Jarren, once again holding a torch high with Runner walking alongside, led Marek through the dark as night woods of The Forever Lands. He explained they would rest for the day upon reaching the elven village. Upon the next morning they would borrow a couple horses and observe the priest's temple from afar. If they assumed it were safe enough they may ride in and perhaps see to the dead. From there they would ride to Eagle's Crest to inform the High Priest what had occurred, and Marek of course, would see about moving into the temple there. Jarren pitied the priest who often broke into tears as they traveled through the woods— he had lost friends, brothers in his faith, to what seemed a senseless act of betrayal and murder. Jarren was a follower of Jandrous, as were the elves, and he knew they would be shocked and angered by what happened at Marek's temple. They had talked about the 'man thing' that attacked them out on the plains, and Marek assumed it must have been one of the priests that turned against his brothers, perhaps possessed by a drayan'os. He had never witnessed such a thing himself, but he had heard and read about it happening before.
When they entered the elven village, it was nearly as sudden as entering the clearing the night before, and it was quite a site to the priest. The tall trees were less dense here, and so the canopy above allowed some sunlight, which shone through the trees like beams of light scattered all about. Dwellings were built both on the ground and in the trees above with wooden stairways spiraling up and around their massive, tall trunks. From tree to tree, and dwelling to dwelling, were rope bridges, with wooden planks for walking, and torches carefully placed to light the way for easy travel at night. This was a busy village. All about, the elves moved to and fro, back and forth from one building to another, from dwelling to dwelling. Some were working in a section of ground cleared for farming, others worked inside buildings on the ground, a craftsman here, a blacksmith there— having a conversation with what Marek assumed was a short, stocky dwarf about how best to hammer and fold steel. Males and females shared in the work, there did not seem to be professions strictly for either. One female led a roa'an into a stable, as a male led a horse out. Even spaced on the bridges above, along the perimeter were soldiers dressed similar to Jarren in earthy browns, greens, and greys, some male and some female, with chain mail and leather armor. Some wore light rounded helms upon their heads with a nose guard. Children played and ran, laughing and dancing, and jumping and joking, as smiling parents watched on. Some of the children ran to hug and pet Runner, delighted to see him as they passed. They were very human-like in appearance, perhaps a little shorter on average, though a few were as tall as a tall man. With pale skin, and most with red hair worn long, some pulled back and bound with leather cord, they moved gracefully along the high bridges or down upon the ground. Marek watched them in wonder— he had never seen an elf in person although he had heard stories, but the stories offered little justice to the remarkable people he now walked amongst. They appeared to have a lean, yet athletic build to them. Not one appeared overweight, nor did they look underweight for their frames. They bore striking angular features upon their faces, with sharp thin brows and narrow noses. None of the men bore facial hair, and all the women were amazingly beautiful. They watched Jarren and Marek curiously, some nodding at Jarren in passing, or smiling at the priest. Marek saw the greenest of green eyes, and the brightest of blue, shiny silver, and smoky grey. Those who wore their hair pulled back revealed ears slightly pointed at the top, and they all seemed genuinely welcoming of the pair as they walked through their village. They were going to visit Grea'oran, a prince amongst his people, Jarren explained to Marek. There, they would tell the elven prince what had transpired, see about gaining a couple horses for travel, and preferably the aid of an elf to travel with them. If danger presented itself again, Jarren said, he would like to have someone with them that could fight. Marek, looking around at those elves armed and armored, thought to himself there would be little trouble finding one who could protect himself.
Reaching the trunk of one of the large, tall, Forever Lands trees, they began to ascend the spiral stairway leading up into the branches above. Marek raised the hem of his robes with one hand and tightly gripped the wooden rail as they climbed with the other, occasionally looking down and wishing he had not. Jarren had instructed Runner to stay below, and Marek saw him sitting patiently as elven children hugged his massive neck and pulled at his ears, a big grin on his muzzle and his tail wagging as he soaked in the attention. When they reached the building built into the branches of the tree, they were on a platform built around the wooden structure. Rope ladders led from this building to others in adjacent trees. Elven guards stood at all four corners of the building as well as on each bridge. They all nodded a greeting to Jarren, as well as to the priest, and at a word from the tall man, one entered the building through a pair of doors. He returned shortly and motioned them both to enter. They entered into a large room, with a long table and multiple chairs, Jarren explaining that this was where the village council met or held talks between this village and another. A tall elf, nearly as tall as Jarren, was sitting at the far end of the table and stood when they entered. Motioning to a pile of parchment on the table, he apologized for the clutter and smiled a greeting at Jarren.
"Traveler," he said. "I'm pleased to see you." The tall elf, dressed in the same earthly colors as the other elves, but in a long, form fitting, high collared coat that reached the heels of his boots, walked over to Jarren and embraced him and then turned his silver eyes to Marek with a smile. Upon the chest of his dark green coat was embroidered a silver sword with a red tip pointed down, the head of a roa'an above it, also in silver thread. Offering his hand in greeting, he introduced himself to the priest. "I am Grea'oran, First Prince of the E'eldradin, and I welcome you."
"I am Marek." The priest returned.
"Forgive me Grea'oran, I had intended this to be a social visit but I happened upon Marek on the way." Jarren said. "I am sorry to say a wicked deed has been dealt and I cannot stay. I will be helping Marek reach Eagle's Crest." The elven prince motioned them to sit, and he joined them, not sitting at the head of the table, but with them, at one corner. Jarren urged the priest to begin the story, and Marek recounted the horrible tale of betrayal and murder at his temple and his escape. The tall elf listened intently, concern evident on his angular face, a serious look about his eyes, as the middle aged human priest shared his tale. He placed a comforting hand on the priest's shoulder when, lips trembling, Marek was overcome with emotion. Jarren picked up the tale himself, where Marek left off, recounting the events that transpired when he first saw the priest stumbling and falling on the plains outside the forest. He spoke of the creature wearing the robes of a priest, and its attack and final disembodied words, its statement that all the priest's kind would soon die.
"After some time," the elf sighed and continued, "the betrayer will grow in strength, seeking to destroy all those most faithful to me and who teach my story. In those days, a long winter will cover the land, not for a season, but multiple seasons and autumn will become winter, and the winter months will be intensified. The spring months will come, and the summer months will follow, yet the winter will hold strong until the time I speak of comes to an end. A great hunt, by the betrayer's followers, will devastate the faithful. It will be a time of great fear and sorrow accompanied by terrible war," Grea'oran quoted the prophecies of Jandrous. He shook his head and stood, and walked to a window where he looked down at the village below. He held his hands clasped behind his back. "I have been thinking much in the past week, with these unseasonably cool days, that perhaps it was a sign the Long Winter was coming. Weather is a strange creature," he said. "It changes and morphs at a moments notice sometimes. One can look at the sky and the clouds, feel the humidity or its lack, and make a guess to its intentions— but no one can truly predict its next act. Therefore I had written it off as my imaginations getting the best of me." He was silent a moment, looking out at the trees, the movement of the wind through their leaves and branches. And then he turned to face Jarren and Marek again. "Your story, Marek, reignites my thoughts that perhaps this is indeed the case. If so— although I rejoice in the knowledge that Jandrous returns soon, I also fear greatly greatly what comes before his eventual victory." This was a possibility Marek was ashamed to admit to himself he had not thought of. Of course these last couple days, he had done little but prayed and mourned his slain brothers, all the while fearing for his own safety. Jarren told the elf prince his plans and his need for a couple horses, and requested assistance from another who could travel with them for added safety in the event danger presented itself again, and Grea'oran nodded his assent, telling him to take the best horses he could find and anyone of his choosing to accompany them. "I understand, Marek, you would like to be on your way," the tall elf continued. "But I can see you are fatigued, and could use a good meal and a good rest. I would strongly suggest you do that, before traveling again." Marek was reluctant at first, but knew the prince was right, and nodded his agreement and thanks. It was decided that they would rest the remainder of the day and get a good night's sleep, and then ride out mid-morning. Grea'oran mentioned it may be wise that Marek not wear the white robes of a priest on their journey and that he would see about finding some clothing that would fit him. He offered freedom of entry to his own dwelling, for both Marek and Jarren, where they would each have a guest room for the night, and dine with him and his wife. Marek nodded his thanks in silence, unable to find the correct words to communicate. The prince, understanding, again placed a hand on his shoulder with a reassuring smile.
Jarren walked through the elven village with Runner trotting alongside, without Marek, who decided to catch up on some much needed rest, and had gone to the room given him by Grea'oran for a nap. He hoped to find a friend, but was informed that she had been 'chosen' by a roa'an and had been on 'the chase,' the act of hunting and catching the roa'an that had chosen her, for the last four weeks. Jarren whistled through his teeth at this news. A month was quite a chase, meaning either the roa'an was a strong spirited and strong willed creature, or that Tia'ialla, or Tia as he often called her for short, had found danger in the process. He knew, however, that she knew the woods and dangers of them as well as any other elf, and that she could protect herself well if need be. She was like a younger sister to him, although elven, and he knew her ability to survive as they had traveled together many times. He could not help but feel a small measure of worry for her, however. He had just decided he would have to travel without her, and was walking toward an elven commander to see if he could offer the assistance of one his soldiers, when the sharp cry of a horn was blown in rapid succession from a guard high on a bridge above him. Many elves began to walk or run past him toward the southern border of the village, and a crowd of elves cheered loudly as a female E'eldradin rode in from the dark forest beyond upon a large and majestic male roa'an, an impressive rack of antlers atop its head. He recognized Tia'ialla immediately; even wearing the nose guarded round helm with her hair tied back, when normally she left her hair down and wore no helm. He felt a sense of pride for her and smiled when he saw her smile. When last they talked, she had mentioned her concern that perhaps she would not be 'chosen' by a roa'an. She hoped upon hope that one day she would be the rider of one of the magnificent creatures. And now her dreams were realized and his heart swelled in sharing the happiness so evident in the smile upon her lips. He walked toward the throng of elves to greet her, already eager to hear the tale of her 'chase.' Tia'ialla smiled and nodded to the elves surrounding her and the roa'an she rode, leaning down to take someone's hand, or to ruffle the hair of a young one as she laughed, the pride of her victorious chase evident in the sparkle of her bright green eyes. Dismounting, she saw Jarren walking toward her, and her smile grew even wider.
"Jarren, my friend!" She exclaimed. "Oh this is a wonderful day! I am pleased you are able to share it with me!" She embraced the tall man warmly and he grabbed both her arms and held her in front of him, bending the knees just a bit to look into her eyes. He laughed heartily as he then picked her up and held her high for all to see.
"Behold E'eldradin!" he shouted aloud with a laugh. "Tia'ialla, Roa'an Rider!" And the E'eldradin shouted in congratulations and laughter once more as he set her back to her feet. He put an arm about her shoulders, and with a brotherly squeeze, continued. "It's about time, Tia," he chuckled. "And here I was beginning to think you were doomed to ride a horse— or walk for the rest of your life." She struggled free, and gave him a playful shove.
"Well," she said. "You are doomed to ride a horse— or walk for the rest of your life." Her green eyes flashed mischievously.
"Haha! Well said my fiery friend, well said," Jarren replied with a chuckle, as Tia'ialla gathered the leather straps for reins in her hands, and began walking toward the stables. He walked with her, pleased to see his friend, but also so he could tell her the events of the past few days, and his request that she join him on the coming journey. Tia'ialla listened concernedly as he told her of Marek and the encounter with the 'priest' that attacked them, of Marek's story, and the conversation with Grea'oran and his belief that they could be entering into the time foretold as the Long Winter... "and I would like someone to travel with us to the temple and on to Eagle's Crest," Jarren concluded.
"When do you leave?" Tia asked.
"Sometime mid-morning, tomorrow," he replied, scratching his beard. "Although I would prefer sooner, Marek needs the rest. He was exhausted to the point he could go no further when I first found him. He is sleeping now, but I'll wake him in a short while to eat."
"Then we leave on the morn then, friend," the elven woman said. "But now, let me tell you of my chase!" And Jarren listened attentively as Tia'ialla, Roa'an Rider of the E'eldradin, told her tale.
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By mid-afternoon, the wind was blowing with such force, and seemingly from all directions, that Kendrick was forced to wrap the tail of his cloak about his face to ward off the icy chill. The cold wet weather of the day before was unseasonal, but this was far more so and he knew he would have no choice but to find some kind of shelter before nightfall. This was a dangerous cold. The prophecy of the Long Winter played through his mind as he rode, and he believed Donnagan may very well be correct in his assumptions. He must make haste, he told himself, to complete his journey to Seaport as quickly as possible. Glancing slightly to the right he could see dark, ominous clouds on the northern horizon. And with the cold wind he knew, first and foremost, he must find shelter for the night. He wanted to move quickly, yet he did not want to exhaust the horse, so he switched from a walk into a trot, and would lead the horse into a canter for a time before moving back into a walk again. As the dark wall of clouds appeared to be quickly moving closer he rode at a canter. "Jandrous," he said aloud. "Please help me find shelter again soon." His prayer seemed unanswered, for within an hour, the dark clouds had long covered the sky from horizon to horizon and a heavy snow began to fall. He lowered his head against the ice and snow stinging his face, and tried to keep it covered with his cloak. But still the biting snow and ice stung like thousands of tiny needles, and his teeth chattered as he shivered uncontrollably from the cold. To try and warm himself, he lowered himself out of the saddle, and began to walk, leading the horse behind him as he tried to rise his body temperature. And so he continued. He would walk for a time, and then remount and lead the horse through walking, trotting, and cantering, to dismount again and ride again. This was a miserable pattern in the biting cold, but it seemed a sensible plan of travel, in his mind, in the harsh weather. The grasses of the surrounding plains were beginning to collect a dusting of snow, as was the road and he hoped upon hope the snow would not fall so heavily as to obstruct it from view. There must be a village somewhere close by, he thought. He had seen no other travelers, no signs of civilization since leaving Danir, but he knew he could not stop until shelter was found. Out on the open plains, he knew he could easily freeze to death, and after nightfall the danger would greatly increase.
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High Priest Donnagan looked outside from his room on the top floor of the three story temple. A blizzard was blowing angrily and he could scarcely see anything outside other than the snow as it raced horizontally past his window. A tree stood just outside, and he watched the snow gather on its limbs and the leaves that had only recently begun to change color. He watched the snow as it bonded to green, yellow, and red turning leaves, and listened as the wind whistled and whined. He shook his head, amazed at the fury of the storm and worried for Kendrick. "Oh Jandrous," he said. "Keep that young man safe. I feel responsible for sending him out there in this, and I fear for his well being." He thought about the prophecy of the Long Winter, and wondered if perhaps it was just the imaginations of an old man. But this was such a storm he had never seen come so early. He turned from the window after closing the shutters and sat at a small table in the center of his room, opening The Teachings to read. He read for a short time before there was a knock on his door. "Please, enter!" he called as he closed the book looking expectantly at the door. A priest of about thirty summers, with brown hair and wearing a short beard, entered and closed the door behind him. Donnagan knew him as Janner. He stood, motioning for the other man to sit at the table across from him. "Please sit," he said.
"Oh... that is not necessary brother," he said. "This shouldn't take too long."
"Well then, Janner." Donnagan replied and continued, "What can I do for you today?" Janner turned and locked the door. When he turned again he held a long dagger in his hand and moved toward the older priest. "What is this?" Donnagan asked, suddenly frightened and taking a few steps back.
"All your kind, Donnagan, will soon die." The young priest lunged forward, as Donnagan retreated backward trying to put some distance between himself and Janner. He backed up against the wall near the window with nowhere to go, the younger man between him and the locked door. Janner lunged at him again stabbing at the older man's torso, but Donnagan was able to grab the man's wrist and move aside. He grabbed his other wrist as he shouted for help, looking for some way to escape, some way to break free and make a break for the door, but he knew a struggle with the younger, stronger man was futile. He was old—he didn't have much strength in him. He was already tiring as the other tried to force the knife into him. He did not believe he could break away and get through the locked door before he was stabbed from behind. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, breathing heavily and struggling to find some leverage. The other did not answer, his cold blue eyes locked on Donnagan's frightful blue eyes. He had said all he was going to say. With much effort, Donnagan was able to twist away and to the side and for just an instant the younger man slipped and lost his balance. Donnagan swung the man around by the arm with all the might left him, hoping to trip him up, to make him fall so he could make a run for the door. His shoes sliding on the floor, the younger priest lost his balance as Donnagan let go to attempt an escape. The other man fell backward and tried to right himself, but crashed into and through the shuttered windows. Donnagan gasped, and placed a shaking hand over his mouth, breathing heavily from the exertion as he slowly and shakily walked to the now open window. One shutter was gone while the other hung on a broken hinge. He took a deep breath, willing himself to look down to the ground below. Janner lay on his back motionless, his neck twisted at an odd angle. "Oh— oh Jandrous," he whispered, feeling sick and with tears welling up in his blue eyes. "Forgive me." He turned away from the window and leaned back against the wall, his hand still over his mouth as he tried to gain his composure. He had to find someone, let others know what had just happened. Slowly he walked to the door, and unlocked it, about to move into the hall when he heard a scream, and then another. There were more of them— they were killing his brothers. He relocked his door and fell against it, sliding down as his knees grew weak. "Oh no, oh no, oh no!" he wept. "I have to do something— what can I do? Lord Jandrous," he cried. "Help me please— help us!" Whether his own thoughts, or if it were the One True King speaking in his mind he was not sure, but three words played through his mind. Get... out... now! He slowly rose off the floor, wondering how to get out and where to go. He knew he couldn't go out the door. There were others out there in the halls and in the other rooms killing his brethren. The window stood open, and the tree seemed to beckon him forward. He had not climbed a tree since he was a young boy, and now an old man, the idea seemed ridiculous. He saw no other choice, however, and hurrying to the window, he stepped up onto the ledge and reached for the closest branch. With shaky hands he forced himself to step out and swing into the tree. The cold air blasted him and the snow and ice stung his face and hands. Slowly, branch by branch and very carefully, he eased himself down the tree to the ground below where he stopped and leaned against the tree for a moment. Janner lay at his feet, eyes open but unseeing, the dagger still gripped in his hand. After a thought, Donnagan knelt to take the dagger and then turned, weeping as he ran into the blizzard and out of sight of the temple, his white robes blending in with the white storm. He knew not where to run; only that he had to get away. He thought of making his way to the Duke's keep, but was afraid there was nowhere safe for him in Danir.
He knew the events that had just transpired were proof that the Great Hunting was beginning, and those priests that attacked him and killed his brothers were part of the turning away prophesied in The Teachings. He stumbled through Danir in the blasting cold of the storm simply to put as much distance between himself and the temple, knowing the traitors would discover their dead brother before long, and realize that he, the High Priest of the temple, had somehow managed to escape. He could not stay out in this weather, however, and knew he must find some kind of shelter, some place to hide before leaving Danir. And he already knew he was going to do just that. He must leave— he must try and catch up with Kendrick. He had to warn him somehow, that all priests of Jandrous were now in inevitable danger. How many brothers had he lost today? How many had he lost in other temples already? How many more would be slaughtered? So many thoughts raced through his mind as he stumbled along the streets, down back alleys between stone and wood buildings. He could go nowhere public, as any public place may be watched. After doing his best to stay out of sight, and sneaking from one alleyway to the next, he found himself standing before a stable on the far side of the city, just inside the walls near the gates. He looked around certain he was not being followed and stepped inside, out of the fast flying snow and ice, out of the blasting winds. He found an empty horse stall at the far back of the stable and sat down in the hay, tired and cold, and more frightened than he could ever remember being as he stared at the stable gates. He expected at any minute one of the betraying priests would enter and find him, to finish the job Janner failed to complete. He could not shake the images of his encounter with they younger man from his mind. They played over and over. The flash of a dagger suddenly in Janner's hand, the attack, the struggle that followed resulting in the betraying priest crashing through the window shutters and to the ground below— the blank unseeing eyes— Donnagan saw them over and over again. He never would have thought in all his years that he would be responsible for another man's death, but today it happened. "Oh Jandrous," he said as his eyes again filled with tears. "Oh Jandrous forgive me." He wept, great sobs escaping his throat, and even as he cried aloud he stuffed his face into his sleeve to stifle the noise. Outside, the winds of the storm wailed and cried like angry spirits, screaming their accusations at the miserable old man in the stable.
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Grey, white, and blue interlacing scales stirred as the massive dragon stretched its long, thick neck to look down from the mountain it perched upon to the valley below. He remembered a battle fought there long ago. He saw it in his mind's eye and heard it all anew. The humans, elves, and dwarves west of the Stormblade Mountains, all at war against each other, all under numerous banners even amongst their own kind. He heard the roars of defiance from all armies involved as they all faced off against each other. All were fighting for rightful rule of the lands. "They were fighting in greed," the dragon thought to himself. He remembered the man, and those who followed him, as he walked into the valley. They all knew who he was by this time. Many wanted him to be High King, but he declared many times that the time for his kingdom had not yet come. He came only to talk of his father the One God, and of peace. He spoke to all the people of loving one another, not warring in hatred and greed. He spoke of many things, the dragon remembered. Sometimes he would speak of justice, and honor, and the blessings of the One God, and... he asked how could anyone speak of justice and honor, or the blessings of the One God, if they themselves had no justice or honor within themselves? He told them to accept him as king although his rule was not yet to begin. And when he walked into the center of the valley that day, he called those who followed him to himself, and called the leaders of those others all to join him so they could perhaps leave in peace and not bloodshed. It was a prince from the east of the Stormblade Mountains, a follower and one who declared himself a personal friend of Jandrous who dealt the first blow of that dreadful day. In a sudden turn of betrayal he ran his sword through Jandrous, and as the peaceful man fell, the armies on all sides facing each other rushed into the valley to do battle. The dragon remembered his kind, those loyal to the One God, facing off against the black scaled dragons loyal to Xandrous— that wicked, fallen drayan'os now ruling in the underworld. The smell of sulfur and smoke filled the air as the dragons fought in the sky above and the people of the world fought below. Never before had a battle so great been fought, and never again after. A countless number from all sides fell that day— there was no true victor. Even the dragons were at a stalemate. At some point, most understood that the fighting was futile. And even those loyal to Jandrous did not realize until late that the very battle was foretold by the peaceful man. His death by betrayal was foretold as well. A truce was called by all involved with the exception of the betraying prince. He chose to continue fighting. He wanted conquest, and glory and power. In the end he was pushed back into his lands which had become cursed due to his betrayal. The name of the once great kingdom was no longer spoken. To this day it had become known only as the Shadowlands. The grey and white dragon loathed the Shadowlands and its dark beasts, and evil peoples. He lifted his great horned head skyward, while stretching out his massive wings to ease the tensed muscles. He thought he heard something from afar— what was that sound? He became as still as the rocks of the mountains, closing white lids over ice blue eyes. He stopped breathing, not a single hint of air escaping the nostrils at the end of his long ridged muzzle. It was very faint, even with the amazing hearing abilities of the dragons; he could not make out the distant sound. Lowering his massive body to lay down and resting his head on the long curving tail, he settled in to listen until it became more clear. He would not move, or breathe, or blink until then. And he knew the large black dragon that had been watching him from the other side of the valley would be doing the same.
©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010
