Chapter 13: War Comes Like A Serpent

After making certain High Priest Greandor was safe, Marek and Tia returned to the inn to rendezvous with Jarren. The morning had been a busy one. Word of the assassination attempt on the high priest's life spread quickly and the city of Rosenguarde was abuzz with truth and rumor, and rumor mixed with truth. People were already talking about a drayan from the heavens "come down out of the sky above and smote the powerful drayan'os who tried to kill the high priest!" Most people knew the truth, however, and spoke of the elven clothed man and the elven woman who protected Greandor.

Jarren and King Erehk heard the news as they ate. The King quickly ordered the city be placed on high alert, but he was informed security had already been heightened. He also suggested that the high priest cancel his journey to Ravenhold, but Greandor would have none of it, claiming "the people and soldiers of Ravenhold need ministering and teaching to—and an elevation in morale just as much as the people of Rosenguarde. I knew my life would be a target the moment I took the position of High Priest in the king's city—even more so now. I will not hide within her walls, however, if there are those without that need ministering." And so it was decided his entire personal guard would accompany him on the road to the mountain pass stronghold. When Jarren later returned to the inn carrying a long wrapped bundle, Marek and Tia quickly waved him over. He stood before them a moment, eying Marek with what seemed a new respect before sitting down at the table.

"Are you both alright?" he asked looking from one to another as they nodded their heads. "I heard what happened as I shared breakfast with King Erehk. You both did well and the King asks that I extend his thanks—he is indebted to you both, he says." He smiled then, but there was a new look in The Hunter's deep brown eyes. Tia noticed it first.

"Something is wrong, Jarren?" she asked concernedly.

"I am fine," he said as he felt the long wrapped bundle he held in his lap. Although not entirely true, he felt he could say no more. "Word travels quickly in Rosenguarde," he said. "I understand you are to be traveling with the high priest today—to Ravenhold?"

"Yes," Marek answered. "I'm not entirely certain how I fell into that. I'm in no hurry to sleep in the cold again."

"There is a chance he may be targeted again," Jarren said. "It it unwise I think, for him to travel out of the city so soon. Traveling with him will put you in danger as well, Marek. Are you certain you want to risk it?"

"I will not hide behind walls, Jarren." Marek looked long at the tall man sitting before him. He had traveled many miles with him and together they had witnessed more terrible things than Marek had witnessed in his entire life before. He had made a choice. Jarren was training him in the use of a sword and he was no simple priest anymore—he was something different. And although he still had much to learn, the sword had already served him well. He was a priest still, but he had become a soldier as well. His mind was made up and he knew how he would live his life—at least during the Long Winter if he survived it. He looked down at his clothing. He could have begun wearing the white robes again, but still wore the clothing similar to Jarren's own. He still carried his sword. All he was missing was armor—and that could be remedied soon he was certain. "Would you respect me Jarren, if I turned back on my decision, and being safe now within the walls of Rosenguarde, decided to cower within them? I will not do that, Jarren. I cannot." Jarren nodded. He never took his eyes off the priest who spoke to him. Finally he leaned back, scratched his beard, and then leaned forward again to place a firm hand on Marek's shoulder.

"Marek— you have long since proven to be an honorable, and courageous man. You easily could have stayed within the Forever Lands knowing you would be relatively safe there—at least for a time. No—I think I would respect any decision you made now." He looked at Marek and Tia, and they were all silent for a moment before Jarren continued. "I will not be staying in Rosenguarde. I must leave soon. I've never been one to stay within the walls of a city such as this for long. I begin to feel caged." Tia sensed there was more reason behind his decision than he was revealing but remained silent of her feelings, and nodded.

"Where will you go then?" the elven woman asked.

"It seems our journey together is not yet over. I have no other place I can think of going at the moment, so I'll be traveling with Marek to Ravenhold. I'd like you to join me Tia. I have a feeling we'll have need of your skills with sword and bow."

"Ha!" Tia laughed. "Your skill is as good as mine, Jarren. Perhaps many times better! But yes—I will gladly continue traveling with you both." Jarren smiled at her and clapped her on the shoulder before rising again and asking for Marek's sword.

"Marek, you're going to need a scabbard for this," he said. "Perhaps some armor as well. Let's go and see what we can find for you." He held the blade in one hand, turning it and hefting it, feeling its balance.

"What is the bundle you carry?" Marek asked.

"Nothing to be concerned with," was all Jarren said as he left the table. But it was something to be concerned with, The Hunter knew. Perhaps the sword he carried wrapped in plain brown cloth was the most important item in all of the world. It was more valuable than any amount of gold or silver. No jewels, regardless of their rarity could purchase it. He did not cherish the burden carrying the sword that slew Jandrous would be, but it was a burden he had accepted. And although it felt so light in his hands when first he touched it deep beneath Erehk's keep, it now felt peculiarly heavy. Jarren wondered at its weight as he walked out of the inn with Marek following close behind.

Tia knew Jarren perhaps better than he knew himself and she could tell when something was bothering him or he was not being entirely truthful. This was one of those times. She would not question him however. At least not yet. If he was keeping something to himself, she knew he had plenty of reason to do so. She wondered at the bundle he carried as she watched her two traveling companions walk through the door. Shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders she rose from her seat as well. She would see to Runner, Silverprince, and the horses and then she would see about acquiring some more arrows and other supplies.

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Broan and Kendrick turned from the window downstairs. The storm had grown increasingly worse overnight and had become another blizzard, and the screaming winds racing through the pass and between the buildings of Ravenhold could be heard from inside the candlelit inn. There were few people in the building; most preferred to stay within their homes or businesses. The big merchant and the young priest walked to the fire burning along one wall rubbing their hands to warm them and then sat at the table where Kieran ate ravenously her second helping of a large breakfast. Amused and wide eyed, they watched as she shoveled beef stew into her mouth and tore off chunks of bread, occasionally stopping long enough for a drink of water. She stared into her bowl with her elbows on the table and hesitated when she felt their stares upon her.

"What?" she asked with a mouth full, noticing their raised eyebrows. "I died—takes a lot out of a person, you know." Broan burst into laughter, leaning back in his chair and almost toppling it backward before regaining his balance. Kendrick laughed as well.

"You should slow down at least a little, Kieran." Kendrick chuckled as he watched her eat. "You'll make yourself sick."

"Well, I'm hungry!" She did slow down, however, and when she was done with her meal she leaned back with her hands on her stomach. "I feel like I haven't eaten in a lifetime," she said smiling, which brought another round of loud laughter out of the big bearded Broan.

"Please, Kieran!" He hollered as he held his sides. "You're killing me!" He stopped laughing, realizing what he had just said, and then burst into more laughter. He was beating his fist on the table with one hand and wiping his tears with another when Durinald entered the room from upstairs carrying a copy of The Teachings with him.

"What's all the noise about?" the blond man asked.

"Kieran's death and her eating habbits," Broan answered with a wink. "How goes your reading?"

"There's much to read, much to learn." He gave Kieran and the others a wide smile as he walked toward the table. "I assume the weather has not eased much?"

"Bah—we're not going anywhere soon, that's a certainty." The big merchant shook his head disgustedly, but then turned his attention back to Kieran. "Well, it's no matter I suppose. No one is traveling in this white beast—we may as well enjoy the rest while we have it. And the warmth and the food."

"And life," Kieran added with a smile.

"How long do you suppose the storm will last?" Kendrick asked as Durinald took a chair beside him, engrossed in The Teachings. The young priest was anxious to get his message to the high priest in Seaport. He also worried about Donnagan and his brothers in the temple in Danir and hoped and prayed they were safe. He kept thinking about the temple in Ulrich, burned to the ground with the priests still inside.

"No way to know for certain," Durinald said, looking up from his reading. "A day— a week—" he shrugged his shoulders. Again Kendrick stood and walked to the window, watching the snow and ice fly past the window so thick he could not even see the buildings across the street.

"What do you suppose this means, Kendrick?" Durinald asked. "...and in those days the cursed land will awaken; and like a black tide, her children will sweep across the lands to her west to kill and enslave and conquer." Kendrick looked back over his shoulder.

"I fear it means just that, Durinald." Kendrick turned to face the new believer of Jandrous. "The Shadow Lands once thrived. A great Kingdom until her prince, a follower of Jandrous, betrayed and killed him at the Valley Of The Dragons. Apparently the One God cursed all the land there and veiled it in shadow. The original name of the Shadow Lands is no longer even recorded in our histories; it was wiped out of every book, every document. It is a dark place of evil people and spirits; a land of monsters and curses. I believe our enemies will come from there." The others looked at each other in silence. How long before they were caught up in that black tide?

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The morning was cold as Drogan said his final farewells to the fallen Halin. He did not speak; he simply looked upon the lifeless man laying before him and reflected on the things he had done while helping Drogan in his search for Annyaa. Laying at his feet was a kind man—a good man—a brave man. As a soldier, Drogan had seen many men die. Few deaths affected him like Halin's however. Halin was from his home in Mistwood; a friend of his father's. He did not have to follow Drogan in his search, but did so because he felt it was right. Hardis, the griffin rider, would be returning soon. The tall blond elf offered to take Halin's body to E'eldaduranus. Drogan would have liked to have his body carried to Misting Hill, but Hardis could not spare that much time. But the elven city would be a good resting place—and far better than being buried in an unknown location in the middle of the woods. In a leather pouch at his belt, Drogan now carried Halin's copy of The Teachings. He had promised to read the book, a last request by Halin, and he would do so. He tried to tell himself he would keep an open mind to the words written within. Perhaps Faldrek could help him understand some of it— whether Drogan believed any of it in the end was a different matter entirely. He did not feel he had much use for the Teachings. He had learned to trust few things. Those things were a few honest men, his sword and his ability to use it, and that death eventually came to all. He trusted the sun to rise in the morning, and the moon to rise in the evening—he trusted the stars that shone in the heavens would always remain unchanged. But the stars had changed— some had disappeared. Constellations were altered— he shook his head to clear his thoughts as a screech was heard overhead. Hardis had returned upon his griffin, and when the griffin had landed, the elven rider dismounted and moved to stand beside Drogan.

"He's obviously staying off the road, and the canopy in this part of the woods is too thick for me to have seen him moving within the trees," the tall blond elf explained. "I'm sorry."

"That is alright, Hardis." Drogan turned toward the elf questioningly. "Where will Halin be buried?"

"Few humans have been buried in E'eldaduranus," he said. "Those few who are were buried near our temple to Jandrous. I'll see to it that he is as well."

"Thank you," Drogan said as he turned once more to the still form of Halin. "He would like that, I think." With Arden's and Faldrek's help, he lifted Halin and draped him over the griffin's saddle.

"I will be flying north again after I have seen that your friend has been laid to rest," Hardis said as he climbed upon the griffin's back. "I'll keep an eye out for the man you pursue when I do." He glanced at Prince Arden and gave a salute, touching his fist to his chest. Arden returned the salute and the griffin rider lifted into the sky through a break in the canopy above.

"Well Drogan?" Faldrek looked to Drogan as the younger warrior stared into the trees where Andorin had fled; his blue eyes searching as the wind blew through his shoulder length dark blond hair.

"Let's get moving," he finally answered. "No telling how far he's traveled while we've been here." His eyes were intense— hard, as he looked down at Faldrek while mounting his big black charger, and his chiseled features were stern and grim. "I mean to catch up to Andorin once more— and when we do he will not escape again." Faldrek knew the look upon Drogan's face. He had seen it only a few times in the past but it told him that Drogan would let nothing stand in his way of seeing this chase to the end. He would capture or kill Andorin, and rescue Annyaa— or die trying. Faldrek mounted his bay as the elven prince Arden climbed into his grey's saddle, and with Drogan leading, they moved off the road into the trees to begin anew their search. Arden eventually took the lead, his tracking skills superior to those of Faldrek or Drogan. It would be a hard chase, he told them. For hours they followed tracks and signs of Andorin's passage through the woods, forced at times by heavy vegetation and rough terrain to travel a snail's pace. However, it appeared that Andorin had ridden hard with seemingly no regard for his horse's or his or Annyaa's safety. He meant to gain as much distance from his pursuers as he could. Drogan spoke little for the remainder of the day, but Faldrek and Ander quietly spoke together occasionally. The elven prince wanted Andorin brought to justice as much as Drogan it seemed. He had lost a friend to Andorin's blade and he had strong feelings against injustices such as those Andorin had committed in Misting Hill and while transporting his captives. The elven prince would be a good ally, Faldrek was certain, and he was pleased to have him accompany them. Drogan's look never changed as they traveled, his determination was evident. His anger was evident. The death and last words of Halin had caused something in Drogan, Faldrek thought. What it was he knew not as yet what kind of impact it would have on him. He had begun to grow fond of Halin as well, but to Drogan, the older hunter was a tie to his father. The dying man's words of his father, and his requests made to him had to weigh heavily on Drogan, but Faldrek knew he wasn't likely to speak of it. Perhaps when they rested for the night he would bring the subject up with his younger friend— if they rested for the night.

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Annyaa tried to wrap her bound hands around her bruised, perhaps broken ribs, when they finally stopped at midday for a short rest. It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe, and even speaking was painful. She was weak from lack of rest and weak from hunger. She was cold, dirty, and more miserable than she had ever been. She leaned back against a tree watching Andorin pull some kind of dried meat from a pack. He ate in silence, paying her no heed as he studied the forest behind them, listening for any sound of pursuit. She had been surprised when she saw Drogan and Halin in their first attempt at her rescue, and even more surprised the second time. She was certain she would never see a familiar face again, and when Andorin had cut down the bridge, she was sure they would not find her again. But they had. Sudden tears came to her eyes as she thought of Halin. First Borian had been killed, by Andorin's own sword, and now Halin as well was killed by Blackwood elves that were apparently laying in wait for Andorin. Those elves had met their end as well, it appeared, but not before the big bearded hunter had fallen. Gritting her teeth, she fought back the urge to cry and wondered if Drogan would this time turn back for home. Why had he come after her? He had only just returned home. Part of her wished he would turn around and ride back to Misting Hill before he too was killed. But another part of her longed to see him again—to see him ride out of the shadows of the trees—a champion in shining armor to carry her back home. 'Childish thoughts!' she chided herself silently. No, this time she was certain she had seen the last of him. Andorin had ridden hard all through the night and most of the next day, taking only short rests. Their pursuers were likely far behind now. Again the tears began to pool in her eyes and she pushed the thoughts out of her mind.

"I'm hungry," she whispered. Andorin glanced at her over his shoulder as he bit off a piece of meat and then turned his attention back to the trees. "I said I'm hungry," she forced herself to speak louder.

"I heard you." He sounded irritated. "Now shut up." After a second thought, he reached into his pack and pulled out another piece of the dried meat, tossing it to the ground before her. "I'll not have you starve to death before you're delivered."

"Why are you doing this?" Annyaa asked quietly. "What good am I to you?"

"A war is coming, girl." The tall dark haired warrior looked at her with cold eyes. "A war is coming the likes of which has never before been seen. I know my kind—and my kind are with Lord Belkarus. They will come out of this the victors. I choose to be among them—not as a mere sergeant as I was in Grey Home, but something greater."

"And you think handing me over to them will help you gain a higher rank?" She could hardly believe what she was hearing, and some of her fear and fatigue and pain slowly began to fade away into anger.

"I'm sure it would help," Andorin replied. "I meant only to take a handful of priests, they have bounties on their heads. That plan was ended when Drogan caught up with us. You may still be sitting in front of a warm fire at home had you not thrown that mug at me."

"I would throw another one at you, if given the chance," said angrily. "You are a pitiful human being. I have been afraid all this time—but now I wonder if perhaps I should just feel sorry for you." Andorin rounded on her suddenly and stooped low in front of her, reaching out with one hand to grasp her face in an iron grip and turning her face to his.

"You would do well to learn how to control your tongue girl!" Andorin whispered harshly. His fingers bit into her cheeks so hard tears anew pooled in her eyes from the pain. "The red robes will not be as forgiving as I!" He pushed her face away roughly, causing her to fall sideways where she sat against the tree. He stood and walked away, again looking back toward where they came from. Annyaa tried to keep the tears from flowing, but could not. The truth of the matter was that she was very afraid indeed. She hoped upon hope that Drogan would indeed try once more to rescue her. She prayed silently to the One God that Drogan would continue to come after her, yet she couldn't help but doubt. He had tried and failed twice. Men had died. She suddenly felt partly responsible for the deaths of those men, especially Borian and Halin. The pain in her heart at the realization suddenly made the pain in her ribs almost non-existent. Her heart broke for them both. "Oh Lord Jandrous— what have I done? If I had stayed silent at home in Misting Hill would they both still be alive?" She wept aloud then. "Help me Lord, help this man see what he is doing is wrong."

Andorin turned at the sound of her crying and praying. He watched her silently for a time, expressionless before turning away to begin building a fire. It was growing colder and he believed now that he had put enough distance between him and his pursuers that he could chance a fire at least for a couple hours as they rested. Then they would begin their journey again. He was no longer certain where that journey would lead now. He supposed he would just keep riding until he reached Lord Belkarus himself if necessary. The sound of Annyaa's weeping and praying reached his ears again, and he gritted his teeth.

"Cease your whining and praying girl, and get some sleep while you can," he said. "We are only resting for a short time." Her eyes met his suddenly; those saddened, pained eyes. He held them for a moment and then looked away. "I said get some rest."

And so she rested. Sleep did not come easy however as she thought of home and of Drogan. The deaths of Halin and Borian played over and over in her mind, as well as Drogan racing across the bridge only to have to retreat or fall. She thought of his last attempt— failed again, attacked by elves as he pursued Andorin and her. She thought that was the end of Drogan and those with him but they were aided by an elf upon a griffin. But not, unfortunately, before Halin had fallen. "Oh Halin—," she thought. "I am so sorry." She was silently weeping again when she finally fell asleep.

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The massive horde of men, elves, monsters, and beasts of nightmare snaked across The Shadow Lands. Some rode, some walked, and some stalked and others lumbered across the grey and darkened landscape. Never before had an army so vast been assembled. At the serpent's head rode Belkarus; his black armor a testament of the heart the chest plate protected. His skull faced and dragon winged helm kept his face and his thoughts hidden from view to the army that slithered behind him. He occasionally would move his walven to the side, watching from it's back as his cavalry of other walven riders, followed by horsemen slowly moved past. Behind them, all the soldiers on foot followed. His gaze rose upward to black dragons that spiraled in the sky as angry clouds appeared to boil above them.

The great white dragon watched them unseen from atop a mountain peak, knowing the peoples to the west of The Shadow Lands could not stand against such an invasion. They would try, he knew, but inevitably would fail, especially against the dragons unless the whites interfered. And already they had interfered when they flew to the aid of the Mistwood elves. It was time to warn the kings of the people, he thought. It was time to stand fully against the blacks. The war between the people had not yet started, but the dragon war had. More battles were on the horizon. He wondered as he watched the dragons above and the army below exactly how the war would unfold. If somehow those loyal to Jadrous prevailed, the One True King would rule long upon the world. If those loyal to Xandrous prevailed—those would be terrible times indeed. He pushed such thoughts from his mind. For so long the white dragons had not interfered in the affairs of man, elf, or dwarf—though they had watched from a distance as he did now. If the black dragons were joining with those loyal to Xandrous— well then, the whites had no choice but to do the opposite. Silently the dragon spread his wings, the wind filling the leathery membranes, and lifted off the mountain into the sky. Turning his head in the direction of the black dragons and army below once more, he soared away unseen by unfriendly eyes. He would share his plans with the whites when he rejoined them. They would trail the dark army making sudden attacks on the black dragons and withdraw quickly. As of now they would not bother with the army below; but their attacks should slow the army's advance enough to give those it sought to conquer enough time to mount a defense—or so he hoped. He thought of the snow that would soon cover much of the lands, and imagined white landscapes. It could be beautiful, he thought, if not for the coming blood sure to stain it crimson.

The dragon was not the only observer of the massive horde. Two drayan stood atop another mountain watching the slow march of the enemy below.

"We could slow them," Gaulin said.

"No," Maragan shook his head. "We cannot interfere until the sword that slew him is in his hands. We could try— but we would simply pass right through them. We have no true physical form until Jandrous commands us as King."

"And if something happens to him before then?" Gaulin looked at the commander of the drayan beside him.

"You know the answer, Gaulin." While on the mortal world, Jandrous was as mortal as all people. He could live a very long time, but could be killed just as any other man. The prophecies never mentioned any facts who the victor of the coming war would be. For reasons unknown to any of them—the drayan or even Jandrous himself, it seemed the One God had left nothing outside of the possibilities. Jandrous could win or Xandrous could win. If Xandrous were to win—Gaulin had to push the thought from his mind.

"All is lost," he answered his own question. "What can we do then, other than watch as we do now?"

"We can aid those loyal to our King in other ways," Maragan explained. "We can speak to the mortals and can even fight the drayan'os if we must. But we cannot harm the enemy mortals in any way."

"Yet the drayan'os are free to kill if they can take a mortal body. Can we get the sword into the hands of Jandrous?" Gaulin asked. Maragan was silent a moment. This was actually something he himself had not considered.

"Perhaps—we can try if we can find him. But it must be done by a mortal. We cannot handle the weapon."

"And where is the weapon now?"

"It is still within Rosenguarde." Maragan turned from the scene below them. "Come—let us return to our brethren. The amount of evil in this place—it feels so heavy."

Together they lifted off of the mountain and into the clouds, while below them Belkarus pulled his walven to a halt. He stared in the direction of the two drayan seeing nothing. He sensed something, as did the walven he rode. A deep low growl escaped the beast, its throat sending smoke, flame, and heat into the air around it.

"You smell the stench, do you not?" Belkarus glared at the dark sky above. "There was something up there—an enemy. I could almost smell it myself, walven. You want to feed on them. You will get your chance, walven— you will feast on many of our enemies, I promise you. And as my mount, you will get first choice from any battle." He shouted then, as loud as he could. "The Walven will feast upon your followers!" he yelled. "They will hunt them down in the wilderness and they will chew on their bones on the battlefield! They will burn them with fire and rip them to shreds!" He moved the walven forward once more; back to the head of the seemingly endless column of dark armored soldiers and beasts. "Oh yes—" he said quietly. "We will share their bones together, my walven."

©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010