Kendrick awoke in his small chair beside Kieran. He had dozed off and her labored breathing awakened him. The candle on the table had burned out and he stumbled over to light a new one before returning to the woman's side. Her face was flushed and hot to the touch. Taking a cloth from a small bowl of cool water on the table by her bed, he wiped her forehead. The medicine had not helped her, it seemed, and he shook his head in worry. There was a knock on the door, and Broan and Durinald entered. The broad shouldered river merchant explained they could not sleep and had both come to see how Kieran was doing. The look in Kendrick's blue eyes told them without words, she was only worse and they came to stand behind him. Suddenly, without any warning, Kieran began to gasp for air and frantically Kendrick leaned over her, his hands on her face.
"No, no, no, Kieran!" He exclaimed softly. "Don't do this!"
"What is wrong?" Durinald asked.
"She's dying," Broan answered, and choked on his words. "What can we do, Kendrick. Is there anything we can do to help?"
"I—I don't know," the young priest answered. "Pray. I think—I think that's all there is left to do at this point." And the big bearded man dropped to one knee to do just that. Durinald watched helplessly, as Kieran gasped for air. And then slowly, although not a believer in prayer or in the One God, the blond bearded Durinald sank down to one knee as well. "I've been through much, my lord," Kendrick said aloud. "Please—don't take this woman who has helped me so much and been a friend to me in my hardships." But Kieran's gasps became quick and short as she took her final breaths and became still. "No!" Kendrick yelled. "Please no!" In a panic he tried to pray but couldn't find the right words. Broan and Durinald continued to pray on their knees behind him. He remembered a verse he had read aloud earlier that night. "And he will grant me healing when asked in faith, so that I can show his love for his people..." He knew there were no other options, and he believed with all his heart that such a thing was possible. "And he will grant me healing when asked in faith, so that I can show his love for his people," he said aloud. "My lord the One God, I ask you not to take this wonderful woman from us yet," he said aloud and placed a hand on her head as he spoke it. "If it is within your will, please leave her with us in health." She felt cooler to the touch, but if her life had passed this would only be natural—and she had stopped breathing. He sat back down heavily and the others rose to their feet.
"Is she—" Durinald could not finish the question and Kendrick sighed heavily.
"I'm afraid so—" Kendrick began, but there was a sudden gasp for air from the woman on the bed and she opened her blue eyes. She looked in confusion, at the three men staring at her. Kendrick sat back with a hand over his mouth and tears in his eyes. Broan stood misty eyed as well, with a big grin on his bearded face. And Durinald—Durinald sank to his knees again, weeping, thanking the One God, and asking him to forgive his unbelief.
"Wha—what's going on here?" Kieran asked, puzzled. "Where are we?"
"We are in Ravenhold, Kieran!" Broan said loudly with a hearty laugh. "And you just died!" And Kieran looked at the three of them in wonderment as Kendrick grabbed her hand and buried his face, weeping and laughing in the joy of the moment. He knew a wonderful gift had been given them. And the verse he had quoted rang true.
"And he will grant me healing when asked in faith, so that I can show his love for his people," Kendrick again quoted The Teachings, and looked over his shoulder at the weeping Durinald. "Welcome brother," he said with a smile.
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Jarren walked through a long hallway in Rosenguarde's keep, past colorful tapestries hung upon stone walls, to a pair of open doors where a guard stood.
"State your business," the lightly armored, bored man spoke.
"The king and I were friends once," Jarren said. "And I bring news from Eagle's Crest and the surrounding areas."
"A man claiming to be your friend, Highness," the guard called out. "With news from afar."
"Come forward then, friend," the king spoke, and Jarren entered the room. As the tall man walked down the center of the throne room toward the king, the ruler slowly stood. There was recognition in King Erehk's emerald green eyes as The Traveler walked closer.
"Stop—" the king said. Slowly the king rose from his seat. His light brown hair, worn long, was kept in place by a simple silver band with gold markings—the crown of the kings of Erinor; the same modest crown worn by many before him. The crown was also embroidered upon his white surcoat, as well as two rampant dragons facing away from each other. Slowly, the king stepped down from his throne to stand before Jarren. He looked long at the man he had not seen in years. "Old friend—" the king said before embracing his long absent friend. "There is something of importance that brings you to Rosenguard." It was a statement of fact; not a question. When Jarren answered, his voice was not pleasant. It was a voice that spoke of ill tidings.
"I'm afraid so, King Erehk." The features on Jarren's face were grim.
"Please," the king said. "There were never any titles between us. It has been a long time, but why start with the formalities now?" He locked his green eyes on Jarren's brown. "It is simply Erehk as far as I'm concerned." Jarren hesitated a moment before answering.
"So be it then, Erehk," the tall man said. "It is, I fear, an important matter that brings me to Rosenguard." He told the story of meeting Marek out on the plains just outside the Forever Lands and the encounter with the drayan'os possessed priest. He told of the slaughtered priests of Jandrous and the burned down temple and of the people slaughtered in the snow as they fled Eagle's Crest. He told of his fight with the three Skraeg and finally of the siege upon Eagle's Crest.
"My One God—" King Erehk said slowly, shaking his head. "So truly the war to come has already begun. How many were this Skraeg force?"
"Many, Erehk," Jarren answered. "I'm certain Eagle's Crest had fallen by dawn." The clean shaven king studied the face of the bearded man before him as though judging the truth of his word. But he didn't study him long. Jarren had always been a man of his word and King Erehk doubted that had changed.
"Ravenhold may be next." The king thought a moment before continuing. "There's a good chance the Skraeg from Eagle's Crest will come here. And they've effective destroyed any chance of reinforcements from that city. If Skraeg can take Ravenhold, they will hold the lands between here and the elves of Griffinwood—and the lands of the dwarves of the Axeweaver Mountains."
"Do you believe the Skraeg have united their clans?" Jarren waited for an answer.
"It appears to be obvious, if they had a force large enough to take Eagle's Crest. There may be other players involved as well if they took the city somehow with little or no warning." Erehk walked up and down the throne room, stopping occasionally to admire the colorful tapestries upon the stone cold walls. Jarren watched in silence—some things never changed. King Erehk would do the same thing many years past when they were both young. When the king was deep in thought, or worry, he would do just as he did now. Walking, pacing, stopping, and walking, pacing, and stopping over and over again. Suddenly he stopped; his green eyes suddenly afire it seemed. "I must ask you," the king said. "Not as a king, but as an old friend. There are few men such as you Jarren." He walked away a moment before turning on his heels and standing before Jarren once again. "Very few. Dark times have come. Will you be of service to me once again?"
The Hunter thought long in silence. Was this something he wanted? Likely, it was not. But many roads he had traveled in his days that were not of his choice. This could be one such road, he thought. He knew he could not say no even if he wanted to.
"What is it you need of me?" Jarren asked.
"I must entrust something to you—" Erehk said. "Something of very high importance." He looked away from the tall man before him and shouted to the guard standing outside the throne. "Wil'm!" The king shouted. "Leave us. You may leave for the day. I will send for you, if you are again needed." The guard was soon gone, and the two stood in silence before each other. "Follow me," the king finally broke the silence and motioned Jarren to follow him. Erehk led Jarren to a tapestry hung behind the throne, and moving it aside, he pressed upon a stone in the wall. There was a click, and a door unseen before opened silently inward. After Jarren followed him into the hidden passage, the door closed and they stood a moment in total darkness until with a flash a torch appeared in the king's hand and the tall man was led down a spiraling stone stairway. They descended for many moments, the light from the torch casting elongated shadows of the two men upon stone walls, until arriving in a large cave-like room. Certainly, they were far beneath the keep.
"Where are we?" Jarren's voice echoed loudly off the cave walls.
"A secret that has been kept by the royal family since the time of Jandrous," the king answered and walked to a stone block in the center of the cave as Jarren followed. Upon the stone lay a long two handed, lion head pommeled sword, gleaming like silver in the torchlight. A pair of dragons made the cross guard, engraved and bearing vines and roses. The sword itself was beautiful, but curiously fresh blood stained the majority of the gleaming blade crimson.
"That blood is fresh," Jarren said. "What is this, Erehk?" Jarren was suspicious. When the king took the blade in his hand, Jarren took a step back, suddenly cautious of the man who was at one time his closest friend.
"Be at ease, old friend." Erehk allowed a small smile to play at his lips. "Watch." And the king took the hem of his white surcoat and wiped the blood free, only for the blood to appear again shortly upon its vine engraved blade.
"What dark magic is this, Erehk?" The Hunter's brown eyes were grim and he studied the king before him as he would an opponent in battle.
"It has been many years, Jarren," the king shook his head sadly. "But you can still trust me as a follower of Jandrous, and not a man of dark mischief." He offered the hilt of the weapon to Jarren. "Take it," he said. Slowly Jarren reached out and took the sword in his hand. "Wipe the blade clean." Doing as Erehk said, he took his cloak and ran it along the blade of the sword, wiping it free of blood. As before, the blood returned, and when Jarren looked down at his cloak it was clean—as was the king's surcoat he then noticed. His eyes grew wide, and he looked at the weapon in disbelief.
"This is not—" The Hunter could not finish the statement.
"It is indeed," the king answered. "The sword that slew Jandrous."
"Why are you showing me this?" Jarren looked questioningly from the king to the sword and back again.
"I had originally felt it would be safest here, with the coming of the Long Winter. But I've recently changed my mind. After what you've told me of the Skraeg at Eagle's Crest, I believe it would be best to move the sword away from Rosenguarde. For it to fall into enemy hands would be terrible beyond imagination."
"Erehk— I have never been one to underestimate an enemy, nor one to overestimate anything either," Jarren said. "But this is Rosenguarde! Never have her walls been breached."
"It must leave Rosenguarde if we are to ensure in any way that it reaches the hands of Jandrous," the king replied.
"And how will Jandrous find the sword then?" Jarren argued. "Do you have any idea, where he could be?"
"Jandrous will not even know who he himself is!" The king snapped angrily. They stared at each other in silence for a moment, and the king calmed himself with a sigh. "Even if Rosenguarde's walls never break," he asked quietly, "how could Jandrous come here to claim the weapon if the city is surrounded by enemies on all sides?" Jarren took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He eyed the blade in his hand, studying its beauty and its masterful craftsmanship. Those who forged and crafted this sword must have been the the greatest sword smiths and artisans in all of history. Even the feel of the blade itself—it felt like an extension of his arm.
"What am I to do with it?" Jarren asked at last.
"I'm not entirely sure," Erehk answered almost sheepishly. "I know you cannot go traveling all the lands in search of any and all men who have lost their memories in hopes that one of them would be the One True King—but now that you're here, I cannot think of anyone I'd rather entrust the keeping of the sword too. I can only ask you to take it, leave Rosenguarde, and stay alive. Keep the sword safe at all costs. Keep your eyes and ears open for any rumors of anyone who could possibly be Jandrous. If you think you can find him by searching directly for him than do that as well—you earned the name, The Hunter. There are few men like you, Jarren. Very few. Please do this." Just as when they were younger, King Erehk rarely ordered Jarren to do anything. It was always more of a request. And it was one of the things about Erehk, that made Jarren respect him. This was not Erehk the King standing before him and commanding him to do a duty—this was Erehk, his old friend, asking a favor of him. He knew he could not refuse.
"I will do it, Erehk," Jarren answered.
"Very well. Thank you, Jarren," Erehk smiled. "Come," he continued. "Let us eat and talk. We have twenty years or so to catch up on, and I am hungry." The king began leading the way back up the stairway. "Besides—I'd like to know where you ran off to the night before you were to become commander of my personal guard—" Jarren lay the sword down carefully upon the stone and began to follow.
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"Excuse me!" Marek called out, trying to catch the attention of an old priest walking up the steps to the temple. Accompanied by Tia, he dodged between people walking about the streets of Rosenguarde. "Excuse me!" he yelled more loudly, and the old white haired priest, short and somewhat portly, slowly turned to see who called. "Brother! A word please!" Marek continued as he and Tia made their way up the stone steps. The old priest stood just outside the doors of the temple, scratching his thick white beard as the two drew near.
"Ah—a Forever Lands elf!" The old priest said apparently quite pleased. "And a man—dressed as a Forever Lands elf. I've heard of a man who lives amongst the E'eldradin—but if you are the one called Jarren the Hunter, I must say you are not what I expected." He looked at Marek quizzically.
"N—no, brother," Marek said. "My name is Mar—"
"Well it's obvious you had something important to say, man. Get on with it! I'm a busy man!"
"Well—yes," Marek began. "I have terrible news I must bring to the High Priest. And I thought perhaps you could take me to him. You see, my name is—"
"Mar— yes I understand. You've already introduced yourself. I am—"
"No, brother. My name is Marek."
"Ah—very well then. Marek it is."
"And you see, I come from the temp—"
"Are you a priest?" The older man asked.
"Yes. I am Marek from the temple near—"
"Well you certainly don't look like a priest! You are dressed as an elf and carry a sword!"
"I know, brother. But if you would let me expl—"
"You wish to see the High Priest." The old man said.
"Yes! Now please! Could you possibly take me to him?" Marek shouted the question, becoming quite irritated.
"Well—?"
"Well, what?"
"Well get on with it!" the older priest exclaimed.
"I must speak to the High Priest, please." Marek sighed.
"I am he—High Priest Greandor. How may I help you." Tia had begun to chuckle, but stifled her laughter at a stern look from Marek.
"I am Marek, from the outlying temple near Eagle's Crest," Marek began. "I have terrible news." After being certain the old priest would not interrupt him again he continued. "I'm afraid to say, brother, I am the last one."
"What do you mean?" The priest became serious, looking intently into Marek's eyes. Marek told him all of what had happened at the temple as the high priest listened, and was not interrupted again. When Marek's tale was told, the old priest sat slowly down upon the stone stairs and shook his head sadly.
"I'm afraid that's not the only case," Greandor said. "I've received news of other attacks on temples and priests. Do you know anything of the temple within the city of Eagle's Crest?"
"I'm afraid they would be another casualty," Tia spoke. "Eagle's Crest was under siege by Skraeg when we passed near."
"What?" Greandor exclaimed. "I must go. King Erehk must hear of this!" He began to stand but was stopped short by Tia.
"He likely already knows," she said. "Jarren, our companion, was to talk with him this morning."
"The same Jarren I mentioned a few moments ago?"
"The same." Tia answered.
"Ironic." Greandor rose to his feet, and after shaking his head sadly, turned to Marek. "I'm under the impression—you brother, will need lodging at the temple here. We'll see to it later. But first—I plan to leave for Ravenhold today. You can travel with me, there and back, so we can get to know each other."
"Are you sure that's wise?" Tia asked concern on her features. "There are the attacks on priests, and the weather has been—interesting to say the least."
"We will be fine," Greandor said positively. "One great addition to being High Priest in Rosenguarde is that I have my own personal guard of twenty well trained soldiers. They will be coming with—what is that?" He finished his statement with a puzzled, questioning look down the road. People were screaming and hurrying out of the way of something running in the distance. Man-like it was; but it appeared to be running on all fours, leaping and bounding toward them.
"It's a drayon'os possessed!" Marek exclaimed loudly. "Like the one that attacked me outside the Forev—" He was unable to finish as the creature, already upon them leaped up the stone steps heading straight toward the high priest who stumbled backward. "No!" Marek screamed in rage. He had made the decision that he now was a soldier of Jandrous, not simply a priest, and while many others may have run in fear, he quickly raised his sword and stood before the drayan'os as it leaped toward Greandor. Trying to move away from Marek's sword, the creature jumped sideways but Marek leaped in front of it again. Anger in its already distorted and elongated face, it hissed, bared its teeth, and charged. Marek stood his ground, and the creature was impaled upon his sword. This one was different than the one that attacked him before. This one had long hair as black as night with pointed ears and milky white skin, but the eyes were the same—completely black, even the whites. The creature tried to claw at Marek, but was unable to reach him. "It will not die!" Marek screamed as he struggled to hold it at bay. There was a flash of steel as Tia's blade swept off its head. The headless torso struggled a few more moments, still trying to claw at Marek's face and body, just out of reach until finally the struggling ceased and the indwelt creature went limp.
"Are you ok?" Tia turned to the High Priest—then the sound of a bowstring reached her keen elven ears. Without thinking she twisted, grabbing hold of the portly old man and spinning him out of the way. The black shaft of an arrow passed through her flying red hair to embed itself in the doors to the temple behind them. She turned her attention in the direction the arrow came. There—down the street, a figure in a plain hooded brown cloak, bow in hand, spun in an instant and ran. "Get him inside, Marek!" She yelled and took off at a sprint. A couple soldiers in chain mail armor had witnessed the events and had already begun running toward the fleeing figure, but Tia was faster, over taking them easily and passing far beyond them as she ran after the assassin. Running down the street the assassin soon ran into a market district and was forced to slow while running between and literally through people, knocking them aside or down in his wake. The quick agile Tia nearly overtook him but was knocked aside and rolled heavily to the ground as she collided with a man who stopped in front of her to watch the one fleeing. Regaining her feet, she continued her chase, her feet barely seeming to touch the ground as she ran. Ahead, another dressed in a plain hooded cloak as well, waited at the gates with two horses. "Stop them!" she shouted at guards that stood atop the wall above the gates, but was too late. The assassin leaped into the saddle and the two rode quickly out the gates. "A bow! Give me a bow!" she called as she bounded up the stairs leading to the battlements above. She snatched a bow and an arrow quickly from a startled guard atop the wall, and setting the arrow to string, steadied herself, pulled—waited for the wind to cease just for an instant—felt her heart beat. In between beats she let the arrow fly toward her mark. It soared, striking the figure in the back just as the wind blew again, and the fleeing assassin fell out of the saddle into the snow. The assassin's companion rode on at a full gallop. Leaping down the stairs she hurried to the gates where she was met by one of the soldiers she had passed a moment ago. He had acquired a horse and gave her a hand to rise up behind him. When they reached the fallen assassin she lowered herself down, and kneeling, turned the body over. Black hair fell over pointed ears and milky white skin.
"An elf." The soldier said as he lowered himself to the ground to stand beside her.
"E'eldnarak," she spat. "Blackwood elf—the high priest is fortunate. They do not miss often."
"There were three," the soldier said.
"No—" she replied as she raised herself. "That other was not an elf—not anymore. He was drayan'os possessed."
"I want to thank you for your assistance. I saw what happened," The soldier said. "I am Dran, commander of the High Priest's personal guard. Come. Let us go back to the temple. I would like to know more about this possessed elf." Turning, they walked back toward the gates of Rosenguarde.
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Hooves pounded on the forested path as the four riders gave chase. They were riding at a full gallop, their quarry close at hand. Low in the saddle and giving their horses rein, they thundered through the Griffinwood, cloaks flying behind them like pennants.
"There they are!" Faldrek yelled as they rode along a bend. Ahead, Andorin rode hard, bent low in his saddle over the bouncing form of Annyaa, slung bodily over the horse's back. Drogan urged his horse faster, riding ahead of the others. Only the swift grey horse of Prince Arden was able to keep pace as the others began to fall back.
"Curse it all, where are you?" Andorin screamed as the three riders behind him, especially Drogan and the elf, began to gain on him. Arden heard the call, and yelled at the others to halt. But it was too late. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh—the arrows flew out of the trees. The riders had just enough time to check their mounts, sliding to a halt just before the arrows flew and throwing their shooters off target. Halin, however, took an arrow in the shoulder, its point finding a way through his chain mail. He cried out in pain as black and grey clad shapes burst out of the trees.
"Blackwood elves!" Arden yelled, as they were attacked by half a dozen pale skinned elves who sought to pull them from their saddles. Within seconds they found themselves unsaddled and desperately fending off the blades of their attackers. Andorin sat atop his horse, a smile upon his lips as he watched what would be the inevitable death of those who pursued him.
"I've wanted to watch you die for a long time, Drogan!" The dark haired warrior yelled. "It seems I will win a prize for this woman after all! She will make a great slave under Lord Belkarus' rule! I do not believe I must tell you what will likely become of her!" Drogan was too busy to reply, fending blow after repeated blow by the elves. The others fought just as desperately—Arden's sword rang upon Blackwood elven blades, as did Faldrek's. Drogan's old friend shouted verses and quotes from The Teachings as his steel met steel. Halin, with an arrow in his shoulder fought valiantly as three elves sought to surround him. He slowly backed up, moving with them, trying to keep them before him as he fought with his one good arm. It would not be long now, Drogan thought. Soon one of them would fall and then he and the others would soon follow. A rage built up inside him. They were so close, and now this. The elves had been waiting for Andorin here. He was angry, as he left one of his attackers dead at his feet. He was enraged at the smug look on Andorin's face, as another fell to his sword. Suddenly another attacker was on him. Halin had fallen, but the big man had taken a couple of the elves down with him. Drogan, even in the heat of battle, felt a sadness as his father's long time friend who had become his own friend lay on the cold wet ground. He breathed heavily and was growing tired, as were Faldrek and the elven prince Arden. They were practically encircled and could not run. Suddenly—a screech, high pitched and above them rang out, and a massive winged creature crashed through the canopy of trees in a shower of leaves and branches. Like a huge lion it was, with the wings and head of a bird of prey—a griffin with rider. Drogan recognized the rider at once. It was Hardis, whom they had met the night before in E'eldaduranus. His blond hair flew behind him, and his spear struck like a snake at the Blackwood elves; the griffin he rode upon attacked with its sharp powerful beak and claws. Suddenly the tide of the battle had turned, and Drogan, Faldrek, and Arden quickly finished off the elves that Hardis and his griffin had not. And then there was silence. In the chaos of the melee, Andorin had again disappeared.
"Halin!" Drogan cried out and stumbled to the big bearded hunter. Faldrek was there before him, kneeling down beside Halin and speaking to him softly. At a questioning look, the long time second in command of his squad shook his head.
"He yet lives, Drogan," was all he said before backing away to give Drogan room.
"Halin— oh Halin—" he said as he knelt beside the wounded man, seeing the severity of his injuries. The elven sword that brought him down still protruded from his side.
"I am slain, Drogan— forgive me." Halin's face was ashen and pale beneath the dark beard, with blood on his lips. He spoke softly—a barely audible whisper.
"No Halin," Drogan said. "You fought well, you have helped so much—and become a great friend."
"I am sorry—" Halin coughed, and Drogan gently wiped his face clean. "I am sorry I couldn't help you bring back Annyaa, Drogan. Get her back for old Rodrick, Drogan. He is a good old man, a close friend of your father. And—get her back for yourself, Drogan. I have seen how you look at her."
"I will Halin. I will get her back."
"Listen—" the dying man whispered. "You're father—he was hard on you, I know. Perhaps too hard at times. But deep down, he was a good man, and he loved you very much. He would never admit it to himself—but he was proud of you. He hoped to bridge the gap between the two of you someday. He was a soldier once too, you know. Saved the life of Jarren the Hunter once, he did. Remember him for his goodness, which he rarely showed you, but was there none the less. And take this—" Painfully he reached down to a leather pouch at his belt and fumbled with a buckle. Drogan helped him open it and withdrew an old copy of The Teachings. Halin raised the book and pressed it hard against Drogan's chest. "Read it, Drogan!" He had to force the words to come. "Read it—and give it a chance! Go after Annyaa, and take her home, something I know you cannot truly promise—stay alive in these days to come, they will become far worse soon. You cannot—promise that either. But promise me—you will—read that book!" He coughed fitfully, and Drogan took his hand in his and held it tight.
"I promise, Halin." He said and then—"Please, Faldrek— pray with him in his last moments, as you believe the same!" he choked on his words. Faldrek, as he came forward, had a tear in his eye. Kneeling once more beside Halin, he placed a hand on the man's head and took his free hand. He prayed as Halin took his last breaths and died. There was silence for a moment as they all rose and stood beside the body. Drogan and Faldrek had both seen death many times. It was never easy, but they had grown accustomed to it, and expected it in battle. But this was different. For Drogan, it was link to his past and to his father. To Faldrek, it was a moment in which he could share his faith with a dying brother. Only Hardis the griffin rider moved, as he checked the Blackwood elves for signs of life.
"One yet lives," the rider said. And in a fury, Drogan spun and knelt before the Blackwood elf laying and dying.
"Where is he taking her?" Drogan asked with growl. "Where is he taking her?" He screamed it this time in the elf's face.
"No place—I—would ever tell you, human," the elf said quietly.
"Where is he taking her! Where is he taking her! Where is he taking her!" Drogan was shaking him violently and flinched when he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. It was Arden, the elven prince.
"Let him go. He is gone," was all he said. Drogan slowly rose to his feet, stumbled a few yards away from the others and shouted into the trees. His frustration, raging anger, and sadness all coming to the front of his emotions all at once.
"Andorin!" He screamed. "I'm coming for you! Know that! Expect it! I am coming for you!"
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The Mistwood was in flames. Dragons as black as night skirted the tops of the trees, breathing fire onto the elven villages below. They blackened out the sky like a writhing, massive black cloud of moving death, as the elves below fought in vain. By the hundreds they burned and died, or were ripped to pieces by the dragons that crashed through the canopy to attack them on land. It was a sudden attack, they had no chance to ready any defense and were being slaughtered.
An enormous gathering of whites were flying across the Barren Wastes to the west. Gathered by their king, they were flying to the Valley Of Dragons where they would eventually take part, they knew, in a battle the likes had never been seen before. The smell of smoke and death filled their nostrils as they flew high above the sands and canyons and seemingly desolate barren land. They heard the roar of dragons to the east and to investigate further, the lead dragon, the very king of them all, turned toward the sounds and smell. There—in the distance. Blacks were attacking the Mistwood in force.
"Must we interact with the people of the lands so soon?" A few of them sent their thoughts.
"Yes." Their king replied. "Yes— the time of prophecies is among us. And we loyal to the One God cannot simply watch from afar the lives of the people of the world any longer. We must aid them." He led them high into the clouds where they broke apart into formations of three or four, and silently they soared above the blacks wreaking destruction below. And then, when they were right on top of them, the king tipped his wing and went into a dive. The three dragons behind him did the same, and then one by one, formation after formation followed his lead, and tucking their great wings to their bodies, they fell like giant white arrows upon the blacks below them. The roars and shrieks of anger, surprise, and pain filled the sky and the lands below. Charging into the blacks, they scraped their claws along scales and bit into the necks and bodies of their foe. Dragonfire lit the shadows of the forests below, and the Mistwood elves—the E'eldhiavan were finally able to mount a defense of their own. As the white dragons tore into the blacks the elves brought forth bows and lances, and spears and swords, and attacked what dragons they could. The great creatures smashed through the trees when wounded or killed, felling trees and destroying buildings as they hit the ground rolling in showers of dirt, branches, leaves and other debris. Finally the black dragons, not ready for the whites, gave up the fight and retreated toward the Stormblade Mountains.
And so the first battle in the coming war between the dragons of different loyalties came to pass.
©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010
