The Final Days of Monty White (The Pangreana Saga Book 2)

Book summary

In "The Final Days of Monty White," Monty White, a seasoned monster hunter, faces an unexpected death sentence as sinister shadows threaten to consume him. To save his life, he embarks on a perilous quest to find the elusive Skudra, a mythical creature with the power to grant three wishes. Guided by an eclectic group of friends, including a wizard, sphinx, warrior, and more, Monty's journey unfolds as he battles darkness and seeks salvation in the face of overwhelming odds.

Excerpt from The Final Days of Monty White (The Pangreana Saga Book 2)

“You’re a fool, laddie,” the old man in the tavern snorted as he slammed his almost finished tankard onto the table. A mongrel air of self-loathing and outward disdain filled the room. Monty White stared at the map firmly grasped in his hand, unfazed by the old wizard’s annoyance.

As he surveyed the map, a portly barmaid—who was smaller than most humans should rightly be—broke the tension by plonking another full tankard of ale down by the elderly man’s elbow. He made a faint growling noise, which the barkeep took as thanks, and grabbed the fresh beverage by the trunk, totally ignoring the handle. Morflung Sevenhooks, was one of the most powerful wizards in all the land, but he’d been outshined by the development of the modern world.

“A fool is all I have left to be,” Monty White replied, sipping on his strange cocktail of hot water and herbs.

The folks in this village were simple in their means and had never really embraced the new ways that were seeping in from the major cities throughout the land. They liked wine, ale, and occasionally a cup of tea with milk. Unlike the cities that had accepted technology long ago, Creagsmeade was still clinging to the old ways. Herbal tea was a thing either long forgotten, or never introduced; the people of the city were content with what they had.

It was the simplicity of Creagsmeade that had brought the wizard there in the first place. After all, what use was a wizard when the population was more amazed by smart phones than they were by any form of magic? Whilst he had enjoyed the limelight in his younger days, truthfully, he was hurt and angered that he had lost meaning so quickly in a cold, faceless world. Wizards lived long, varied lives, and for the old man in the tavern, his rollercoaster had reached the final few drops. These days, it felt more like a lazy river.

He turned to Monty White with a look on his face that was equal parts frustration and concern, and snapped, “If you go looking for that beast, you’re as good as dead.”

Monty’s retort was swift and venomous. “If I don’t go looking, I’m as good as dead.”

Both men stared at each other in stunned silence. The wizard, unable to muster up anything to correctly portray his feelings, Monty uncertain of how to proceed, so as not to break the old man’s heart further.

“I’ve known you a great long time, Monty.”

“As long as I can remember, Morflung.”

The wizard smiled. It was the first time he recalled anyone using his name for quite some time. Folks in the town knew who he was, but very few of them ever addressed him as anything more than “sir”.

“I’m so sorry, Monty. I wish they could have found it sooner. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Just maybe, you won’t have to. This may be a fool’s errand, but waiting round to die sounds just as foolish to me.”

Sounds from around the tavern grew silent as Morflung and Monty looked over the map in synchrony, each aware of what they were looking for, but equally convinced that they had no idea where to find it. Through the round, ship-like window, just out of the corner of his eye, Monty could make out that it had begun to snow. Delicate snowflakes floated from the heavens and smashed against the translucent glass, dying away. The delicateness of the snow served as a grim reminder of the futility and frailty of Monty’s precarious situation. He grabbed his miniature guitar, which had been hooked over the back of his chair, and strummed a short refrain.

A magic aura fell upon his soul as the gentle notes from the instrument washed over his body. It was a soft but beautifully powerful kind of magic. Enough to sooth his aching body, but sadly, not strong enough to heal this particular ailment. There were few things which gave Monty solace in the face of impending doom: music, poetry, art, literature and, of course, killing monsters. That’s what he had trained to do from a young age, what he’d been born to do.

Morflung had seen Monty in action from his youth right up to his twenty-fifth year. He believed without a shadow of a doubt that Monty was one of the most powerful enchanters that he’d ever had the pleasure of seeing with his own tired eyes. He’d always felt the supreme love from which Monty’s magic essence emanated and found that to be a thing of true beauty. But, most concerningly, he had sensed a great rage, anguish, and existential dread from deep within Monty’s soul, almost as if the young man took pleasure from the pain he inflicted on the monsters from which he was supposed to protect the world … almost as if Monty was battling to keep a great evil locked away within. For now, at least, it seemed that he was winning that battle.

“How much does the music help?” Morflung asked.

“Enough to make the shadow stop spreading,” Monty replied, taking a sip of his tea, the wispy steam accentuating his soft smile.

Morflung put a hand on Monty’s shoulder, mostly to comfort the young man, but the energy that flowed into Morflung’s veins, acting as a conduit for the young man’s ailment, told Morflung that even the most powerful wizard in existence couldn’t fix the curse which creeped through his friend. He was hit by an immediate sense of inadequacy and guilt. What was the point in being so powerful if in the end his incantations and spells proved fruitless in saving the life of the only friend he’d ever truly loved? He’d had other friends, of course, but none held a special place in his heart and mind as Monty White did.

“So then, let’s be fools together,” Morflung stated confidently as he slammed his now empty tankard onto the table. “Do you know the tale of the Skudra and how it comes to our plane?”

“Of course. When the secret moon aligns with the twelfth star, then the beast raises from its slumber to hunt. It grants life to three, fortune to two, and death to the undeserving,” Monty replied.

“Ahh, but did you know that there’s a spell to summon the creature without waiting for the alignment?”

“That seems unwise, given what we both know about magic.”

“Wisdom is objective, Monty. Besides, when you’re in the state in which you currently find yourself, what exactly do you expect to lose?”

Monty paused before nodding in agreement. Morflung was right, and Monty was mostly content that the sorcerer would not put him in any danger if he didn’t believe that the rewards were tangible.

“Assumably, this spell isn’t something we can skip down to the forest and light a candle to do. So, what exactly are we going to need for this?” Monty asked.

Morflung chuckled. It had been too long since he’d been exposed to Monty’s dry wit, and it was in that moment that he realised just how much he missed adventures with the musical spellcaster.

“I am almost certain that there are six components to this spell,” Morflung replied with an air of what Monty recognised as overconfidence.

“Almost?”

“Well, any wizard worth his salt knows that nothing is certain in the field of magic.”

“Fair enough. So, what are the six ingredients of which you are certain?”

Morflung plunged his oddly youthful hand into his comically large burlap satchel and rummaged around in the bottom of the bag, occasionally stopping to momentarily stick his head in for a better look. Eventually, he pulled out a strange leatherbound notebook, which looked far older than Monty himself. He plopped it onto the table and began to flip through the pages.

“Raising the recently deceased, no. Convening with a lesser deity, no. No, not that. Not that either. Tightening your lover’s … oh, that brings back youthful memories. Not this one. Not that one. Ahh, here we are: Skudra-summoning spell.”

“Wow, that thing is old,” Monty said, half amazed, half intrigued about his mentor and friend’s younger days.

“I had a life before you, Monty. I had about fifteen in fact. Well, here we are. Six ingredients that we need for this spell: five drops of wizard’s blood, taken selflessly. That shouldn’t be a problem. Two drops of holy water. Doable. Wood from the sacred grove. Trickier. Shard of a Tagrul lifeforce crystal. Shadow of the cursed. Both difficult, but achievable, if you know the right people. Oh dear, this last one is a problem. A dragon’s golden scale.”

“Dragon?” Monty asked, dumbfounded. “As in big and winged? Breathes fire?”

“Well, not all dragons breath fire, and not all are winged, but yes. Dragon. And, given all the beasties you’ve fought throughout your life, I’m quite taken aback by your surprise. You fought demons, sea serpents, and ogres in our adventures together, Monty. Is a wee dragon really going to make you stop now?”

Morflung knew what he was doing, for Monty was an easy fellow to bait at times. He dangled the carrot of bravery and the promise of life in front of Monty, and the young man bought it—hook, line, and sinker.