Chapter 3: Open Skies, Leaky Roofs, And A Warm Meal

The priest followed close behind the man who had found him out on the grasslands, eyeing closely the very large wolf trotting beside its master. It was not yet dark outside the forests of the Forever Lands, but here beneath the branches of the massive trees, it was the blackest night he had ever seen. The tall man ahead held a torch high to light their way. They spoke little as they walked, but Jarren did ask the priest's name, which was Marek, and gave his own in return.

"I've heard of you," Marek said. "Some call you Jarren The Hunter, or Jarren The Traveler. There are many stories of your travels and adventures." Jarren shook his head and chuckled a bit at this.

"Most of those stories are simply legends and tavern tales, told by men who have had one too many mugs," Jarren explained. "But— some are true." He did not tell which ones were true however, but kept walking, always looking ahead, seemingly following a path that Marek could see no evidence of. But Marek guessed the tall woodsman knew where he was going, and hoped they would get there soon. He had regained some energy from the water and dried meat that Jarren had provided him, but he was still very exhausted and had to will himself to keep moving forward. He was a little leery of the massive wolf that traveled with them, but the only aggression it had shown was directed at the creature in priest's garb that had attacked them earlier— attacked him, rather. He had never in his life seen a wolf that large. Curious of their destination, and exhausted, he asked where exactly they were going.

"Well—" Jarren said. "There is an elven village I was hoping to reach, but it is clear you're spent." He nodded in the direction they were traveling, "There is a clearing in the trees, not far from here where we will rest for the night. The Forever Lands, especially at night, are no place to be. But I think we'll be safe in the clearing. Also, I want a clear view of our surroundings in case of more danger— I do not want another of those things to come upon us unseen, for all the trees and vegetation here, if there so happens to be one. I do not believe there will be. I would think if there were more of them pursuing you we would have encountered them by now, or Runner would have detected them. However, there are other dangers within these woods we should be wary of. Having a clear view of your surroundings here can often mean life or death." Marek's nerves were not helped by Jarren's statement, of course, but something told him if he were going to be in the Forever Lands, Jarren was a great choice as a guide.

After walking in darkness for another hour or so, entering into the clearing was sudden. One moment Marek was following closely behind Jarren and the large wolf, feeling a level of security at their closeness, and the next they had entered into a large treeless area. The light of the moon, just over the tree line on the other side, blanketed the green grass before them in a silvery light, and much of the anxiety Marek was feeling from the dark, close, forest seemed to melt away. Jarren led him to the center of the clearing where some wood lay on the ground in a small patch of dirt, and where there was evidence of past campfires. Jarren explained that he stopped there often when traveling from his own home to the south, to an elven village further west of their location. Marek, sore from his long journey, slowly eased himself down to sit, and cried out, startled as Runner put his muzzle in his face, sniffing and panting.

Jarren looked down at him and chuckled, "He likes you Marek, be at ease. If he did not," the tall man continued as he knelt, and began busying himself with starting a fire, "you would certainly know it." He reached into a pack at his waist and tossed some dried meat and a skin of water to the middle aged priest, who ate and drank heartily, and then rubbed his hands over the small fire as soon as Jarren had it burning.

"I want to thank you, for your help." Marek said, as he lay back. He never heard a response. He fell into a deep sleep as soon as his head touched the soft ground.

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Night had fallen as Kendrick rode on, scanning the darkness for some sign of shelter. He shivered miserably in the cold, icy rain, and his robes and cloak were wet through and plastered to his body. He prayed silently, through chattering teeth, for some kind of shelter— anything to get him out of the weather, and a place to sleep for the night. Lightning flashed repeatedly, followed by deafening, peals of thunder. He worried of being struck by lightning, as well as pneumonia. Another flash of lightning revealed a square shaped structure to his right, and he stopped and stared, hoping for another flash to light up the ground so he could have a second look. His hopes were realized when there was another flash of lightning, and he moved his horse off the road and up a small rise toward the structure he had seen. As he drew closer he came upon a small, obviously abandoned cottage. The wood of its walls were old and decaying, with open windows; most of the shudders missing altogether, or swinging in the wind. A door in the front hung outward on one lower hinge, and creaked as the wind slightly moved it side to side. One whole wall had fallen outward, and looking inside he could see the roof leaked rain from numerous holes to the rotting floor beneath. Kendrick eased out of the saddle and rather than leave the horse to the elements, led it inside where he tied the reins to the leg of a single square table. The frame of an old wooden bed without a mattress rested against one wall, and another wall held a small fireplace. He smiled a bit, and thanked Jandrous for what he considered, in his present condition and predicament, one of the greatest blessings of his life. The bed was no good, and he was able to break apart some of the wood, which he placed in the fireplace, and with a flint and tinder Donnagan, 'bless his old soul,' had thought to include in the pack, soon had a fire going. He removed his wet clothing and set them before the fire to dry. He then rummaged in his pack for some dried meat and cheeses, which he ate while the robes and cloak dried.

As he ate, his eyes kept straying to the leather pack at his feet, which held not only food and supplies, but also the letter he had been entrusted to deliver to the high priest in Seaport. His hasty conversation with Donnagan which lead to his equally hasty exit from Danir, and into this unlikely journey which had so far left him only wet, cold, and miserable, had certainly awakened his curiosity as to what the important letter contained. Kendrick was certain he would feel a little better if he at least knew why he was thrust into this unwanted task. He was always happy to serve in any way he could but this— He couldn't find the right words to describe his situation even to himself. In an attempt to turn his curiosity aside, he lay back, chewing on a hunk of cheese and began counting drops of rain leaking through the old roof. This proved boring, and impossible, from the amount of holes. Where he sat, and the horse stood tethered, and the unusable bed rested, were the only dry spots in the little cottage. Frustrated, and giving in to his curiosity, he reached into the pack, and withdrew the wooden tube holding Donnagan's letter. "Well Donnagan," he said. "You never actually told me why I was doing this— and I think I deserve to at least know why this letter is so important that I must travel all across the lands to deliver it." Opening the tube, he pulled out the letter to read.

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It rained often in Greyhome, the grey rainy days partly how it was given its name— that and the tall grey walls that surrounded the city Drogan had called his home since joining the Duke's army. Now, however, as the column of soldiers slowly made its way through the tall wooden gates, the sky was clear and countless stars sparkled in the black sky above. The moon hung large in the sky, casting a pale light on the city below. Drogan conversed with Faldrek, his second, letting him know he would meet him in their favorite tavern for a good ale, and hot meal, once they both got themselves settled in the barracks.

"Good then, I'll see you there," Faldrek said with a smile. He scratched his short black beard, touched with grey, as was his black hair resting just below the shoulders. "In the meantime, I could use a good hot bath. I smell like a dead horse," he grumbled."

"I won't argue with that!" Drogan laughed. "Go— please, before we all fall over dead from your stench!"

Faldrek rolled his eyes, and turned to go. "You don't smell of roses yourself, friend!" he called back as he walked away and Drogan turned to lead his horse to the stables. He was glad to be back in Grey Home, and looked forward to a bath, a hot meal, and a good ale. He was not, however, looking forward to telling Faldrek, when they would meet later, that he was leaving the army and leaving Grey Home. The older warrior had been a good friend to him, had saved his life a number of times in the heat of battle, and had taught him much of what he did not learn in training. By all rights, Faldrek should have been his sergeant. He was a battle hardened warrior while Drogan was still a young boy— long before he had left his father's home. But Faldrek had never wanted to be a full sergeant, preferring instead to be second, allowing him a closer relationship with the younger soldiers, to help them to learn and grow. No— he wasn't a sergeant, but he was respected by many far outranking officers. They knew him to be a leader and a mentor to many new recruits— something that helped many, including Drogan, to stay alive. Drogan wondered if he would take the position now, and in fact was hoping he could persuade him to do so, now that he was leaving. The last thing he wanted was for his squad to be divided up and moved into other squads, some of them under Andorin's command. Andorin was a bloodthirsty killer, striking at anyone who got in his way, Drogan thought. Although, accidents happened in battle. Often a fellow soldier might be wounded or killed by one of his own. Unless, someone saw with their own eyes, preferably an officer, Andorin's treachery could not be proved. He shook his head to clear his thoughts— this was not what he wanted to think about now. If he were going to leave, he would have to get used to the fact that his squad was now out of his hands. He knew Faldrek would look after them all as best he could, and they would be in good hands if he took a promotion to sergeant. It would be offered for sure. He was the likely choice with Drogan leaving. Whether or not he accepted was another matter. Reaching the stables he handed his horse's reins to a stable boy. And turned toward the barracks where he would bathe, leave his belongings, and change before heading to the tavern.

An hour later he was sitting at a small round table in a corner of the Laughing Jackal, a small tavern in the center of the outer city where he awaited Faldrek. A fireplace along one wall and several small wall torches bathed the room in a warm glow, and commoners, travelers, and a few soldiers sat at the tables or bar talking, laughing, filling the room with sound. A tavern maid would occasionally pass by on her way to a table with food or drink, and the tavern's owner could be seen behind the bar wiping at a mug with a towel or checking the weight of coins. When Faldrek entered through the door and breathed deeply through his nose, taking in the scent of food cooking in the kitchen, he smiled wide, and seeing Drogan, he walked over and took a seat.

"I have ale, and meat and potatoes for us both coming soon." Drogan said with a smile.

"Ah! Good!" Faldrek said. "I could eat a horse!"

"I believe you would," Drogan chuckled. "I've seen you eat horse before."

"Oh— that was a hard campaign. Don't remind me of that. Meat as tough as leather, and it tasted about the same," Faldrek winked.

"Well, we've a good meal coming to us now," Drogan replied. "And well deserved if you ask me. This last campaign driving back the Haira'hem wasn't exactly easy either." A tavern maid approached with two plates and two mugs, and Drogan placed a couple coppers into her palm with a smile. He decided to get to the point and get it over with. "I'm leaving Grey Home," he said. "I'll be turning in my resignation at first light." Faldrek leaned back in his seat and looked long into his eyes before replying. Finally he inhaled deeply, and exhaled slowly, and replied with a smile.

"Well—" he said. "I can tell from the look in your eyes, I won't be able to dissuade you. You're going to be missed, Drogan. I'm assuming, you plan on recommending me as sergeant?"

"I would much rather it be you, Faldrek, then someone else." Drogan said. "I certainly do not want the squad anywhere near Andorin." Faldrek nodded in agreement toward that statement. He didn't trust Andorin either.

"What brought this on, the death of the boy?" Faldrek asked.

"Partly— " Drogan replied. "It was on my mind, but that settled it. My father and I last saw each other on bad terms. He wanted me to take over his forge someday and not go off to wars and fighting and possibly die young. He taught me everything he knew. I wanted to serve in the Duke's army. He died," Drogan continued as Faldrek listened and nodded, knowing the story. "before I could make peace with him— something I deeply regret. I feel it's about time I honored his wishes."

"It's an honorable profession, friend," Faldrek said. "I'm going to wish you the best." He raised his mug and nodded at Drogan to do the same. "May Jandrous, The One True King, guide you and bless you in your new journey. May he watch over you and send his drayan to protect you. Lord Jandrous, I humbly ask you to let this be so." He tapped his mug to Drogan's and took a drink and looked up toward the ceiling. "I promise this is my only drink tonight," he added with a smile.

"You really believe that Jandrous business, don't you.?" Drogan asked.

"Of course I do!" Faldrek replied. "Can you explain any other way my stubborn reckless self has managed to survive this long?"

"Ha! You're the last person I would expect to be reckless, Faldrek!" Drogan lauged.

"Well—" the older soldier replied. "Perhaps not so much now. But when I was younger I made many mistakes. I did many stupid things. How do you think I gained all this wisdom I hold?" he said with a chuckle. He turned serious, looked Drogan long in the eye. "I'm going to accept the promotion to sergeant," he said. "Only because you asked me first yourself. You've been a great friend and a great leader. I owe it to you just for that. And the last thing I want to see is another one of our squad mates, or any other for that matter, find themselves in Andorin's squad, or fall to his blade."

Drogan reached across the table and put a hand firmly on his friend's shoulder. "Thank you, Faldrek."

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Far to the east, across the Axeweaver Mountains, past the sands and canyons of the Barren Wastes, and further still beyond the Mistwood and the Stormblade Mountains lay a vast dark, harsh, land, called The Shadowlands. And in an unnamed mountain range at its center rested Drakus, a great castle of black walls and towers where only evil dwelled. Deep within its walls, stood a black keep surrounded by a moat of volcanic lava. And at the top of one of its towers, all rising up like spears raised in defiance of the heavens, stood a figure in a black cloak, wearing plated armor as black as night and engraved with dark symbols and words of a forgotten language, stood a tall powerful figure. The figure looked down at a massive army below; an army of black armored men and hulking beasts, elves that had turned away from goodness and embraced the dark, and creatures that were born of nightmares. He looked down at them through the eyes of a great black helm, adorned with dragon's wings rising spread as for flight from its sides and with a black painted manlike skull, but with fangs, half a foot long, for a facial shield. The army below was amassing for a great invasion, but was not yet complete. He waited for something— more. Something else must arrive before his army would be ready— something more dangerous, than any of those creatures below him. He knew they were coming. He had seen them in his dreams. Now, all he could do was wait and be patient. He looked down at those below him, and shouted one word that echoed from the walls and battlements of the castle below. "SOON!" And the army below roared in answer.

©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010