Chapter 2: Travelers

Drogan reflected on the past in a return march to Grey Home with the army. He never had a close relationship with his father, but he had thought of him often during this last campaign in the Barren Wastes. They had argued when last he saw his father alive. He wanted him to take over his forge someday, not go off to wars and dying— especially at Drogan's young age. He forbid Drogan from leaving their home and forge. They argued loudly, shoved and pushed each other, and when his father slapped him full in the face they had nearly come to blows. Drogan left in the dark of night while his father slept. It was the death of Danan, the young boy who had died in his squad, which caused him to think of his father that day. He wondered how the boy's own family felt at his leaving— whom had he left behind. Was his parting similar to his own? And now he was dead. "I have fought many battles over the years," he thought to himself. "Perhaps it's time I left the battlefields and returned home. Home to my father's forge— if it's still there. Back to a simpler life." What would happen however to his squad, he thought. He felt great responsibilities to his men. Certainly his second would be promoted to sergeant and take command of the squad. And then of course there was unfinished business between himself and Andorin. He knew however, his squad would keep a close eye on Andorin in light of the recent death of their youngest squad mate. Yes— he would turn in his resignation upon their return; a resignation he knew would be granted, given his service over the years. For now, he walked beside his horse, marching on foot alongside his men as he always had; a small gesture of respect toward them, that likewise, they respected him for. He looked over his shoulder toward Andorin's squad. Andorin, mounted as always, rode ahead of his squad, an arrogant smile upon his lips.

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Kendrick, riding upon the pale grey horse lent him by Donnagan, looked back toward Danir. There was nothing to see but rolling plains and the Stormblade Mountains beyond. The city nestled at the foot of the mountains had slowly diminished in size, until finally disappearing from view hours ago as the cold winds from earlier had gained strength and beat relentlessly at his back as he rode. The old priest had included in a pack given to Kendrick, a thick wool traveler's cloak which he now wore along with warm woolen gloves. But the wind was icy cold and the low angry clouds told him the first winter storm may come early this year— quite early, as it was yet late summer. "And here I am leaving the walls and roof of home with miles to go before I can find any shelter," he thought grimly. "Well Jandrous," he continued silently, "If this is what you of want of me right now, I am willing. And I'm relying on you to help me complete this journey— could you, however, tell the weather to hold?" Kendrick heard a long low rumble of thunder in the distance.

"That is not the answer I was hoping for." he said aloud.

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As evening was beginning to fall, thin feathery clouds above stretching from one horizon changed from dark blues and violets to lighter clouds above, appearing to glow as though painted in a golden light, and then changing to deeper oranges and reds on the opposite horizon as the sun slowly crept downward giving the world below a beautiful ever changing painting of light and color to see above. Jarren, The Hunter as he was known among many, and The Traveler, as he was also known, stood just inside the shadows of the Forever Lands; an expanse of forested and mountainous land stretching from the southwestern edge of Erinor to the northern most edge of Kyrolis to the north. It was named the Forever Lands, for many who ventured into the great wooded land could easily become lost. Many never returned. "Doomed to walk amongst the trees forever," people would say. They could be dangerous lands for one without proper guides, preferably elves who made the forests their homeland, or perhaps the dwarves, who dwelt in the hills and mountains. Deep into the woods where the trees grew to hundreds of feet in height, with trunks twice, and often three times the diameter of a castle's tower, the canopies above would be thick enough to block out the majority of the sunlight. There, when the sun was at its highest, down below it was late evening, and often times pitch black. No travel was possible after early evening without torch or lantern. And there were predators, it was said, within the Forever Lands that could be the images of the worst nightmares. Jarren, a man— not an elf or a dwarf, however, knew the woods perhaps better than even many of the elves. He lived among them often, but had his own dwelling deep in the forests, built of the trunks and wood of the smaller trees that grew on its border with the lands of Erinor, where he now stood. Jarren was a tall, strongly built man, wearing loose fitting, earthy brown leggings tucked into tall, soft leather, tanned boots. He wore a black, hardened leather breast plate over a dark forest green shirt, leather bracers on his forearms engraved with elven designs, and a long hooded cloak, brown on the outside and a dark green on the inside, which could be worn reversed. A long bow and quiver of arrows were slung over his shoulder and he wore a broadsword in a heavy belt at his waist. He stood, stroking his short thick beard and mustache with one hand, the wind blowing through his shoulder length brown hair as he looked out across the plains with deep brown eyes. He came here often to watch the sun melt below the horizon and as usual was not disappointed by the beauty of the sky above. At his side stood a very large wolf with a thick coat of charcoal grey fur. The shoulders of the massive creature rested at just above the waist of the tall man as it looked on with Jarren at the slowly changing hues above.

"It is early for such a chill wind, Runner." the tall man said to his companion while looking out across the plains where something in the distance suddenly caught his eye. Someone out there was moving—stumbling, falling— slowly rising and moving again through the tall grasses and toward the trees. Jarren watched as the figure in the distance moved towards them— stumbling, walking and stumbling again. Finally the figure stumbled once more and disappeared into the tall grass. This time, not rising again. "Come, Runner. We should see who it is and if we can help." He broke into a run, his long powerful legs parting the tall grasses and weeds, with Runner keeping pace beside him. Arriving where the figure fell, they found a late middle aged man wearing the robes of a priest of Jandrous, the white robes stained with dried blood. He lay on his side unmoving, with eyes closed, but Jarren could see he was breathing. Immediately he knelt and began checking the priest for wounds. The priest opened his eyes slowly— eyes that reflected fatigue, sadness, and relief of having been found.

"The blood is not mine, friend." he whispered. Jarren looked at the man, almost in shock, and confusion— knowing as well as all men, all people for that matter, be they man, elf, or dwarf, that the priests of Jandrous were peaceful people.

"What happened?" Jarren asked, as the wolf at his side seemed to be looking across the tall grasses toward something beyond.

"Our very own brothers—" the priest began to weep. "They turned on us— during worship— producing swords and daggers from under their robes. I am the only survivor— all that's left from my temple!" His tears flowed freely as Jarren helped him rise to a sitting position. The priest looked down at his blood stained and dirty robes, continuing his story. "In the panic— the chaos— many of us tried to escape the sanctuary but the doors were barred from without. They slaughtered us!" he cried. "They slaughtered us all, laughing all the while, as we pleaded for an explanation— pleaded for our lives! I slipped on— something— blood, I suppose, and hit my head when I went down. They must have left thinking us all dead. I awoke under another brother's dead body, and was able to sneak away, the doors were no longer barred, and when I made it outside, I just ran, until I could run no more, and then I walked— until I could walk no more. And— and here I am. I'm not even certain where I was going. I simply had to get away.

"Why are you traveling all the way out here toward these woods?" Jarren asked, understanding the temple was on the road, about half a day's walk to the great city to the north. "Certainly your temple is closer to Eagle's Crest, north of here?"

"I'm not certain, but I'm afraid I may have been being followed." the priest explained. "It seemed that I would hear or see something moving and I, being afraid, was trying to move away from it."

"Like you were being herded." Jarren said. It was not a question. Runner had started to growl, deep and low in his throat. His ears were laid back and his fur had risen at the back of his neck. "Stay down— someone's coming and Runner doesn't like it."

Jarren looked out across the plains, and could suddenly see something bounding animal like through the tall grasses— something it seemed, that was wearing the white robes of a priest. As it drew closer, it appeared manlike, yet ran like a dog, throwing its arms outward and pushing itself forward and following up with its legs. It came quickly. Instinctively, he knew it to be— unnatural. This thing, whatever it was, was no man. He ordered the large wolf to stay back. In a heartbeat, he readied his longbow, knocking an arrow to the string, drawing, and then letting the arrow fly. The arrow found its mark, catching the 'manthing' in the chest as it leaped and bounded toward them. It slowed only an instant, continuing to come right at them, even faster now. Jarren quickly let another arrow fly, striking the creature again, yet still it came at them and was too close for another arrow. Just in time, just as it came within just feet of them and leaped at the priest still sitting on the ground, Jarren dropped the longbow and the broadsword was in his hands. With a powerful, wide sweep of the blade, the creature's head was removed from its body. The headless creature rolled end over end through the grass, righted itself, and bound away. Runner was snarling and barking. "Let it go Runner!" he said to the large wolf. But Runner wasn't snarling in the direction of the now headless, bounding creature, but at its disembodied head now laying in the grass, face up. It looked somewhat human, yet the face seemed to have elongated almost into a hairless doglike snout, but more man than animal. Its eyes seemed to have no distinction between pupil, iris, or sclera. They were all black. The pale face appeared to look directly at the priest and opened its mouth with elongated, sharp teeth to speak. The priest looked horrified as it spoke.

"All your kind, priest," it spoke in a cross between a growl and a voice, and filled with hatred, "will soon die." Jarren kicked the head out of site, into the tall grass.

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Kendrick rode on in silence. An icy rain had begun to fall, and leaving shelter behind him, he wanted to curse. But he held his tongue, knowing it was not the way of a follower of Jandrous to speak thus. Yet, although not speaking the words, he still felt guilty for thinking them. Ahead was nothing but the now cold, wet plains, and hills beyond, and the muddy road stretching into the distance. Night had fallen, and he was at the mercy of the elements which were proving themselves to be quite unmerciful. He rode on, not knowing why he was making the journey, only that the high priest felt it was very important that he, someone who had never made such a journey, be the one to do it. He thought of those words spoken in a whisper by the older priest, and shivered, more from the memory of those words than the cold, as they continued to replay over and over in his mind.

"I'm afraid you're the only one I know for sure I can trust—"

©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010