Dreamwalker by J.D. Oswald

small animals, each bright with the life force of the world, he hit the water.
    It drove the air out of his lungs like a punch to the stomach. Cold wet hands grabbed at him, pulling him down to the blackened deeps. He could feel Martha panicking, thrashing around to free herself from their tangled embrace. He was a strong swimmer himself, but judging by her frenzy Martha was not. He tried to relax, to orient himself and regain the surface. It wasn’t far to the edge where the sandy beach ran down into the water. They could get out there easily, if he could just calm her down enough to float.
    A burning sensation in Errol’s chest reminded him that he needed to breathe more urgently than anything else. Panic flirted with his mind, threatening to overwhelm him. He fought it down, realising as he did just how easy it would be to die now. And for Martha to die too. Struggling against the cold that sapped his strength and the intense pain in his chest, he reached out for the thrashing figure above him, hoping his touch would calm her enough to save them both. Then something hard and sharp and boot-like connected with his head and everything changed.
    The dark was warm, which was odd. Errol could remember being in the water, the cold chill tugging at his legs, sucking his clothes to his puckering skin. He could remember being spun slowly by the lazy, powerful current, pulling him downwards with exactly the same force as his body wanted to rise. Yet now he was sitting in the warm and dark, calm.
    ‘How?’ He asked himself and his voice rang out loud and clear. But it was like listening to a memory of his speech, the words forming directly in his mind.
    ‘I brought you here, Errol Ramsbottom,’ came a reply that he had not been expecting. It was not a man’s voice, although it was undoubtedly masculine. It was larger somehow, more measured and authoritative. A voice used to being taken seriously.
    ‘Who?’ Errol asked, unsure as to whether he spoke the words or merely thought them, unsure as to where he really was.
    ‘You know who I am, Errol,’ the voice said, and Errol realised that he did.
    ‘Dragon?’ he said. He had seen pictures in one of old Father Drebble’s bestiaries showing forest dragons. They were sad looking things with drab hides and pathetic, vestigial wings.
    ‘My descendents are a pale shadow of their true selves,’ the voice said. ‘That has been their choice. But once, when I walked this earth, we were great, the masters of all. Since I died I have watched them shrink into obscurity.’
    ‘Died?’ Errol said and his voice rang out the question in his head.
    ‘Yes, Errol. I died. Many thousands of years ago. And my jewels were laid to rest at this nexus in the Llinellau Grym. Since then I have watched countless generations come and go, both dragon and men, never amounting to very much. But we are reaching a critical point, your kind and mine and you will have a key part to play in that change.’
    ‘Me,’ Errol said. ‘But I’m no one. I mean, I’m not special.’
    ‘If that is what you truly believe, that is how it will be,’ the dragon-voice said. ‘But I think you are made of greater stuff than you realise. You have already taken the first step on the path to becoming a mage. I’ve watched you these past few years, growing up, learning far faster than your peers, trying so hard to understand the world around you. It will come in time, but have you the patience to learn? And are you prepared to accept help from wherever it is offered?’
    ‘What do you mean?’ Errol asked. He had a creeping feeling of unease. Like he had walked into a room and couldn’t remember why.
    ‘Your destiny is your own, Errol Ramsbottom. You can be as much or as little as you want. All you need to do is make the right decisions. But remember this, you can have power or you can have happiness. Sometimes it may seem that you can have both at the same time, but that can never last. In the end it is either one