Chapter 1: Call To War

Drogan fought on as men were fighting and dying all around him. He had joined the Duke of Grey Home's army as a youth, imagining a life more glorious and exciting than working at his father's forge as an apprentice blacksmith for the rest of his life. Now the lean, yet heavily muscled, blond haired and blue eyed man was in his twenty fifth summer and a seasoned veteran in Duke Nordhelm's army, and had quickly risen to the rank of sergeant over his own squad. Having served already in more campaigns than many of the older veterans, he had earned the right to forgo many, but he always volunteered, was always willing to do his duty. He, after all, had nothing else but the army now.

When he left his town, one of the outlying villages of Grey Home, to join the army, his father was his only remaining family member. He had lost his mother and a younger brother when plague had swept the country when he was just ten years old. His father had died during his first campaign, Drogan later learned, to pneumonia. He returned to see his father buried, but had never returned since.

Now he commanded a squad of ten men, his company given the task of routing raiders that had been attacking and pillaging outlying villages much like his own, through a pass in the southern tip of the Axeweaver Mountains. The nomadic raiders of the Barren Wastes to the east were little match for the leather and chain mailed men of southern Erinor this campaign, but often it was quite different. The nomadic people of the Barren Wastes, or the Haira'hem as they called themselves, were well trained fighters, often striking quickly and disappearing into the dunes and sandstone canyons of the desert. They wore loose fitting hooded clothes that blended with the colors of the desert, and wore a cloth mask wrapped at the bridge of the nose, covering the bottom half of their faces. They rarely carried a shield, although sometimes a small buckler, and fought with two weapons—a sword and spear, two swords, two spears, or whatever the Haira'hem's preference, and they were unmatched in their skill with a bow. Except perhaps by the elves of the Forever Lands to the east, or those elves of the Griffonwood, bordering the eastern edge of the Axeweaver Mountains. And Drogan himself, as brave as he was, would think twice before following a haira'hem into the dunes or canyons alone. They were masters of the ambush— so when the dwindling enemy suddenly turned and ran for the dunes beyond, Drogan ordered his squad to halt, as the rest of the company would do the same. As they ran off into the sand and dunes and sandstone, they blended into the desert land, seeming to vanish one by one until they could be seen no more. They would not return for at least a month or two, as was normally the case, perhaps raiding villages once or twice again during the autumn months before winter.

Drogan removed his helm; a helmet of rounded steel with a nose guard and cheek plates, with a skirt of chain mail that protected the back of the neck. He wiped the sweat, sand, dirt and blood from his face, and looked about the company of soldiers for his second in command, and squad. Finding Faldrek, and the rest of the squad nearby, he clapped his second hard on the back.

"We fought well today, friend." He said. "Did we lose anyone?" He noticed already that three were missing.

Faldrik sighed, "I'm sorry to say we lost at least two. Greagor and Yordin fell early in this last push to Haira'hem spears. Young Danan had been pushed near Andorin's squad last I could see him. Shall I see if I can find him, Sergeant?"

"No, Faldrek," Drogan answered. "Tell the men to sit and rest—and see to their wounds if you can. I'll see about finding Danan" However, Drogan feared the worst. Young Danan was only sixteen years old and this was his first campaign..

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Kendrick pulled the hood of his white robes over his head as he walked through the streets of Danir. Although a sunny day, cold winds swept down from the Stormblade Mountains whipping at his clothing and forcing him to hold his hood down with one hand as he walked. In his other hand he carried a book titled "The History And Teachings Of Jandrous," often called "The Jandrous Teachings," or simply "The Teaching," for short. He had just finished visiting a sick elderly woman and was now on his way back to the temple at the Northern end of the road. He was a young priest, barely in his twentieth year, but learned quickly and had even written and preached a couple of sermons as a secondary teaching at worship. The slender, short dark haired, and blue eyed Kendrick lived a humble life, but this is what he loved to do. Being a priest was his dream since childhood, and now the life of a follower of Jandrous was all he knew—and he loved it. He loved prayer, he loved helping the sick, he loved caring for and serving others in any way they may need. Others described him as "full of the joy of Jandrous." And certainly he was. He always smiled at friends and strangers, always offered himself to be of service to others. He rarely in his life was sad or angry, not for any long period of time. He was saddened, of course, when his parents had died of plague years ago, as he was when his first head priest had died of heart failure two winters past. But he knew and believed that the One God had a plan, and Kendrick clung to the promises of Jandrous with an iron grip.

As soon as Kendrick had walked up the stone steps of the temple, and entered through the double wooden doors, he was met by High Priest Donnagan.

"Young Kendrick. I need a favor of you," the older, white haired and bearded priest said. He glanced around, and his blue eyes darted left to right. He held a wooden tube in his right hand, and in his left was a travel pack made of brown leather.

"Uh— yes— of course brother Donnagan," Kendrick replied, taken by surprise and a bit confused. "What is it you need of me?" Donnagan pushed the tube into the pack, turned Kendrick around by the shoulders, and with one arm around his shoulders urged Kendrick back out the doors and back into the cold winds outside. He whispered urgently as he lead the young, confused priest around the back of the temple to a small stable and hustled him inside.

"I need you to take the letter in this pack here to the temple in Seaport." he whispered. "I need you to travel quickly, and I need you to travel now. You can take my horse." The old Donnagan was already fastening a saddle. Finally sensing a chance to speak himself, Kendrick questioned the old man.

"Uh, Donnagan— I mean brother Donnagan," he exclaimed, very much confused and even quite frightened. "I've never even been out of Danir! I wouldn't even know how to find my way to Seaport!"

"Hush now!" he chastised him. "Not so loud. I've given you a map in this pack," he whispered. "You will follow the road southwest to Ulrich, then further west to Kilmore, leaving the kingdom of Rylos. And then you'll head to Wolves Tooth which is in Kyrolis. From there, a road moves south through the Axeweaver Mountains and into Ravenhold, a city in the mountains. From there you will head southwest into Erinor, to Castle Erinor and then skirt along the Griffonwood, south to Newblade, Grey Home, and then Seaport. If you stop at all the places I mentioned or some of their outlying villages, you'll be able to replenish your supplies, and I've given you money, food, and warmer clothes—and you should have an occasional bed for the night."

"WAIT!!!" Kendrick Exclaimed. "I've never traveled— never been out further than the outlying villages of Danir— half a day's ride at most! I'd like to help, I'm sure you know me well enough to know that, but why must it be me when I'm sure there are others here who have that kind of experience— and why are you whispering?"

Donnagan put a hand on both Kendrick's shoulders and looked him dead in the eye. "I hate to say this Kendrick, but this is a matter of grave importance— and I'm afraid you're the only one here I know for sure that I can trust."

Kendrick, jaw hanging slack, and wide eyed, was shocked...

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"I don't know what to tell you, Drogan." Andorin sneered coldly, "The boy stepped in front of my blade mid swing."

"I don't trust you Andorin. He is not the first from my squad to die by yours or another of your squad's sword," Drogan said, staring the tall dark haired warrior full in the face, nearly nose to nose. Andorin had moved a hand to the hilt of his sword.

"Are you calling me a liar, Drogan?"

"I'm saying, Andorin, if another of my squad ever— ever feels your blade again, and I think for one instant that it was purposeful— you will feel mine." And Drogan turned and walked away.

"Is that a threat, Drogan?" Andorin called.

"It's a promise." Drogan answered softly to himself...

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Gaulin looked out at the heavens... at a multitude of galaxies, stars, and planets, multicolored dots of light in the expanse of the universe before him. Prophecy foretold so long ago was beginning to come to pass. He looked in the direction of a tiny blue dot so many trillions upon trillions of miles away, and bowed his head.

"For your glory, Jandrous my king," he spoke softly. And then with purpose he raised his head, brought a great horn to his lips and blew. The blast of the trumpet carried out before him. Planets and stars exploded or moved from their orbits at the power of the sound wave. Great rocks floating in the weightlessness of space were blasted to nothingness. Some stars merely puffed out like a candle in the wind as the sound wave carried out toward the little blue planet so far away.

"Drayan!" Maragan then called out. "Take flight to war!" And thousands upon thousands of golden armored, white winged drayan swept past Gaulin, filling the blackness of space before him, on their way to a world where Jandrous their king, son of the One God, once walked as a mortal man. Spreading his own wings, Gaulin took flight and joined them.

©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010