It was midday when the three traveling from the Forever Lands reached a small rise leading up to the remains of a burned out temple above. "No!" Marek exclaimed, his throat constricting. "Was it not enough that they killed everyone?" He was more angry than saddened; though both emotions battled between each other in his mind and heart. Slipping slowly out of the saddle to the ground, he surveyed the damage. Other than where the mostly wooden temple contained stone walls, the building was leveled. Blackened wood and ash covered the ground where the temple once stood—pieces of half burned furniture, some books, anything imaginable lay about the debris. Anything wooden was mostly destroyed, while metal objects, bowls and mugs of glass were covered in black soot. Piles and piles of blackened wood and debris lay scattered, here and there, while pieces of white clothing or bed linens that had somehow partially survived the inferno stood in sharp contrast to the blackness around it. Where not covered by the fallen in roof, the charred remains of bodies lay where they died and later burned. Jarren and Tia spoke not a word, and the wolf sat watching, as Marek walked amongst the debris and bodies, shoulders slumped, tears streaming down his grief stricken face. He found a sword, left apparently by its murderous owner, half buried under some debris, and bent to pick it up. It was covered in blackened soot and the leather of its wrapped hilt was cracked and dry, but otherwise, the long steel object of death was unharmed. He held it loosely in his hand and stared at the long blade. "This!" he cried out. "This is one of the swords that killed my brothers!" He screamed at the sky above him. "Why did you allow this?" he cried out in agonizing screams. "Why did this have to happen?" He held the sword high in one hand, and shook his fist at the blue sky above. His shoulders slumped again, and he let the sword drop. Sobbing, he fell to his knees, and buried his face in his soot covered hands. He felt a soft hand on his shoulder and raised his blackened and tear streaked face to the elven woman who knelt before him, her green eyes filled with compassion for the grieving priest.
"Mourn your brothers now friend, so you can smile at their memory in the future," she said as he crumpled, and leaned into her, and wailed his grief as she held him close. Tia made eye contact with Jarren standing nearby, tears in her eyes as well. Her gaze seemed to ask him, how long until we too grieve as he does? He nodded as if knowing the questioning look upon her face. Grimly he looked about the destruction. Killing the priests was a dark deed in itself. Burning the temple was like rubbing salt in a wound. He shook his head as he looked across the plains to the horizon. Somewhere out there were the men responsible for this massacre. How many more would they slaughter? He knew the near future would bring worse deeds than this. The wind blowing from the north was cold, and he pulled his cloak around him as he watched Marek, who rose slowly to his feet and returned to his horse carrying the blackened sword with him.
"It would do us no good, digging through all this debris to bury the dead," he said as he pulled himself into the saddle. Jarren looked questioningly at the sword in the priest's hand. "Prepare for war," Marek quoted the words of Jandrous. "For although you are priests of love and servitude, you are also warriors of the One God." He turned his horse toward Eagle's Crest and slowly rode off, not waiting to be sure the others followed. Jarren watched him a moment before pulling himself into his own saddle, and then followed, Runner trotting close behind. Tia knelt once more among the ruins of the temple and scooped ash into her fist. Opening her palm slowly she let the wind scatter the grey substance across the debris, and then walked to the roa'an and climbed into the saddle.
"Sadness—worry, my chosen". The roa'an sent its thoughts to Tia.
"Yes," she answered. "A terrible thing has happened here. And terrible things are in the future." She led the large antlered creature to follow the others. They rode in silence for some time, their faces either on the road they traveled, or scanning the horizon. Not one looked back the way they came, toward the burnt out remains of the temple. Marek looked mainly straight ahead, every so often glancing down at the sword he now carried; the sword that was the object of death to some of his brothers. He guessed it might have belonged to the drayan'os possessed priest that attacked him on the plains at the edge of the Forever Lands. He was certain the 'man' was one of those that slaughtered his brothers, but when it attacked, and Jarren decapitated the head from its body, there were no visible weapons it seemed to carry. When he spoke, although he spoke quietly, and despite the strong winds blowing from the north, the volume seemed almost loud to the others because of the silence that had reigned beforehand. Jarren and Tia'ialla both looked at him as they rode, it seemed he had a bit more grey at the temples, and an extra wrinkle or two at the corners of his hazel eyes.
"I have all my life striven to be a peaceful man. One who does not condone nor act out in violence," he said as he glanced down at the sword in his lap. "But I will not simply lie down silently while evil men, or worse, attempt to end my life. I've decided I will not allow myself to be cut down in vain as my brothers at the temple were." He looked across at Jarren, and then Tia. Both watched him silently. Jarren nodded, as though he were urging him to continue. "If I must die in these dark days to come, I intend to die with this," he continued, glancing at the long bladed weapon again, "in my hands. And when I go to be with the One God, I will try to send my enemy to the fires of the underworld." He fell silent once more, thinking about what he had just said, wondering if he should feel guilty and wondering why he did not. He felt strangely calm, spent, numb. He could not quite put his finger on the emotion he felt. Resigned perhaps?
"Are you certain this is the path you wish to take, Marek?" Jarren asked him. "Fighting is no simple affair, physically or emotionally." He gazed hard, without blinking, into the priest's eyes. There was a look in that gaze that Marek had not seen before now. It was a distant, intense, almost cold look that was not there even the time he had seen him shoot his bow, and swing his sword. He knew then while meeting that gaze, that the stories of Jarren The Hunter—Jarren The Traveler, were quite likely mainly true, and it was the minority of stories that were simply legend. Had this man truly faced down a dragon, as one of the stories told—the dragon leaving without the man ever drawing his sword after looking into the same eyes that now held his own gaze? He nearly looked away from that deep, brown eyed stare, but thought perhaps that in meeting it without a blink, there was a level of respect to be earned by the tall man riding beside him. Finally, Marek nodded.
"Yes," he said. "This is indeed the path I will take. However," he continued, "I've never used a weapon before. I know nothing of fighting or swords."
"Then I will teach you," Jarren said. He then rode ahead a few paces, leaving Marek to his thoughts.
Tia had watched the the exchange between the two in silence. The conversation was for them and them alone it seemed. At one point, she nearly protested, nearly pleaded with the peaceful priest not to take a course of action that was, as a priest of Jandrous, somewhat alien to him and his kind. But she silenced herself and remained silent. "Although you are priests of love and servitude, you are also warriors of the One God," he had quoted The Teachings. How true that quote could very well become. The large roa'an she rode, sent her his thoughts.
"There is anger."
"Yes, Silverprince. There is anger." She sighed.
"It does not feel vengeful, however," The roa'an thought. "It is more a— righteous anger?"
"Yes, I believe so. He is angry and very sad that his brothers died needlessly—and will not allow the same for himself. Nor for others, I believe."
"He will protect himself and his herd. I would do the same."
"Yes, Silverprince," Tia replied, and patted her mount on its broad neck. "I believe you have the right of it."
"More sadness comes— "
"Yes, my Roa'an friend. I'm afraid so. More sadness for all of us, I'm afraid." She looked at Marek, who rode silently, tears streaming down his face once more.
"His heart is stronger than it now seems," the roa'an thought to her.
"I hope you are right, not only for him, but for all of us."
Jarren had ridden ahead because he needed some time to think, and to be alone for awhile. He could not escape the feeling that he was being drawn unto a path that would be more dangerous than anything he had ever encountered before. Certainly this was the beginning of the end of an age—which would in time become the beginning of a new one. But there was more to it than that. He knew dark times were coming, and had in fact already begun, and survival would soon become a day to day struggle for all. But something in the back of his mind told him that for him, and those close to him, it would be far worse. It was as though the moment he spotted Marek stumbling on the plains and ran out to help him, that he had not voluntarily sought to help someone, but rather had been chosen to follow a path that would be terribly painful, and yet, perhaps great as well. At the moment he could not foresee what that might be. If he were to guess, he thought he might soon be fighting alongside the E'eldradin in a war soon to come that would make all the wars that came before pale in comparison, as though even the greatest of them were not but a tiny skirmish. He told Marek he would train him in the use of swords. He knew the moment he made that decision it meant he would not be returning soon to the Forever Lands unless for some unknown reason Marek would be returning with him. No—he suspected he would be staying in Eagle's Crest, and training the priest there. He wanted so badly to seek the wisdom of the One God for guidance, and although he believed in Him and considered himself a follower of Jandrous, he had not prayed or read The Teachings in a very long time. Even now, knowing for certain he was witnessing prophecies unfold, even after hearing the horn of Gaulin, he could not bring himself to pray or ask for guidance or wisdom. His belief was there, as it had been since he was a young boy. But at some time over the years he had ceased to seek Jandrous, ceased to seek the One God. He believed in his heart in The Teachings; believed with his entire soul that Jandrous would return as the One True King. And he followed Jandrous and tried to live with his entire being according to the standards he knew the One God desired, but could not bring himself to seek more, to grow in his faith. He grew angry with himself as he thought of these things. What if Jandrous himself stood before him now? What would he do, or say? I am sorry my lord, but I have nothing to say to you? Nothing to ask? But he was loyal—he knew that. If he felt he were asked by the One God, or if he were asked by the One True King to accomplish anything, he would jump to the task at hand. However, would he take satisfaction from it? If it were the One God asking him to train Marek to fight, he felt no satisfaction in that. He would be training a man not only to defend himself, but also to kill. He would be helping the priest protect himself, but in the ability to fight and kill, he felt he would also be cursing him in a way. He had fought many battles for what he considered righteous causes, but took no solace in the fact that he had killed many men. It was easy for him to kill, when in the heat of the moment, when facing an enemy, he had done it so many times. But later, when the battle was over, he could recall the faces of anyone he had slain in combat. He could look back in his past and remember the face of everyone and everything that had faced him and been defeated. Would it be like this for Marek as well. Would Marek someday begin waking up from the nightmares, screaming and soaked in sweat? He remembered he nearly killed Tia one day. He was reliving in his dreams a terrible battle, when he was acting as scout for Erehk the King of Erinor. They were both young then, and foolish. He and the king had become close friends, and one day rode away from the main force as they marched toward Blood Gate where they hoped to drive out the Skraeg. The Skraeg were a huge grey skinned people, twice—no— three times the breadth of most men, and eight feet tall on average. The males had thick fur-like hair, usually black but often a dark grey or brown, that grew along their jaw line from the bottoms of their ears to their chins where it grew long and was often kept in thick braids. The hair on their heads was very thick and long, also kept in many thick braids reaching down to their belts. With heavy brows, wrinkled at the bridge of the nose they had a constant angry look about them. Their clothing was mainly made from wolf pelts, and other animal hides fashioned into kilt like garments, and their helms and armor were often ringed with fur, or accessorized with tails or ears, claws or paws. At the time, the Skraeg were at war with the E'eldroan, the Griffinwood elves, and also raiding human villages near Erinor's capital city. And when he and Erehk rode away from the main force, they traveled alone into a pass in the mountains and were ambushed by five Skraeg. Surrounded, with escape cut off, all they could do was fight and call for help. When help finally did arrive they had already killed three of the Skraeg themselves, but both were cut and bleeding from many minor wounds, and exhausted. They would soon have been out matched. It was when he was calling out for help and screaming "To the King! To the King!" that Tia had placed a hand on his shoulder to calm him in his nightmare and he jumped awake—placing a blade to her throat. He would never have forgiven himself if he had harmed her. She was like a sister to him. So why, he wondered, was he taking part in possibly causing Marek the same curse as his own? Because he felt the priest deserved the ability to defend himself and others if the need arose. And the need would arise, he was sure of it. He thought of Erehk again. The king had never been able to rid the area of the Axeweaver mountains of the Skraeg, nor had the elves, and his old friend had become a hard, cold, distant man over the years. He was still a good king, a just king, and ruled Erinor and its people fairly, but he was a personal friend to few, and it had been many years since the two had spoken. Someday perhaps, they would renew their friendship. He decided then, if he were to ask the One God for anything, it would be to grant him that. He slowed his horse so the others could catch up, and then looked north toward Eagle's Crest. Ahead he could see the two mountains towering into the sky above that marked the location of the great city which rested between their eastern slopes. Eagle's Crest, was the central city of a dukedom that stretched along the northernmost areas of the Kingdom of Erinor, the Axeweaver Mountains to its north, and a portion of the Forever Lands to its south. On its eastern side were rolling hills that stretched far toward another area of the Forever Lands. They would rest at nightfall, and then in the morning they would ride again only a few hours before they reached their destination. He, Marek, and Tia would inform the High Priest of the city what had occurred at the outlying temple, and then inform the commander of the forces there as well.
The road they traveled through the plains was now snaking around and over some of the large but low hills, when the sun began to set, casting a golden glow on the mountains that now loomed to their north and west. The wind was blowing forcefully and they sought to find a hill large enough that they could block some of the wind and be able to warm themselves with a fire when they made camp, and heavy clouds loomed on the northern horizon, painted dark crimsons and violets by the setting sun. Jarren had ridden ahead with Runner, crossing from one hill to the next and vanishing behind a rise from time to time in searching for a good place to camp, while Tia rode with Marek. Finally he appeared over a hill again and called to them. Jarren had found a hill that concaved on its southern side. They would have shelter from the wind and enough of an overhang above to protect them should foul weather come. When the priest and elven woman caught up to him, he was already off of his horse and setting up an area for a fire; Runner sitting nearby and wagging his tail as the others approached. Tia took her bow and quiver and mentioned there may be enough light yet to try and catch a good rabbit or wild foul to roast over the fire. Jarren looked at the approaching clouds warning her not to stray too far, not liking the look of them, as the temperature was dropping rapidly. She nodded in agreement and silently stalked off over a rise. After the fire was burning nicely, Jarren asked to see Marek's sword. It was plain, yet well made, and he was pleased with its balance. It was dirty, and would need honing, but otherwise in good shape. He handed the blade to Marek, and drew his own.
"If you're going to learn the blade, Marek, now is a good time to start," he said.
"But shouldn't we train with something—a little safer?" the priest asked.
"Before you can truly use a sword," Jarren replied, "you must learn to respect it and at the same time not fear the one you hold in your own hands. I will teach you first how to hold it properly, and then I will teach you some basic techniques. Your sword is made for one or two handed use as is mine. I will teach you both. First, I want you to attack me."
"Attack you?" Marek asked, a little nervous, and even shaking some. "Are you certain?" Jarren turned sideways a bit, a calm look upon his face, held his sword in two handed fashion, and nodded.
"Let me see what you have in your swing. Do not be afraid you might hit me," he said. Marek took a deep breath, raised the sword in both hands, and swung it at the tall man. The tall man barely moved. There was a flash of steel, and Marek's sword lay on the ground as he shook his fingers and rubbed at his wrists.
"Your first lesson," Jarren said. "What do you think you did wrongly?"
"I'm not certain. Perhaps I held the blade too loosely?" he asked, still rubbing his sore wrists.
"Good. You don't want to grip the hilt too loosely, nor do you want to grip it too tight. Also, space your hands out a bit more. Lower your left hand nearer the pommel this time, and raise your right further toward the cross guard. Now— try again." Marek did as Jarren instructed. He swung the sword again, and Jarren blocked the blade with his own while giving it a little twist. This time the priest did not drop the blade. "Good, Marek," he said with a small smile, and then began to show the priest a few striking and parrying techniques, each time striking him sharply with the flat of his blade when the priest was not able to fend off the blow. Even in the cold, Marek was soon sweating and breathing heavily, while Jarren appeared to hardly exert himself.
They were going through basic attack and defense techniques when Runner's ears went up. And then they heard a call from Tia. Jarren quickly ran to the top of a near hill looking for Tia in the quickly fading light. In the distance he saw her rise over a hill and wave for him to come. With Runner beside him and Marek following behind, he jogged to where she waited. She had a grim look upon her face as she led him down the hill and over another. Marek gasped. There below the hill were dozens of bodies, none of them soldiers. Jarren walked down the hill and began moving among the dead, looking at their clothing, examining them, looking at their wounds. They were weavers and woodworkers, shoemakers and spinsters, bakers and blacksmiths—all manner of people; men and women, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters—the very old, and the very young. "These people are from Eagle's Crest," he said silently. "They haven't been dead long," he added, looking about for signs of any enemy.
"There is no danger," Tia said as Jarren searched the hills with his eyes. "I looked for signs before I called. I saw tracks leading here from the direction of Eagle's Crest and tracks leading back. They've been gone awhile now. Also, look how they lay and their wounds. They were cut down from behind while they fled." Jarren nodded in agreement as Marek looked around him in shock. The priest was horrified anew. Again he had seen slaughter. Saddened and angry he gritted his teeth to together.
"Who would do this?" He said loudly. "Surely not the same who slaughtered my brothers and burned our temple—"
"No," Jarren said as he knelt among some of the dead. "These wounds were made by Skraeg weapons." He sounded angry. He spoke in low tones, a quiet growl mixed with his words. He rose and stared in the direction of Eagle's Crest.
"Perhaps they came down from the mountains north of the city," Tia wondered, as Marek looked in disbelief at all the bodies scattered among the rolling hills. The clouds had since rolled over and it was beginning to snow, white flakes drifting down slowly and sadly to the unmoving bodies below.
"I'm afraid," Jarren said slowly, "we are not going to like what we see of Eagle's Crest. I'm going to assume these people had fled the city last night, and were later pursued by Skraeg so they would not be able to warn others. We can do nothing here," he said and began walking back to camp. "I will ride to Eagle's Crest tonight to see if I can get a close look at the city," he added when the others began to follow. "I think you two should be safe. But be wary, and keep an open eye for anything out of the ordinary. I will leave Runner with you, as well. I'm going to ride fast and I hope to be back sometime before dawn." And then he was silent; saying no more even as he prepared to leave. He honed his blade, wanting it sharp and well oiled after his practice with Marek. He had a grim look upon his face and a dangerous look in his eyes. Marek worried for him, but had a sense the man could well protect himself if the need arose. After he mounted, Tia approached him reminding him to be careful and to return safely.
"May the One God be with you friend," she said, and Jarren nodded silently. He gave a final look at Marek and then spun his horse around and was galloping into the dark snowy night.
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As night was falling outside of Grey Home, Drogan and Halin were riding up to the gates. They had continued to track Andorin and his riders, staying behind by no more than an hour now, but certain there were no riders that far back from the main group. As the road turned toward the walled city, the tracks of the riders ahead continued northward, just as Drogan assumed they would. Reaching the open gates, they rode through, and a man called down from the wall upon recognizing Drogan.
"Hail, Drogan!" the soldier called down and he looked up at the man above with a nod. As they rode through and toward the stables, some other soldiers who had heard the call came to see. Drogan, who only recently left Grey Home, had returned and was armored as if for battle. Word spread quickly and before they reached the stables, Faldrek was walking up the main road toward them, confusion on his features.
"Drogan my friend!" The older warrior said as he hurried toward him. "It's good to see you. But you just left—what are you doing back here?"
"Ill things have happened, Faldrek," he replied. "I'm certain you know Andorin has left the walls of Grey Home?"
"Yes, and quite a few others." Faldrek told him of how they were discovered missing, and a party was sent out to search for them. Drogan told him as they stabled their horses, there was no search party he had encountered, and if there were one, they were either dead or vanished. He then told him what occurred in Misting Hill. "Strange enough," Faldrek said when Drogan finished his tale. "the temple here was put to the torch the same day they disappeared."
"I need to speak with the captain," Drogan said, and Faldrek accompanied the two on their way to the captain's quarters. When Drogan knocked on the door, Breyan called for whoever it was to enter, and surprise shone on his face when the recently departed soldier entered along with Faldrek and Halin.
"Drogan!" the middle aged captain exclaimed as he stood over his desk straightening out maps, and papers. "What are you doing back here?" The younger warrior preceded to tell him of all that had happened since he arrived in Misting Hill. "And you saw no sign at all of the soldiers we sent after Andorin and the others?" Breyan asked.
"None, captain," Drogan answered. "Andorin and his men are currently a little over an hour ahead of us. And I mean to get Borian the priest, and Annyaa, back to Misting Hill." Breyan sat down, running a hand through his graying hair. "We march in the morning, back to the Barren Wastes. We've been informed that our leaving was a bit premature. Apparently, a large force of Haira'hem are on the move. Those we fought back recently were only a small part of this larger one coming. I've been told that we may have quite a force moving on us, and it seems we've already lost another group of riders, aside from Andorin and those with him. I'm very hesitant to send another group after him." The captain stood again and exhaled sharply. "I have to help you though. I will have to speak to another captain to see if he will spare the soldiers and horses." He looked at Faldrek, "I'm assuming you mean to ask permission for this assignment along with your squad?"
"Yes, captain," Faldrek replied. "If you would grant it."
"It's granted, Faldrek. Drogan, I'll have an answer for you within the hour. I'll see you then."
The three of them waited outside the captain's quarters after he left to gather more men for the pursuit of Andorin. They talked about the events Drogan had witnessed, about Andorin and the men with him, and the priest and young woman they had taken with them. They also talked about the Haira'hem.
"So is this an invasion force?" asked Drogan.
"We don't know yet," replied Faldrek. "What we do know, is that a large force of Haira'hem are on the move, and evidently headed for the pass. I doubt it is an invading army, but it is significantly larger than what we've encountered before. Some of the army has already marched and we are supposed to meet them on the Barren Wastes side of the pass."
"I can't believe it could be an invasion force either," Drogan said. "The Haira'hem may seem barbaric to many, but they're certainly not stupid. If the northern tribes united with the southern, they might have a chance, but divided they do not. Even if they took Grey Home, the king himself would send the full might of Erinor upon them and destroy them. It has to be something else—perhaps they're simply checking our reactions, our defenses? I'm at a loss," he shook his head.
"As am I," Faldrek said, and pointed as Breyan was returning with a squad of eight men.
"Ready your squad, Faldrek. Sergeant Remmin and his squad will be joining you," the captain said as he came near.
"Thank you, Captain," Drogan said, as Faldrek ran off to gather his men.
"You're welcome. I should be thanking you, however. He is a deserter and a traitor. I'll inform Faldrek after he gathers his squad, I'm temporarily placing you in command of the two squads until your return here."
"But captain, I'm no longer a soldier of Grey Home. Shouldn't the command go to Faldrek or Remmin?" he asked. Breyan stepped back a couple feet and looked Drogan over from head to toe.
"Well—You're wearing the armor of a soldier of Grey Home. Looks official enough to me," he said with a smile. "You're a good leader, Drogan. I have two squads, each with a sergeant commanding them, heading into a mission. There needs to be a lieutenant in charge of them both, so since my other lieutenants are going to be very busy soon, that leaves you. And you brought us the information, so it's only right in my eyes that you lead them."
"Yes, captain." Drogan stood tall and proud. "And thank you, sir."
"You're official orders, lieutenant, are the pursuit and capture of Andorin and his men if possible, and the rescue of his captors. If you can bring them back alive they are to stand trial for crimes against the Kingdom of Erinor including desertion, theft, treason, arson, and abduction. And if we find out whatever happened to that search party we sent out, murder may be added to that." Faldrek returned with his squad, Greagor and Yordin, and the young Danan, those that died in their last campaign in the Barren Wastes, already replaced by others. This brought their number, including Drogan, Faldrek, Remmin, and Halin, to twenty men. They would be evenly matched against Andorin and his riders, should they fight. Captain Breyan informed Faldrek that Drogan was acting lieutenant until they returned to Grey Home, and he nodded in acceptance as did Remmin. Drogan placed his fist to his chest in salute to the captain.
"We're more than two hours behind Andorin, men." Drogan said. "We need to make haste to shorten that gap. Everyone retrieve your armor and weapons, acquire a horse and meet at the gates." He then turned, with Halin following to retrieve their own horses from the stable.
"So— " Halin said with a smile. "Does this mean I have to call you lieutenant?"
"Well, this isn't what I was expecting, exactly, but I'll accept it. And no," he chuckled. "You are hereby ordered to only call me Drogan. I don't want to forget I'm a blacksmith now—even though I haven't yet fired up the forge."
"Yes Sir, Lieutenant Blacksmith Drogan, Sir!" And the big hunter laughed heartily, but then sobered and placed a hand on Drogan's shoulder. "I suppose I too am suddenly thrust into the life of a soldier. It's not what I expected either, and I'm not sure how much help I'll be, but you know I can track, and I'm good with this bow. Get me a sword and some armor, and I believe I may surprise you."
"Were you a soldier, Halin?" Drogan asked. This was something he had not known before.
"A long time ago now, it seems, but yes. Twenty years ago I fought in the king's army against the Skraeg."
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Jarren had been riding hard across the rolling hilled plains; the snow now falling heavily in the dark cold night. He needed to know what was happening in and around Eagle's Crest before he could make the decision to continue the journey there with Marek and Tia. Suddenly he reined the chestnut horse to an abrupt halt. Tracks were in the freshly fallen snow. He took a quick look at his surroundings, seeing nothing, before dismounting for a closer look. The tracks, made by large booted feet were clearly Skraeg. Only three of them; likely rear scouts for a larger force, or perhaps patrolling the area for any missed refugees fleeing the city. Remounting his horse, he decided to follow the tracks. He rode at a trot now, watching the tracks before him and occasionally looking ahead for any sign of those making them. He checked the longbow on his shoulder as well as the quiver of arrows attached to the side of his saddle. He hoped to stay out of sight and simply follow them to see if they entered Eagle's Crest or moved on. Rising over a hill he saw their shadowy, fur kilted figures in the darkness ahead. He was about to move his horse down the hill and out of sight when one of the Skraeg happened to glance behind, seeing him as well. They must have made out the shape of his bow over his shoulder, or perhaps it was his bearing in the saddle. But somehow, it appeared to Jarren, they knew instinctively he was no simple man. Two turned to face him as the third took off at a dead run—a run Jarren knew would be nearly as fast as the horse he rode. That one would be running to warn others. The other two would stay and fight him, to slow him down or kill him and any others he may be traveling with. One stood atop the hill, a great ax in its hands, as the other ran straight for him an ax gripped in its fists as well. Jarren set an arrow to his bow and charged at the approaching Skraeg, waiting for the right moment to shoot as his horse bounced across the ground at the rapidly nearing enemy. "This is what I do," he thought. Yards away, he let the arrow fly, and it found its mark in the massive creature's throat. His horse plowed over the dying Skraeg before it could even stop running to fall. He bore down on the other waiting atop the next rise, dropping his bow to the ground to pull his sword—no time for another arrow. The Skraeg stood its ground and leaned into the coming attack, ready to take out the legs of the horse, but Jarren suddenly moved the horse slightly to the left, and as the big, braided haired beast missed in his swing, the powerful man's sword swung down, biting into its flesh where the shoulder met the neck. "I do it well." Grimly, Jarren looked ahead to the next enemy, running full force across the hills ahead. He spurred his horse hard and the animal reacted instantly, running at a full gallop, slowly closing the distance. The Skraeg, looking over its shoulder knew it was loosing the race, and roared a challenge at the rider coming fast at him. The eight foot tall, grey skinned warrior carrying a large spiked mace, waited until Jarren was within feet of reaching it, before suddenly jumping to the right, stopping, and plowing its shoulders into the horse as it passed. The horse, knocked off balance, fell, and Jarren rolled when he hit the ground, immediately regaining his footing. Not hesitating a second, he attacked the much larger Skraeg before him. Blocking the sword with its mace, the enormous warrior swung hard at the man attacking him, but Jarren fell to one knee. As the huge black mace passed over his head, The Hunter drove his sword into the gut of the massive Skraeg. It dropped its mace to the snow, but roared in angry defiance at the man that had just run him through, its large canine toothed face just inches from the mans. Jarren roared back meeting its angry gaze, eye to eye, "and as much as I detest it, I will still gladly send evil men and beasts to their grave as long as the One God allows it," before shoving the Skraeg onto its back in the snow. He watched to be sure the Skraeg was dead and then looked back at the others before walking to his horse, checking it over to be sure it was not injured; and then he remounted, rode back for his dropped bow, and continued in the direction of Eagle's Crest.
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Far to the east, on the balcony outside his throne room, Belkarus watched as dragons, more than a dozen of them, rose to the sky carrying large cages beneath them. The cages would carry walven once they were gathered and bound by the priests, and he watched in silence as the dragons soared to collect the first of many shipments. In various places to the west, in Rylos, Kyrolis, Erinor, and even the Barren Wastes, the first of his plans were already being carried out. Early attacks by the Skraeg would weaken the kingdoms he meant to conquer, or at least hint at their strengths and defenses. Others would soon join the Skraeg in their attacks. The weak priests of Jandrous were being executed in their very own temples, and soon the survivors would be hunted down. Some were being collected. They would serve as examples to those who did not swear allegiance to him and Xandrous. And when the walven arrived and were sent out, there would be no hiding. No place would be safe from the keen hunting abilities of the massive wolf-like beasts. Once the priests were disposed of, those loyal to Jandrous would have no one to turn to for guidance. They would be beaten spiritually and then utterly defeated militarily. And he would rule over all the lands. Xandrous would repay him well for his efforts. For those that served Belkarus, served Xandrous, and Xandrous demanded servants. Belkarus smiled to himself as he watched the black dragons disappear into the night sky. Many would die in his coming conquest, and he was pleased. The red robed priests of Xandrous had discovered new ways of communicating over long distances, using long forgotten and forbidden dark arts. This would prove very useful in the future, as they had already. Daily, they were discovering new wonders—gifts from Xandrous himself to those who sought them out. Some had a better understanding of the arts and were learning more quickly than others. These he would gather to himself, to keep them close as his counselors, for surely they had wisdom the others did not. Earlier that day he witnessed a priest create fire from out of the very air itself, and he hurled it at a small abandoned structure where it exploded in a blast of heat, and flame. Such gifts could definitely be of use to his army. He looked to the horizon once more, as though he could will the quick return of the dragons with the walven. He relished the fear they would inflict, and the destructive power they wielded. The first arrivals of the walven would be sent out to freely hunt those with the stench of Jandrous on them. The others would be fitted for riding. He would choose the darkest, most vicious of them all as his own mount, and then he would begin outfitting his commanders and cavalry with the rest—if indeed they could be handled. He had been told they may not bind easily. This was no matter. Even so, they would still prove a terrifying addition to his already great numbers. When his army marched, they would sweep across the lands like a black wave of death. He smiled widely at the thought as he turned to enter his throne room. Soon—very soon—he would wage war.
©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010
