Chapter 10 of the story continues below
***Note From The Author*** Chapter Ten... Wow! I remember years ago, I suppose I was about eighteen years of age, I attempted to begin writing a novel such as this one. I wrote a pretty impressive prologue, including the mythologies and histories of the world in which it took place. I wrote how the universe was created, as well as the world, and well.... you know all that lovely stuff. I think I made it to about chapter two before I was struck with the worst case of writers block the real world has ever witnessed. I don't know what I did with that story, it's lost somewhere forever I suppose. And the writers block persisted, and persisted. Oh, it calmed down a bit here and there, allowing me to write little short stories in my blogs from time to time. And then the block would return, and I would sometimes go months before my next post. I would be able to write a song or two from time to time, but that is in my opinion a different form of writing. Both take some level of skill and imagination, and talent—I won't claim to have much skill—but a story seems to be a whole different kind of animal. Especially fantasy. You're in a sense leaving the world you know, and embarking on a journey, not only as the reader, but as the writer as well, into an unknown land of imaginations and adventures and peoples and creatures and places alien to you, and living among them all. I suppose it can be a bit overwhelming at times, but you know... if only in the back of your mind... that it's not real and you can return to the real world at any time. Or is it? And can you? Ah... but now I ramble. I never would have thought I'd actually sit down one day and decide, "Anthony, you're going to write. Not just a little blog post, mind you. I mean, you're going to write something big. You've always wanted to write a fantasy novel and never thought you'd actually do it... so why not just shut up, sit down, and channel your imagination into your fingers and start typing?" Uh.... yeah right! "Hey... why not?" Ok. I'll give it a try. I've always wanted to know if I could pull it off, so for fun, I'm doing it. And I'm sharing it with who ever wants to read it.
I believe the good Lord above blesses all his children with talents. We all have our gifts that He has given us, but it's up to us to dive into those talents and gifts and make them grow... and if we don't, well—we'll never know how far they can take us! So I'm diving into this story with everything I have in me, because I figure if God gave me a desire to write and an imagination to write of imagined peoples in imagined worlds—how can I glorify Him if I don't put that to use? So I'm writing "To The Valley Of Dragons" to see if I can pull it off, perhaps a little to prove to others that I can pull it off, to share a story with whoever in this world wants to read it, and most of all, to use those talents God gave me, the desire He gave me, and hopefully in some way honor Him in the process.
And now I want to thank all of you readers; the new readers, and those of you who have been reading since day one for taking some time out of your crazy lives to get out of the real world for a bit and take a journey elsewhere. I especially want to thank those of you who have been a huge support and help to me while I've been writing this story. You all know who you are, and some of you have been a tremendous blessing to me. God knows I'm a support junkie, something I suppose I've only recently realized, and those of you who have supported me and showered me with kind words, as well as those who have given me honest constructive criticism and point out my mistakes, have given me the drive to continue writing. Thank you all so very much and may God bless you all a thousand times for each time you've blessed me! I can't thank you all enough. I'm coming to realize right now that if I'm not careful, this Note From the Author (man... that's a cool word) thing could very well turn into a book itself, and I'm sure you all want to get back to the story at hand. So once again friends, God bless you. May your imaginations never cease, and may your dreams never die.
Thank you,
Anthony David Rosenthal
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"So how, exactly, do you communicate with your roa'an?" Marek asked Tia'ialla. The Hunter, The Roa'an Rider, and the priest who would be a warrior broke camp as soon as the sun broke free of the chains that held it below the horizon. It painted the thin feathery clouds in a multitude of hues of indigo, violet, crimson, orange, and gold when it arose from its slumber, promising a day of sunshine after a night of heavy snowfall. As they rode eastward on their journey to Rosenguarde, despite the warm sunshine, the wind was very cold and the three of them huddled into their cloaks with hoods over their heads to fight off the chill. Elongated shadows of two mounted horses, and a roa'an with rider, as well as a large Forever Lands wolf spread out across the white snow covered ground to their left and rear. Marek watched the movement of the shadow horses as their legs moved as one with their hosts; the hooves of shadow and living creature joined together as one. He watched the black wolf attached to the grey wolf trotting alongside them, bounding away and returning, always moving away but always staying near. He watched the cloaks of the dark riders waving like standards in the wind as they rode, and heard the hooves of their beasts crunching in the snow. Tia smiled and thought a moment before answering.
"The question would be better asked as thus—" Tia answered, before continuing. "How does the roa'an communicate with its chosen? They can send and receive thoughts. One of the few creations that can do so." She thought a moment as she looked down at the large antlered roa'an she sat upon. "They are very intelligent creatures, able to think much like we do, and when communicating with each other or their chosen if they have one, their thoughts are transported into the chosen's own. Much like when you think to yourself in words."
"And you, in turn, can send yours back to the creature?"
"Oh no. Not any more than I could send my thoughts to you, Marek. But, the roa'an being able to receive my thoughts, it very well seems that way."
"It's fascinating," Marek replied. "I'm not certain I completely understand it, but it's still very fascinating."
"Well," Tia said. "Have you ever spoken quietly with Jandrous, or the One God—in your mind, and felt like you not quite heard the answer, but thought it— as though when you yourself thought toward him?" Marek reflected a moment and nodded.
"It is very much like that, Marek,"Tia smiled as she answered.
Jarren had listened to their conversation, but rode on in silence. It had been very long since he had such a conversation with the One God. It would be so easy—especially now, with all that was happening and knowing things were going to be far worse. But for some reason it was also very difficult. He knew he was going to need the kind of wisdom only the One God could give in the coming days, months, or perhaps years of the Long Winter. "Will you even still listen to me?" he thought. "After all I've done in my life— all the lives I've taken of man and beast—training one of your most devoted to kill?" There was no answer, but he didn't expect one either— or perhaps he simply did not listen for it. The Hunter was unsure if he truly wanted that conversation anyway. He felt the need to clear his mind and reined his horse to a halt. The others did so as well.
"I want to rest our mounts for a while," he said. "We'll take a short break." When the others dismounted, he continued. "Marek, get your sword ready. You still have much to learn."
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Donnagan had spent the night of the blizzard hiding in the back of the stable in Danir as the winds outside howled and screamed. He burrowed into a pile of hay for warmth as he slept a fitful, fearful night waking up at every sound and wondering if it were men who had come to kill him. The next morning when a merchant came for his horses, he was able to talk the man into secreting him out of the city among his wares for the price of the dagger the old priest had taken from the lifeless fingers of Janner. The heavy set man, smelling of ale and garlic, agreed to take him as far as Riverway, a village to the west, halfway between Danir and Ulrich, resting on the banks of the Great Dragon—a river that reached from the northernmost range of the Rylosian Stormblade Mountains to the sea far in the south. The old priest, although fearful of the recent events, was pleased to have been blessed with transport out of the city, and spoke often with the merchant on their journey in the large wagon. It had been very cold, but no more harsh weather fell over the following few days, and when the merchant drove the wagon into Riverway, the priest bid him farewell with many thanks and turned to find the temple. After unloading his wares, the portly man was soon on his way back to Danir.
Upon reaching the temple, Donnagan was welcomed warmly by the priest there. He was a younger priest, and this temple was his first assignment outside of Danir, where Donnagan had been his High Priest. When asked about Kendrick, the younger man explained that he had not seen him personally but had heard of a young priest that was rescued the night of the blizzard just short of the village by Kieran, a caretaker, and Broan, a river merchant. They had left the next morning, he believed for Seaport.
"That is wonderful news!" Donnagan exclaimed. "At least I know he is alright." Donnagan decided to tell the younger priest what had happened to the temple in Danir and their fellow brothers and that he believed they were entering into the Long Winter and the Great Hunting. He warned the young man that perhaps he should pack up and flee somewhere he knew would be safe, but he refused.
"I cannot run from such danger, Donnagan," he said. "Although, I have been recently studying the prophecies of Jandrous and I agree with your assumptions, the people of Riverway need a priest. This is the path I've been given I believe, and I will stay as long as I can." Donnagan admired the young priest's resolve and his faith and commended him, but pleaded that he be careful and ever watchful. The attack in Danir was unexpected even to himself. He briefly considered staying in Riverway, but was determined to catch up with Kendrick to warn him the Great Hunting had begun and decided he would leave after a good meal and short rest. The young priest was able to give him enough coin for travel and some food for his journey, as well as clean robes and a warm travel cloak. Donnagan prayed with the man before booking passage on a small boat that would take him as far as Ravenhold, a stronghold for Erinor in the Axeweaver Mountains built as a defense against Skraeg in a pass that led to Rosenguarde. Donnagan was not certain he liked the idea of going through that section of the Axeweaver, but realized Kendrick was likely going that way as well and he wanted to reach him. He couldn't help but think Kendrick already knew the danger the priests were in, and wondered if his wanting to reach him was less to warn him, but more to be close to the only other survivor of his temple.
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Drogan on his black charger, with Faldrek and Halin on bays, rode along the chasm in search of another bridge across. The morning sun shone as pillars of light through the canopy above, and although the terrain was treacherous along the chasm, they were able to make their way safely northward. They had ridden two full frustrating hours without any sign of another bridge across before finally finding another. This one was much like the last; a rope bridge extended high above the river below. Once they had deemed it safe and crossed over to the other side they hurried southward again to the location of the bridge Andorin had downed the night before. Upon reaching it, Halin had little trouble finding the tracks left by the deserter's horse, and with him leading, they quickly began their pursuit toward the east. They knew they would have to ride hard to gain any ground they may have lost over night, but they knew also that at some point Andorin would have to rest himself and his horse.
"If we're lucky," Faldrek said. "he rested sometime over the night as we did. He would expect that we would have, and perhaps felt it safe to do so himself."
"He was riding hard," Halin added. "He would have been lucky not to have injured his horse or himself riding through these woods in the darkness." And as they rode down a sharp incline and up and over another, and through the close trees, around or over the trunks of a fallen tree or two, he added. "The terrain is quite treacherous."
"Let us hope not, Halin." Drogan replied. "If he or his horse were injured, there's a good chance Annyaa may have been as well." Halin nodded in agreement and continued to ride point, always keeping an eye on the tracks before them. After some time, it appeared to Halin that Andorin had given up his wild flight of escape in favor a more conservative one.
"He slowed down here," he said. "I suppose he decided he put enough distance between us to ride a little easier." Soon after, they found themselves on a beaten path in the trees heading northward; Andorin's tracks showing that he again was riding hard.
"This path looks to be well traveled," Faldrek said after a while. Drogan and Halin agreed, and the three of them surmised it was a trail used often perhaps by Griffinwood elves and maybe by dwarves from the Axeweaver mountains. Both were very possible, and perhaps the trail was used by both peoples. This area of the Griffinwood was in fact a part of the lower hills and mountains of the long range that spanned from the southern coast of Erinor and The Barren Wastes and stretched as far north and then westward, all the way to The Forever Lands to mark the southern border of Kyrolis and the northern of Erinor. The woods themselves began where they first entered them, and continued north to Ravenhold; the stronghold in the Axeweaver protecting a pass into Erinor. "I suppose we should pick up our pace as well?" Faldrek questioned. "No good will come if we let him ride further away from us." And the three rode hard upon the more easily navigated terrain.
Drogan had said very little since they broke camp and began their journey; speaking only when he felt it necessary or when he was spoken to. He kept thinking of the failed rescue attempt the night before—the shout that gave away their stealthy surrounding of the camp, the fight that followed, the race for the prisoners. He thought of the look of recognition and surprise on Annyaa's features as she saw Halin and himself running toward her, and the look of fear and lost hope in her green eyes as he was unsuccessful of reaching her when Andorin cut down the bridge. It was dark—did he truly see those eyes looking back at him, or what it his imagination? No. He saw those eyes; he was sure of it. Maybe a bit of moonlight or starlight had shone down on them at just that moment; he was not sure. But he was certain he saw those eyes as clearly as if she stood in front of him. Those big, beautiful eyes. Those fear filled eyes. He shook his head in frustration with an audible growl—his teeth clenched tight.
"Are you alright?" Faldrek asked, as he and Halin slowed their horses.
"Huh?" he said, slowing his horse as well and looking at Faldrek. "Uh—yes, I'm fine. It's nothing." He snapped the reins and booted the chargers flanks to ride off again. "We should keep moving!" he yelled back as Halin and Faldrek followed. Halin hung back for just a moment, watching Drogan as he rode away.
"It's nothing, eh?" he said aloud. No—it was far more than nothing, he was certain of that. Halin had been alive long enough to know when someone was stricken—in love. And Drogan was smitten by Annyaa the moment he first saw her upon his return to Misting Hill. "And the poor fool is either too naive to realize it, or too stubborn to admit it." He spurred his horse to catch up to the others as they rode around a bend in the path but something suddenly felt wrong and as he slowed and came around the bend he quickly moved his horse back and out of sight. He had caught a quick glimpse of his companions' horses rearing in surprise as arrows stuck in the ground surrounding them. Quickly and silently, he dismounted and led his horse into the trees.
Elves walked out of the woods surrounding Drogan and Faldrek; half a dozen of them with longbow cords pulled back and ready to shoot. Drogan looked around in surprise, noticing as did Faldrek, that Halin was nowhere to be seen. Neither said a word. As the elves encircled them, some with blond and some with light brown hair, and wearing dark grey leggings and tunics, Drogan and Faldrek calmed their horses. The elves' dark gray leggings were laced at the thighs with leather cord dyed a dark green, tucked into knee-high leather boots, which were a dark green in color, laced with grey leather cord. Their tunics had bits of green embroidered vine the length of their sleeves and about the shoulders where seen under the long forest green cloaks. One of them, wearing a long black surcoat over his tunic reaching down to his ankles with red embroidery on the sleeves and shoulders, was obviously the leader. Upon the chest of his surcoat were a red, rampant griffin upon his left breast, and a rampant horse upon the right. His cloak had golden vines and leaves all throughout the hemming of the cloak and the hood as well. This one, with his light brown hair reaching down his back, halfway to the thick black belt at his waist, stepped forward, a stern countenance upon his angled features, his eyes an icy blue as he kept an arrow pointed at Drogan's throat. Drogan slowly raised both hands to show he meant and wanted no harm.
"We are soldiers of Grey Home," he said. "By that alone, you should know we are not your enemies."
"Two of our men were found slain early this morning," the leader said coldly. "One of them, my close friend. He was able to describe their killer as a warrior of Grey Home with his last words."
"Everyone needs to calm themselves and relax their bowstrings." Halin said from beyond the trees. "My arrow is pointed at your leader. Let us not allow this to get any uglier than it is already." When the elves hesitated, he continued. "I assure you I can kill him easily and send another one or two of you to your graves as well—before you can even begin an attempt to get to me. I'd much rather not do so, but I will not hesitate. What say you?" The elven leader lowered his bow and motioned for his men to do the same. "I thank you for your cooperation," Halin said a moment later. Drogan slipped out of the saddle and stepped to the elven leader.
"I'm sorry about your friend," he said. "Did he say anything else? Was the soldier carrying a woman with him?" The elf looked over his shoulder, and Drogan motioned for Halin to come out. The big bearded man emerged with his arrow still ready and aimed. Drogan made a downward motion with his hand, and Halin slowly lowered his bow, but kept it ready with arrow nocked should he need it.
"He was," the elf answered.
"We are after that man," Drogan exclaimed calmly. "He's a deserter and a traitor who burned the temple in my home village, and took the woman and a priest. The priest is dead, and we would like to retrieve the woman before the same or worse happens to her. The man, we intend to take to Grey Home where he will stand trial." The elf looked long into Drogan's blue eyes as though judging his honesty, and perhaps his soul, and finally he allowed himself to relax and let out a deep sigh.
"I believe you," he said. "We are all very agitated right now. The two that died were two of our best, and well liked by all E'eldroan from our village, and known by all the villages." He offered his hand to Drogan, "I am Ardena'athurin—or Arden, if you prefer."
"Prince Ardena'athurin?" Faldrek asked.
"Yes. I apologize to the three—?" Drogan nodded at the question. "I apologize to the three of you," the elf continued. "This could have become very bad between our people. I suppose I should thank the man behind me with the bow." He allowed a small smile to play at the corners of his mouth with the statement.
"No thanks necessary," Halin smiled. "Just doing my best to avoid a crisis."
"Where did your men encounter the one we're after?" Drogan asked.
"About a mile up the path from here. He then left the path and backtracked through the woods and moved about quite a bit in this area. It seems he lay quite the trap for his pursuers—meaning for us to dispatch of you three. He's a sly one it seems."
"It appears that way," Drogan agreed.
"I'd like to see his capture if you are willing to allow me to accompany you," Arden said. "I have keen eyes, and can continue to track in the darkness when you no longer can."
"It's a good idea, Drogan," Faldrek said, and Halin nodded his agreement as well.
"It's decided then," Drogan nodded and agreed. "We'd be glad of the help." Prince Ardena'athurin, who was the second son of Arusa'averan, also known as King Arus of the E'eldroan, looked at the five elves who accompanied him.
"I'm going with these men. Tell my father and my brother what has happened here and that I will return when the man they're after is caught. Hara'aran—I place you in charge of the mountain guard until my return." One of the elves, a grey eyed one, slightly shorter than Arden nodded, and had another retrieve the fast looking, tall grey horse that belonged to his prince. When the prince swung into his saddle he asked for his soldiers' attention once more. "Stay vigilant," he said. "Remember; we heard the Horn of Gaulin only days ago—hard times are coming, and we know not how they're going to play out. I intend to see you all again very soon." He turned and nodded to Drogan. "I'll take you to your sly fox's tracks."
"Lead the way," Drogan replied.
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The Borderwood was an elongated forest reaching from the Mistwood and marking Rylos' southern border with The Barren Wastes, and the western border with Kyrolis. It reached the northern Rylos and Kyrolis Stormblade Mountains and the Axeweaver Mountains where it blended into the mountainous terrain there as the Great Dragon flowed through it and into the mountains to pass by Ravenhold and continue on into the Griffinwood and into parts of eastern and southern Erinor. The boat Kendrick traveled on was engulfed in a thick fog as it journeyed through the Borderwood, and he could not see any further than twenty feet beyond. They traveled slowly to be sure they were safe from running aground. No one spoke. Broan had long since ordered everyone to be as silent as the wind was that day. The tall, powerful looking man stood with arms crossed in his long red coat peering into the fog, listening to every sound, occasionally scratching his beard or smoothing out his mustache. He looked grim. Kendrick was about to walk toward him when long ropes shot out of the fog, attached to black iron grappling hooks that snared the boat. Broan acted instantly.
"Cut them!" he ordered loudly just as the boat began to be pulled in the direction of the ropes. His men, of course didn't even need to be told, they had all grabbed small axes from their belts and began hacking away at them one by one. But more grappling hooks came. "Kendrick!" Broan called out and passed an axe to the young priest. Kendrick, fumbling with the axe, with hands shaking, nearly dropped it into the river but was able to catch it, and began cutting the ropes as well. It seemed every time they cut the ropes, more would appear; and each time pull them—Kendrick guessed, closer to shore. Kieran was helping as well, frantically moving from one grapple to the the next, hacking with a small axe at the ropes. It seemed hopeless, however, and soon Broan was ordering his men to take up arms; some of them grabbed short swords while others seemed to prefer the same axes they used to cut the ropes. Broan disappeared into the cabin and a moment later was back on the deck with a thick wooden staff as long as he was tall. The men gave up the fight against the ropes and stood ready on the boat as they were dragged through the fog toward the riverbank. Kieran lost her footing when, with a mighty pull, the boat lurched up on one side. She slipped and rolled, but Kendrick caught her wrist and steadied her before she could fall overboard. Then they were both on their feet, looking for weapons themselves, knowing they would have to fight. Kieran found a couple broken discarded oars, hefting one and handing the other to the young priest. Her eyes were wide, as she peered into the fog trying to see their enemy. Kendrick was sweating, and shaking from both fear and adrenalin. He had never been in a fight, never lifted his hand to harm another, but knew he would soon be defending himself and perhaps others. "Oh Lord Jandrous, protect us!" he thought. Suddenly the boat ran aground and Kendrick had to catch himself from hurtling forward. With a shout, a crowd of men ran to swarm the boat, and Broan's men were hard pressed to keep them from boarding. Broan himself was among them, his staff spinning and striking, spinning and striking, blocking, deflecting and striking. Fierce determination shone on his features that he would not lose his boat or his cargo without a hard fight. His crew fought hard as well. When some of the bandits were able to break through and onto the boat, Kieran joined the fray—her broken oar swinging in wide arcs at any bandit that came near. Kendrick was at her side in an instant, no longer thinking, only acting on pure instinct—to survive—to fight so that he may live another day, and to hopefully help his new friends. When Kieran was tripped and fell hard to her back, Kendrick stood over her, to defend her with his oar against those that would deliver a killing blow—he had no doubt these thieves would kill a woman—or worse. Too late, he realized, he was in over his head. Two men, armed with wicked spiked maces faced him, and attacked at once. He swung his makeshift weapon at the first one to come close, and was able to strike him hard in the knee. But when the bandit went down the other had swung his mace for Kendrick's head. The priest flinched, just in time to evade a direct hit that would have split his skull like a melon, but was still hit quite hard against the side of his head. Everything seemed to turn red in his vision, and all sound was muffled as he heard the deafening sound of his own fast beating heart. The pain in his head paralyzed him, and he fell to his knees, certain his end was near. He saw Kieran struggling to regain her footing, as one of the thieves moved toward her. "Oh no—" he thought. "Such a nice woman— why must her life end in this way?" There was suddenly a flash of blond hair and silver steel, as the bearded Durinald was suddenly among them, standing before him and Kieran and fighting off the two attackers. "I have to help him," Kendrick thought; and he slowly raised himself to his feet. His ears were ringing, and tiny bits of light flashed before his eyes as he shakily raised himself. He felt dizzy; so dizzy. And his head throbbed. He raised his oar and attacked; striking at the one who had hit him with the mace, and heard and felt the thud when wood made contact with the thief's head. The bandit stumbled backwards dizzily and fell into the river.
"Come on men!" he heard Broan shouting. "Drive these foolish thieves back into the woods! Make them scurry off in fear like the cowardly rats they truly are! They attack under cover of heavy fog, for they are cowardly rats!" Kendrick's knees buckled and he fell. His face hit the cold wood of the deck and he saw the boots of struggling men moving to and fro before him—and then everything went dark.
Kendrick felt a cold wet cloth on his forehead and slowly opened his eyes. A very blurry Kieran knelt over him, wiping his forehead and face. "Don't move," she said. "Trust me, you'll regret it." He took her advice and stayed still, watching her as his vision slowly cleared.
"What happened?" he asked.
"You took a nasty blow to the head, hero," she replied sarcastically—but with a smile.
"Oh— yes," he replied. "I seem to recall that, now."
"What all do you remember?" she asked, sounding serious with a concerned look about her blue eyes.
"I remember that it hurt—a lot."
"You're going to be fine," she chuckled. "For now though, stay put and stay still. Otherwise it's going to hurt a lot again."
"Durinald saved us both," Kendrick said. "How is he?"
"He's fine. He's helping with one of the wounded right now as well. We had three wounded, nothing too serious—you included, and we had to fish a couple out of the water when it was all over, but we certainly taught those bandits a lesson."
"I've never been in a fight before, Kieran. I must say, I'm not proud of myself for hurting another man. But I believe it was necessary."
"Well you helped saved my life—and that's necessary enough for me," Kieran chuckled. "Looks like we're even."
"No—not quite." Kendrick managed a weak smile. "Once again I'm flat on my back, and your tending to me." Kieran laughed, and then ordered Kendrick to stay still. She warned him not to turn his head to quickly, and then stood to go help others. "Send Durinald my thanks," he said, and Kieran nodded. "My Lord, Jandrous," he thought. "Thank you for sparing us this day—but was it necessary that my head was cracked in the process?"
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Deep below the royal castle in Rosenguarde, in a dark, damp cave lit by a single torch held high in his left hand, Erehk, King of Erinor stood before a narrow, waist high platform of stone. Upon it lay a great sword. Built for two handed use and nearly as long as the king was tall, it shone like brilliant silver in the torchlight, somehow immune to the rust that would have long covered any other weapon in its environment. It was an impressive sword, forged for royalty out of dwarven steel, and crafted by the finest of elven sword smiths. The leather wrapped hilt was topped by a pommel crafted into the head of a roaring lion, and the crossguard bore the heads of two dragons. Finely engraved vines and roses entwined the entire crossguard, and even wrapped around the necks of the two dragon heads. The sword was a remarkable work of art. It was possible no other sword ever built was its equal. Fresh blood was on its blade; fresh but at the same time—very old. Curiously, yet hesitantly, the King reached to take the hilt in his hand almost afraid to touch it. Slowly he wrapped his fingers around the leather and lifted the sword, marveling at its balance. He reached into his white surcoat, withdrew a pure white cloth and wiped the blade clean, revealing the engraved vines upon the blade as well. But a moment later the blood slowly returned as though bleeding through the steel itself. He shook his head in wonderment as he lay the sword back down on the stone. He looked at his cloth—it remained clean and free of blood. "Amazing," he murmured. The sword had lain in secret in the cave for thousands of years; a secret few—other than the royal family knew about. He thought of the horn call heard just days ago. He knew immediately what it was when he heard it. And the sword was kept here so that it could be given to Jandrous when he returned as prophesied. It could very well mean giving up his kingdom, for who knew if there would be other kings and kingdoms when the One True King came? But it was an oath sworn by all kings of Erinor before him, and by himself, that they would do everything within their power to be sure the blade was delivered into the hands of Jandrous. And with the sound of the Horn of Gaulin, it became clear the duty would fall on him. Erehk would do what must be done— but first, they would have to find the man who would be the One True King.
"It is a beautiful sword is it not?" the King asked; his deep voice resonated off the stone walls of the cave.
"I find it frightful, King Erehk." High Priest Greandor, formerly of Seaport, answered.
"Perhaps— but it is a symbol of hope as well. It is the sword that slew Jandrous—but it also the sword that will make him King."
"And what will you do with the sword, now that we know the Long Winter is upon us?" The old, yet strong voice of the priest asked. The king shook his head, and audibly sighed. He turned to face the old priest.
"I do not know," he answered. "Perhaps when we find him, or he somehow makes himself known, we will have the sword safely hidden away and be able to place it in his hands. Until then, the sword will stay here. I suppose the answer will reveal itself in due time. Come, Greandor. Let us leave this cold dark place for now." As the king of Erinor began to ascend the stone stairs leading up and out of the cave to the keep above, Greandor hesitated a moment. He looked long at the bleeding blade; much of his faith was built on the story of that sword and he never would have imagined he would actually see it. And now after leaving a new High Priest in Seaport, and taking over the temple in Rosenguarde after his predecessor had died a few months ago, he was able to lay eyes on something few before him were privileged to have seen. The former High Priest sent a letter to Greandor to take over the Rosenguarde temple while on his deathbed; and although he much rather would have stayed in Seaport, he felt duty bound to honor the dying man's request. He knew as well, such a request was not made lightly. Only a select few were ever deemed worthy of High Priest in Rosenguarde, and he now knew why. The High Priests in Erinor had long acted as councilors and advisors to the royalty of this great kingdom. But the real reason was laying on a cold stone slab just a few feet away. They were granted, after swearing an oath of secrecy, the knowledge of the sword's location. He heard the king's footsteps slowly fading away, as well as the light from his torch, and quickly the old priest turned to follow.
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Belkarus walked quickly through the large iron doors from his keep and across the stone bridge suspended over a thousand foot drop to jagged rock below. His long dark hair and black cloak billowed behind him in the wind like wings of darkness poised to lift him into the black clouds that were always present above the Shadow Lands. Crowds of men, elves, and skraeg, along with taurians and massive beasts parted as he moved among them. A dozen black dragons had recently landed in the courtyard beyond, carrying the large cages below them; cages that held walven. Crowds scattered away from the dragons and the cages they held, not wanting to be in close proximity to either beast. As he came near, the dragons were already leaving to retrieve more of the walven in Nerak, where more cages awaited. A red robed priest, seeing his approach, bowed and then spoke quickly.
"My lord, Belkarus. I must inform you before you draw too near, that although bound, the walven are still very unpredictable. Only minor bindings could be placed upon them, and although they obey, they do so grudgingly. They are very dangerous, my lord." Belkarus did not slow as he walked up to and amongst the cages holding the massive beasts. Skraeg and Taurians were nearby, readying ropes and chains; the task was given to them to move the beasts into their specially made stables and to care for them. Many of them would also become riders in a new cavalry in which the walven would be their mounts. He wanted the largest of the first arrivals as his own, and stopped before one of the large iron cages. Green glowing eyes stared back at him and he could feel the heat on his face when the massive wolf-like creature breathed. Tongues of fire and black smoke escaped the toothy muzzle of the beast with every breath.
"Open it," he ordered the priest.
"My lord?"
"You heard me!" he snapped. "Open the blasted cage and let me get a closer look at it!" The priest turned to some of the skraeg nearby, ordering them to do as Belkarus demanded. Six of them came forward with ropes fashioned with loops, as another stepped forward to open the cage and move aside. The massive black horned head slowly exited the cage and the six skraeg tossed their ropes around its massive horns. It snarled angrily at them, great puffs of its breath throwing flames and smoke all about as the skraeg struggled to pull it entirely free of the cage. Suddenly it leaped at those with the ropes, grabbing one in its massive jaws and tossing the creature into the air. More skraeg rushed forward with ropes and they surrounded it, pulling the ropes taught to hold the beast in place. It breathed fire, but they were just out of reach of its breath and when the ropes caught fire, they were replaced anew. The walven struggled, and snarled, and snapped; its smoky breath filling the air all about until it was nearly hidden from view. Belkarus moved to stand directly in front of the massive, black furred beast, unheeding the priest's protests. He looked up into the beast's green glowing eyes and grabbed the creature by the fur of its jowls. "Cease your struggles beast!" he commanded and the walven tried to wrench its jaws free of the steel clad hands that held it. Normally the beast would have been able to do so easily, but the ropes of the skraeg held it in place. Still— it could very easily incinerate the man holding it now. "You want to kill me, don't you?" Belkarus asked, and then he slapped it hard against the jowls with one gauntleted hand. The walven growled and snarled angrily, flames licking just short of the man's face. The beast was pure hatred in a thick, black furred body; this one with smoke grey markings on its face and chest—its twisted black horns as black as night. "You will obey me beast!" the dark clad lord shouted. "You will have your taste for blood satisfied soon, I assure you." He turned to the priest and the skraeg holding the frightening creature. "This one is mine!" he shouted. "See to it that it eats well and has a stable with plenty of room to move—as for the rest of them; make sure they all get a good whiff of the stench of Jandrous in their nostrils and set them loose in all the lands to the west. Send more as they arrive as you see fit, priest. But make sure I have enough for my cavalry as planned. Is that understood?"
"Yes, my lord Belkarus," the priest answered with a bow, as Belkarus swiftly turned and walked back to the keep.
©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010
