a never-ending blanket of pale green moss that stretched out from the trailside to the horizon. Soon, a half-submerged sun would set the blanket ablaze with orange fire in the west.
    “It’s awfully late fer startin’ the bog-pass, isn’t it?” asked Gariff.
    His voice wavered ever so slightly, betraying a hint of concern, and the words he chose were just another way of complaining that we had spent too long rummaging around the sinkhole. The Stout was far from the cradle of his beloved Bearded Hills and uncomfortably close to the fireside ghost stories of his youth. And although the bog was safe, as far as any of us knew, it just wasn’t smart to be out and away from town late at night. Paplov would have never allowed it, had he known.
    “We’ll have daylight to spare on the other side,” I replied, “unless you care to break for a swim?”
    Gariff shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said, “I don’t have yer webbing, or love of leeches on my arse.”
    “No, you certainly don’t have webbing,” I said, stalling for time while spinning a respectable retort, “and as for the leeches… I’ll have to take your word for it.” I turned to size him up, probing for a sporting target to seize upon. Only one thing came to mind, and it