Chapter 4: Crimson Blood On Black Stone

Chapter 4

High Priest Donnagan, of Danir Temple

To High Priest Greandor, of Seaport Temple,

My long time brother, and oldest friend, Greandor. I think of you and remember often the days of our youth. It is with a heavy heart that I send this letter. I fear a great falling away is occurring among the followers of Jandrous and the One God, especially among our very own brothers. They are beginning to doubt The Teachings, believing as many now outside the temples, that perhaps the story of Jandrous and His Teachings and prophecies are merely legends and myths. I understand that much of this is nothing new, but has happened occasionally for decades, but I believe the current happenings are different. Now some of our very own priests are adding teachings to their sermons that perhaps Xandrous, The Betrayer is simply "misunderstood." I've heard from the High Priest of Eagles Crest, that he has banished some of his priesthood for teaching that perhaps Xandrous should be rightful ruler of the heavens and thus a god! Blasphemy in our very own temples! He fears that this kind of thinking is growing like a spiritual plague, rising in intensity, and has never seen anything quite like it. Nor have I. I have also heard that Rylosian soldiers of the Mountain Guard are claiming that more and more skirmishes are happening within the passes that lead to the Shadow Lands, as if their defenses are being tested for weakness. The elves of The Mistwood are claiming to have seen dark creatures and evil Blackwood elves moving through their lands. It is yet late summer and it has become unseasonably cool even for northern Rylos. I would have sent this letter by sea from Northport, but I would not risk sending a messenger through the mountain pass to reach the ocean city. I have received word, their ships are declining to sail through the Gulf of Storms anyway, as the dreaded winter storms have come early there. Those few that have sailed have come under attack between The Shadow Lands and Blood Island. Five ships have been lost this month. I fear we may be moving into the Long Winter as stated in the Prophecies of Jandrous. If I am correct, more dark things will soon occur as you well know. But at least we can hold hope in our hearts as well, for I believe soon we will hear the great trumpet of Gualin. And although that will signal the beginning of a horrible war, we will know that Jandrous, The One True King returns!

But guard yourself, friend. I believe The Great Hunting will begin. Followers of Jandrous, especially the priesthood, will be sought out for destruction. As much as I hate to write this, I fear we can trust few. Hold those you trust most close to your heart, but watch them as well. I fear for the safety of many of our brothers. I pray I will see you again someday old friend, but until then guard yourself, and guard your temple. May Jandrous send his Drayan to protect you.

Your old friend,

High Priest, Donnagan

Kendrick was suddenly very afraid. If what the letter said was true, very dangerous times were ahead. He studied The Teachings often, so he knew the prophecies that Donnagan wrote of in the letter. All followers of Jandrous would be in great danger, especially the priests. He could not believe, however, that any of his brothers from the Danir temple were not to be trusted. But he respected Donnagan greatly, and knew him as a man who spoke only the truth. He himself had heard of the early harsh weather in the Gulf of Storms, and the attacks. And the cold winter weather was indeed early. In fact he was quite surprised the storm that happened upon his journey from Danir was simply icy rain and not snow. He still worried about that however. With the way the winds were blowing, if it became much colder he could find himself in the middle of a blizzard. It was still storming heavily, and he looked away from the letter, outside, where the wall had fallen outward. Frightening weather. He shook the thought out of his mind— it seemed now, he had enough to be worried about. No point in adding blizzards to his anxieties. He had heard a few stories of blasphemous teachings in other temples, but not on the level the old priest recorded in his letter. Nor had he heard of the "dark creatures," whatever that meant, or the Blackwood elves within The Mistwood. He had heard, however, of the skirmishes involving the Rylosian Mountain Guard within the Stormblade Mountains' passes into the Shadow Lands. His hands shook from fear as he stared at the letter in his hands and he now wished he had never read it. "Curse my curiosity," he thought to himself. "I think I would have been better off not knowing any of this. I suppose I would find out eventually anyway." He ran a hand through his dark hair, now dry, inhaled and exhaled deeply, and shook his head. "No help in worrying right now," he said and rolled up the letter to return to its tube. He watched the storm outside while he prayed silently, and wondered what his life would be like from then on, knowing that it had changed the moment he walked in the door of the temple and found Donnagan waiting. Rummaging through his pack he pulled out his book of The Teachings, and read through the prophecies and of the story of Jandrous' life and death by betrayal. An hour later his clothing had dried and he redressed, including the cloak, and then lay back near the fire to sleep. He rested his head on the leather pack and stared at the ceiling, thinking himself too afraid to sleep. But he prayed silently, and sleep found him mid-prayer.

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Marek awoke with a startled cry, rising quickly to a sitting position and felt a hand on his shoulder. "Be at ease, Marek," Jarren whispered as he knelt by the frightened priest. It was only a dream." The priest rubbed his face in his hands, and shook his head in an attempt to clear it of any remnants of the ill dream that had awakened him, although the dream was already forgotten. It was yet dark, and Jarren slowly poked at the small fire while looking out across the clearing. The tall man motioned with his chin and pointed toward something with one hand, indicating that Marek should take a look. "They nearly bolted at your cry," he whispered. Looking out across the clearing, Marek could see a dozen large, deer-like animals grazing in the clearing. They resembled elk, but larger, broader in the chest and legs, powerfully built, yet they also had the appearance of an agile, quick animal. Their coats appeared short and thick, mostly a dark grey, but with a silvery shine down the neck and chest and along the shoulders and backs, with a white stripe from the tops of their heads, over their eyes, and down the tops of their muzzle. They moved slowly through the grass, lowering their heads to pull up grass with their teeth, and raising them again as they chewed. All had a large array of antlers pointing up and outward from the tops of their heads, like the leafless branches of a tree. But there were three, larger animals, whose racks of antlers dwarfed the others in comparison. Marek guessed these were the males. The large elk-like animals did not venture close to their camp, but did not seem necessarily afraid of the two humans and massive wolf either, despite their nearly bolting when Marek came awake with a start. Marek was in awe of the beautiful, powerful creatures clearly visible by the light of the moon still above.

"What are they?" he asked, never seeing their kind before.

"The elves call them roa'an." Jarren replied. "They often use them as mounts, but no other people have ever ridden one. The roa'an 'choose' them, they say, yet they must first catch it." He shrugged his shoulders and continued. "There is no breaking process as with training a horse— when they catch it, they simply mount, and the roa'an let them ride. But they will normally allow no other to ride them. There have been some instances when an elf rode a roa'an that had 'chosen' another, but that is very rare."

"They're magnificent creatures," the priest said, the awe evident in his voice and expression.

"You'll see more," Jarren said smiling, "when we get to the village. You should try and get some more sleep. We'll continue on late morning. I'll be getting some sleep soon as well.

"Will you wake me, to keep watch I mean, when you go to sleep yourself?" Marek asked. "I should be fine, I think, after a little more sleep."

"No need." Jarren said. "Runner was sleeping himself until you woke, but he will watch as I sleep. We are safe here, I believe," he continued. "The roa'an would not be here if there was danger nearby. There are dangers in this part of the Forever Lands, but not as much as further south or deeper to the west. One should always be wary of danger here, but even more so there. And as long as there are roa'an about, we can rest easy."

Marek indeed rested easy, the remainder of the night.

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Drogan awoke in the early dawn, and after a quick meal donned himself in full battle gear, as was customary, but not required, for a soldier visiting his superior officers. It was customary as well to wear weapons and armor when requesting to resign. He came to Grey Home a boy, and would leave a warrior. He also wore a long, hooded, grey woolen cloak. It was a chill morning, and in true typical Grey Home fashion, a grey one as well. A light rain fell from the overcast sky as he walked the short distance from the barracks to the officer's quarters where he would announce his resignation to his company commander, Captain Breyan. Entering the wooden building, he walked down a short hallway to Breyan's door, where he found Faldrek leaning against the wall waiting.

"You didn't think I was going to let you do this alone did you?" Faldrek asked with a smile. Drogan placed a hand on his shoulder and nodded his thanks, and then knocked. They heard the Captain's voice call out to enter and stepped inside where Breyan sat behind a wooden table, looking over a map, and jotting down words on some parchment with a quill pen. The middle aged captain wearing a dark grey tunic bearing a griffin, over a brown shirt, looked up with brown eyes as the two came to stand in front him.

"My report." he said gesturing with his hands to the parchment before him. "Tedious work. I've never been much for this part of the profession." He stood and motioned them to sit.

"I would rather stand, Sir." Drogan explained and Breyan stood to stand as well.

"Very well then, Sergeant Drogan— Faldrek" he said, also acknowledging the man accompanying him. What brings you two to see me this morning?"

Drogan stood tall, chin raised. "I come to ask your blessings on my resignation from the army, Sir." Breyan stared for a long moment at Drogan, eyebrows raised, and then slowly ran a hand through his short, black hair, speckled with grey.

"I must say, I'm surprised," Breyan said. "This is rather sudden and unexpected. I'm sure you've earned the right, Drogan. But may I ask why?" Drogan reminisced on his decision to resign, recalling his memories of his father, as well as the death of his youngest squad mate, before answering.

"I was raised a blacksmith, Sir." Drogan said. "A profession my father wished me to carry on after him. He hoped I would someday take over his forge. I was young... I wanted something more glorious for myself. More honorable. I, against his wishes, joined Duke Nordhelm's army. I learned, long ago, Sir, "he continued. "there is nothing glorious about battle. I am, however, proud to have served. My father died some time ago and we never made peace. I simply believe, Sir, that it is past time I honored my father and his wishes."

"A blacksmith." Breyan said. "An honorable profession." Breyan sighed before continuing. "That explains the strong arm you had even when a young recruit," he chuckled, and then grew serious. "Well, Drogan. You've certainly earned the right. I must say, however, I'm not terribly pleased. You've proven yourself a valuable sergeant, a good warrior, and a great leader," he said and shook his head. "I'll see to it your last pay is generous."

"If I could continue, Sir." Drogan spoke, and proceeded at a nod from the captain. "I would like to request that Faldrek take my position as Sergeant of my squad." At the request, Breyan's eyes widened in surprise again.

"And you agree to this, Faldrek?" the captain asked, a brow raised, and looking questioningly at the older warrior. When Faldrek confirmed, Breyan threw his arms up in the air and laughed as he continued. "It's about time! Ha! I never thought I'd see the day! I will see to it. You'll get the promotion, Faldrek." When Drogan began removing his sword belt to turn over his sword and then his armor, Breyan stepped around the table and put a hand on his arm to stop him. "The sword, and the armor as well, are yours to keep, Drogan." He said. "You are leaving here with honor. You've served exceptionally. Keep them."

Drogan's final hours in Grey Home were spent bidding farewell to his squad, all of them wishing him well, and hoping to see him again someday. Although regretting the loss of Drogan as their sergeant, they were pleased they would be led by Faldrek. Before he left, he was able to acquire his horse, a tall black charger that he had grown fond of. Before leaving the city, he and Faldrek shared their final farewells over an ale at the Laughing Jackal, both promising to see each other again. His squad met him at the gates in a final salute along with Captain Breyan and many from his company. Andorin and his squad were, of course, absent. When he mounted his horse and rode through the tall wooden gates, he sat high in the saddle with his chin raised high and an occasional nod of thanks to those who watched him leave. As a show of respect, the company stood, watching him until he was no longer within site, before turning around and leaving the gates.

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Kendrick awoke to blue skies, and although the wind was cold and forceful, and the road muddy, he was thankful the rain had ceased. While eating a quick meal of dried meat and cheese, he opened "The Teachings" to the prophecies of Jandrous and read.

After some time, the betrayer will grow in strength, seeking to destroy all those most faithful to me and who teach my story. In those days, a long winter will cover the land, not for a season, but multiple seasons and autumn will become winter, and the winter months will be intensified. The spring months will come, and the summer months will follow, yet the winter will hold strong until the time I speak of comes to an end. A great hunt, by the betrayer's followers, will devastate the faithful. It will be a time of great fear and sorrow accompanied by terrible war. Dark beasts, will move upon the lands, seeking to destroy all those who defy the betrayer. Dragons will return and will war against one another. Drayan'os, those drayan who betrayed the One God, will be free upon the world.

Soon I will die, slain by sword in the Valley Of Dragons. A sword that will remain wet with my blood until I return as a mortal again and grasp it in my very own hand. And I tell you now that I will return! And when I return, I will return as the One True King! But listen! I, even I, will not know who the One True King is. Until the sword that slew me is in my very own hand I will not know! There is no written amount of time how long the winter will be, or the war, or the hunting of my faithful. It will last until I hold the sword and become filled with the knowledge of my true self, and I am able to rise as King. So see to it that the sword is found quickly! See to it that it is placed in my hands. My mortal self will not be aware, but my spirit shall! So seek me out so that I may seek you in turn! Continue to seek my guidance, for although my mortal self is not aware, my spirit will be! You have heard me speak of the One God, you have seen me heal. You have heard my calls for peace and love. In those days when I hold the sword which will soon slay me, you will see me weep for all the darkness in this world, but you will also see my anger at injustice, my anger toward evil. You will see me rise a warrior and King! This I promise you.... when you hear the horn of Gaulin, you will know for certain the age has come. Protect yourselves, my faithful. And in this time to come, spread my message of hope. But also, and this message is for my priests... prepare for war! For although you are priests of love and servitude, you are also warriors of the One God! You will be made powerful in your faith and spirit. Show great faith, and you will show great destruction to your enemies. Your faith will become a great weapon. Call upon your faith in my name for fire, and you will be given fire!

Closing the book and returning it to his pack, Kendrick stood and stretched. The grey horse tied to the table shook its head with a snort. "So eager to continue our journey?" Kendrick asked the horse with a smile. "Well, if what Donnagan believes is true, we're going to be in for quite a ride." He still felt the fear he felt the night before after reading the letter entrusted to him by the high priest, but after reading from The Teachings, his fears were calmed, at least some. He believed with his very heart and soul in The Teachings Of Jandrous, and so he believed the coming Long Winter would be horrible and devastating for certain. Yet he also held onto the hope that in the end, good would be victorious against evil. He also hoped his faith was strong enough to see him through it. Although he did not relish the terrible times soon to come, or so Donnagan believed, he did find the idea of seeing them play out, possibly seeing the One True King in person, quite interesting and exciting. After untying the horse's reins from the table, he led it outside the cottage and raised himself into the saddle. Great puffs of steam rose from the horse's mouth and nostrils as it breathed, and already, the thought of a Long Winter was a miserable thought indeed. "It shouldn't be this cold yet," Kendrick said aloud and tapped his heels to the horse's side, to ride down the short rise to the road below. "Perhaps," he continued, "we'll find shelter without so many holes in it today. Although— I certainly thank Jandrous for that which he provided last night."

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Deep within the Keep of Drakus, in a throne room of black stone walls, and black stone floors, sat the powerful figure who had stood atop a tower the night before looking out upon his army. He still wore the black armor and the long black cloak, but not the helm, and his long, straight, black hair draped the sides of his face and over shoulders like curtains of black silk. He looked through bored, ice blue eyes under black brows, as his three crimson robed counselors rushed into the throne room. They walked quickly with their shaved heads bowed, arms tucked inside their sleeves. Two of them knelt when they came before the steps leading up to his great chair, a throne built of the bones and skulls of a number of different animals and men, but one of them hastened up to speak with his lord. "My lord, Belkarus—" he began, but was cut off mid-sentence.

"Why do you not kneel?" The black cloaked Lord of Drakus asked, boredom evident in his deep voice. He glanced up at the red robed priest of Xandrous the Betrayer with a raised eyebrow.

"My lord— I—" the priest stammered.

"I asked you, priest," he roared as his face distorted in rage, "Why do you not kneel?" Belkarus rose from his throne with a quickness that seemed almost unnatural, and grabbed the priest by the throat. With the arm holding the priest stretched out stiff, he walked down the steps, between the other priests who dared not look up as he passed, and to the iron doors where they had entered. The priest's eyes were wide in fear as the powerful man slammed him against the closed doors repeatedly, until he nearly lost consciousness. He sighed in relief when the big man released his grip, but weak and in pain, slid down the doors to his knees. "Now you kneel," he said. "But far too late." With a powerful arm he reached down again and pulled the priest back to his feet. He turned around so that he was facing the backs of the other two priests, drew a great black sword from the scabbard belted at his waist, and ran the priest through with such force that when he pulled the blade free, the crimson robed man continued backward, falling and then sliding between the two still kneeling. He walked back toward his throne, stopping long enough to wipe the blade clean on one of the priests robes, and then calmly stepped over the dead body and returned to his throne to sit once more. "Now— what news do you have for me?" He asked with a cold calm as though the killing had never occurred. One of the priests raised his eyes to look upon his lord, a slight smile upon his lips.

"We have been successful in our attempts to find a way to seek out those most loyal to Jandrous, my lord," the crimson robed man said proudly. "A temple was overtaken, far to the west near Eagles Crest in Erinor— not far from the Forever Lands. All the priests of Jandrous were slain, save one. He managed to escape, thought dead as the others. One of our own, in an attempt to seek him out, called upon a drayan'os to commandeer his body to help him find the escaped priest. From what I understand, my lord, his body was somewhat— changed, but he told those with him that he could 'smell the strong stench of light' upon him."

"Where is this imaginative man now?" Belkarus asked. "I would like to reward him for his efforts."

"He— never returned, lord." The priest replied. "Perhaps he is still hunting for the escaped, but those he left behind say he moved with great speed."

"Hmmmm—" Belkarus stroked his smooth chin in thought. "It is no matter. How can more of us acquire this ability to smell the pitiful priests of Jandrous? Surely few drayan'os will possess others. Even now, this must be a rare occurrence."

"The walven, my lord." The second priest now raised his head and spoke. "It is said they can track not only priests, but all those who are loyal to Jandrous. The stronger the loyalty, the stronger their scent, I have been told."

"Splendid!" The dark clad lord replied, a small smile beginning to show at the side of his lips as the first priest continued quickly where the other had finished.

"But that is not all, my lord Belkarus." He said proudly. "The walven can seek the scent of those loyal to Xandrous as well, and those who are more likely to follow him than others."

"Ha!" Belkarus exclaimed loudly, rising from his throne and turning in a circle, arms open wide, and a great smile upon his face. "My lord, Xandrous! Do you hear? We can seek out your enemies!" He turned back to the priests. "Go then, and send your most powerful brothers, to the mountains and woods near Nerak to the east where the walven dwell. Tell them to find the walven, and bind them to obey— as many as they can find and bring them here. Go now!" The priests turned to go, and after a thought, Belkarus added, "And take this worm with you." Each grasping an arm, the crimson robed men dragged the body out of the black stone room and through the great iron doors. Stepping down from his throne to the pool of blood on the stone floor he knelt and ran his index finger through the blood, looking at it and rubbing it between a finger and thumb. "Soon, my lord." he said. "Soon the blood of your enemies will run like a river."

©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010

Chapter 3: Open Skies, Leaky Roofs, And A Warm Meal

The priest followed close behind the man who had found him out on the grasslands, eyeing closely the very large wolf trotting beside its master. It was not yet dark outside the forests of the Forever Lands, but here beneath the branches of the massive trees, it was the blackest night he had ever seen. The tall man ahead held a torch high to light their way. They spoke little as they walked, but Jarren did ask the priest's name, which was Marek, and gave his own in return.

"I've heard of you," Marek said. "Some call you Jarren The Hunter, or Jarren The Traveler. There are many stories of your travels and adventures." Jarren shook his head and chuckled a bit at this.

"Most of those stories are simply legends and tavern tales, told by men who have had one too many mugs," Jarren explained. "But— some are true." He did not tell which ones were true however, but kept walking, always looking ahead, seemingly following a path that Marek could see no evidence of. But Marek guessed the tall woodsman knew where he was going, and hoped they would get there soon. He had regained some energy from the water and dried meat that Jarren had provided him, but he was still very exhausted and had to will himself to keep moving forward. He was a little leery of the massive wolf that traveled with them, but the only aggression it had shown was directed at the creature in priest's garb that had attacked them earlier— attacked him, rather. He had never in his life seen a wolf that large. Curious of their destination, and exhausted, he asked where exactly they were going.

"Well—" Jarren said. "There is an elven village I was hoping to reach, but it is clear you're spent." He nodded in the direction they were traveling, "There is a clearing in the trees, not far from here where we will rest for the night. The Forever Lands, especially at night, are no place to be. But I think we'll be safe in the clearing. Also, I want a clear view of our surroundings in case of more danger— I do not want another of those things to come upon us unseen, for all the trees and vegetation here, if there so happens to be one. I do not believe there will be. I would think if there were more of them pursuing you we would have encountered them by now, or Runner would have detected them. However, there are other dangers within these woods we should be wary of. Having a clear view of your surroundings here can often mean life or death." Marek's nerves were not helped by Jarren's statement, of course, but something told him if he were going to be in the Forever Lands, Jarren was a great choice as a guide.

After walking in darkness for another hour or so, entering into the clearing was sudden. One moment Marek was following closely behind Jarren and the large wolf, feeling a level of security at their closeness, and the next they had entered into a large treeless area. The light of the moon, just over the tree line on the other side, blanketed the green grass before them in a silvery light, and much of the anxiety Marek was feeling from the dark, close, forest seemed to melt away. Jarren led him to the center of the clearing where some wood lay on the ground in a small patch of dirt, and where there was evidence of past campfires. Jarren explained that he stopped there often when traveling from his own home to the south, to an elven village further west of their location. Marek, sore from his long journey, slowly eased himself down to sit, and cried out, startled as Runner put his muzzle in his face, sniffing and panting.

Jarren looked down at him and chuckled, "He likes you Marek, be at ease. If he did not," the tall man continued as he knelt, and began busying himself with starting a fire, "you would certainly know it." He reached into a pack at his waist and tossed some dried meat and a skin of water to the middle aged priest, who ate and drank heartily, and then rubbed his hands over the small fire as soon as Jarren had it burning.

"I want to thank you, for your help." Marek said, as he lay back. He never heard a response. He fell into a deep sleep as soon as his head touched the soft ground.

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Night had fallen as Kendrick rode on, scanning the darkness for some sign of shelter. He shivered miserably in the cold, icy rain, and his robes and cloak were wet through and plastered to his body. He prayed silently, through chattering teeth, for some kind of shelter— anything to get him out of the weather, and a place to sleep for the night. Lightning flashed repeatedly, followed by deafening, peals of thunder. He worried of being struck by lightning, as well as pneumonia. Another flash of lightning revealed a square shaped structure to his right, and he stopped and stared, hoping for another flash to light up the ground so he could have a second look. His hopes were realized when there was another flash of lightning, and he moved his horse off the road and up a small rise toward the structure he had seen. As he drew closer he came upon a small, obviously abandoned cottage. The wood of its walls were old and decaying, with open windows; most of the shudders missing altogether, or swinging in the wind. A door in the front hung outward on one lower hinge, and creaked as the wind slightly moved it side to side. One whole wall had fallen outward, and looking inside he could see the roof leaked rain from numerous holes to the rotting floor beneath. Kendrick eased out of the saddle and rather than leave the horse to the elements, led it inside where he tied the reins to the leg of a single square table. The frame of an old wooden bed without a mattress rested against one wall, and another wall held a small fireplace. He smiled a bit, and thanked Jandrous for what he considered, in his present condition and predicament, one of the greatest blessings of his life. The bed was no good, and he was able to break apart some of the wood, which he placed in the fireplace, and with a flint and tinder Donnagan, 'bless his old soul,' had thought to include in the pack, soon had a fire going. He removed his wet clothing and set them before the fire to dry. He then rummaged in his pack for some dried meat and cheeses, which he ate while the robes and cloak dried.

As he ate, his eyes kept straying to the leather pack at his feet, which held not only food and supplies, but also the letter he had been entrusted to deliver to the high priest in Seaport. His hasty conversation with Donnagan which lead to his equally hasty exit from Danir, and into this unlikely journey which had so far left him only wet, cold, and miserable, had certainly awakened his curiosity as to what the important letter contained. Kendrick was certain he would feel a little better if he at least knew why he was thrust into this unwanted task. He was always happy to serve in any way he could but this— He couldn't find the right words to describe his situation even to himself. In an attempt to turn his curiosity aside, he lay back, chewing on a hunk of cheese and began counting drops of rain leaking through the old roof. This proved boring, and impossible, from the amount of holes. Where he sat, and the horse stood tethered, and the unusable bed rested, were the only dry spots in the little cottage. Frustrated, and giving in to his curiosity, he reached into the pack, and withdrew the wooden tube holding Donnagan's letter. "Well Donnagan," he said. "You never actually told me why I was doing this— and I think I deserve to at least know why this letter is so important that I must travel all across the lands to deliver it." Opening the tube, he pulled out the letter to read.

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It rained often in Greyhome, the grey rainy days partly how it was given its name— that and the tall grey walls that surrounded the city Drogan had called his home since joining the Duke's army. Now, however, as the column of soldiers slowly made its way through the tall wooden gates, the sky was clear and countless stars sparkled in the black sky above. The moon hung large in the sky, casting a pale light on the city below. Drogan conversed with Faldrek, his second, letting him know he would meet him in their favorite tavern for a good ale, and hot meal, once they both got themselves settled in the barracks.

"Good then, I'll see you there," Faldrek said with a smile. He scratched his short black beard, touched with grey, as was his black hair resting just below the shoulders. "In the meantime, I could use a good hot bath. I smell like a dead horse," he grumbled."

"I won't argue with that!" Drogan laughed. "Go— please, before we all fall over dead from your stench!"

Faldrek rolled his eyes, and turned to go. "You don't smell of roses yourself, friend!" he called back as he walked away and Drogan turned to lead his horse to the stables. He was glad to be back in Grey Home, and looked forward to a bath, a hot meal, and a good ale. He was not, however, looking forward to telling Faldrek, when they would meet later, that he was leaving the army and leaving Grey Home. The older warrior had been a good friend to him, had saved his life a number of times in the heat of battle, and had taught him much of what he did not learn in training. By all rights, Faldrek should have been his sergeant. He was a battle hardened warrior while Drogan was still a young boy— long before he had left his father's home. But Faldrek had never wanted to be a full sergeant, preferring instead to be second, allowing him a closer relationship with the younger soldiers, to help them to learn and grow. No— he wasn't a sergeant, but he was respected by many far outranking officers. They knew him to be a leader and a mentor to many new recruits— something that helped many, including Drogan, to stay alive. Drogan wondered if he would take the position now, and in fact was hoping he could persuade him to do so, now that he was leaving. The last thing he wanted was for his squad to be divided up and moved into other squads, some of them under Andorin's command. Andorin was a bloodthirsty killer, striking at anyone who got in his way, Drogan thought. Although, accidents happened in battle. Often a fellow soldier might be wounded or killed by one of his own. Unless, someone saw with their own eyes, preferably an officer, Andorin's treachery could not be proved. He shook his head to clear his thoughts— this was not what he wanted to think about now. If he were going to leave, he would have to get used to the fact that his squad was now out of his hands. He knew Faldrek would look after them all as best he could, and they would be in good hands if he took a promotion to sergeant. It would be offered for sure. He was the likely choice with Drogan leaving. Whether or not he accepted was another matter. Reaching the stables he handed his horse's reins to a stable boy. And turned toward the barracks where he would bathe, leave his belongings, and change before heading to the tavern.

An hour later he was sitting at a small round table in a corner of the Laughing Jackal, a small tavern in the center of the outer city where he awaited Faldrek. A fireplace along one wall and several small wall torches bathed the room in a warm glow, and commoners, travelers, and a few soldiers sat at the tables or bar talking, laughing, filling the room with sound. A tavern maid would occasionally pass by on her way to a table with food or drink, and the tavern's owner could be seen behind the bar wiping at a mug with a towel or checking the weight of coins. When Faldrek entered through the door and breathed deeply through his nose, taking in the scent of food cooking in the kitchen, he smiled wide, and seeing Drogan, he walked over and took a seat.

"I have ale, and meat and potatoes for us both coming soon." Drogan said with a smile.

"Ah! Good!" Faldrek said. "I could eat a horse!"

"I believe you would," Drogan chuckled. "I've seen you eat horse before."

"Oh— that was a hard campaign. Don't remind me of that. Meat as tough as leather, and it tasted about the same," Faldrek winked.

"Well, we've a good meal coming to us now," Drogan replied. "And well deserved if you ask me. This last campaign driving back the Haira'hem wasn't exactly easy either." A tavern maid approached with two plates and two mugs, and Drogan placed a couple coppers into her palm with a smile. He decided to get to the point and get it over with. "I'm leaving Grey Home," he said. "I'll be turning in my resignation at first light." Faldrek leaned back in his seat and looked long into his eyes before replying. Finally he inhaled deeply, and exhaled slowly, and replied with a smile.

"Well—" he said. "I can tell from the look in your eyes, I won't be able to dissuade you. You're going to be missed, Drogan. I'm assuming, you plan on recommending me as sergeant?"

"I would much rather it be you, Faldrek, then someone else." Drogan said. "I certainly do not want the squad anywhere near Andorin." Faldrek nodded in agreement toward that statement. He didn't trust Andorin either.

"What brought this on, the death of the boy?" Faldrek asked.

"Partly— " Drogan replied. "It was on my mind, but that settled it. My father and I last saw each other on bad terms. He wanted me to take over his forge someday and not go off to wars and fighting and possibly die young. He taught me everything he knew. I wanted to serve in the Duke's army. He died," Drogan continued as Faldrek listened and nodded, knowing the story. "before I could make peace with him— something I deeply regret. I feel it's about time I honored his wishes."

"It's an honorable profession, friend," Faldrek said. "I'm going to wish you the best." He raised his mug and nodded at Drogan to do the same. "May Jandrous, The One True King, guide you and bless you in your new journey. May he watch over you and send his drayan to protect you. Lord Jandrous, I humbly ask you to let this be so." He tapped his mug to Drogan's and took a drink and looked up toward the ceiling. "I promise this is my only drink tonight," he added with a smile.

"You really believe that Jandrous business, don't you.?" Drogan asked.

"Of course I do!" Faldrek replied. "Can you explain any other way my stubborn reckless self has managed to survive this long?"

"Ha! You're the last person I would expect to be reckless, Faldrek!" Drogan lauged.

"Well—" the older soldier replied. "Perhaps not so much now. But when I was younger I made many mistakes. I did many stupid things. How do you think I gained all this wisdom I hold?" he said with a chuckle. He turned serious, looked Drogan long in the eye. "I'm going to accept the promotion to sergeant," he said. "Only because you asked me first yourself. You've been a great friend and a great leader. I owe it to you just for that. And the last thing I want to see is another one of our squad mates, or any other for that matter, find themselves in Andorin's squad, or fall to his blade."

Drogan reached across the table and put a hand firmly on his friend's shoulder. "Thank you, Faldrek."

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Far to the east, across the Axeweaver Mountains, past the sands and canyons of the Barren Wastes, and further still beyond the Mistwood and the Stormblade Mountains lay a vast dark, harsh, land, called The Shadowlands. And in an unnamed mountain range at its center rested Drakus, a great castle of black walls and towers where only evil dwelled. Deep within its walls, stood a black keep surrounded by a moat of volcanic lava. And at the top of one of its towers, all rising up like spears raised in defiance of the heavens, stood a figure in a black cloak, wearing plated armor as black as night and engraved with dark symbols and words of a forgotten language, stood a tall powerful figure. The figure looked down at a massive army below; an army of black armored men and hulking beasts, elves that had turned away from goodness and embraced the dark, and creatures that were born of nightmares. He looked down at them through the eyes of a great black helm, adorned with dragon's wings rising spread as for flight from its sides and with a black painted manlike skull, but with fangs, half a foot long, for a facial shield. The army below was amassing for a great invasion, but was not yet complete. He waited for something— more. Something else must arrive before his army would be ready— something more dangerous, than any of those creatures below him. He knew they were coming. He had seen them in his dreams. Now, all he could do was wait and be patient. He looked down at those below him, and shouted one word that echoed from the walls and battlements of the castle below. "SOON!" And the army below roared in answer.

©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010

Chapter 2: Travelers

Drogan reflected on the past in a return march to Grey Home with the army. He never had a close relationship with his father, but he had thought of him often during this last campaign in the Barren Wastes. They had argued when last he saw his father alive. He wanted him to take over his forge someday, not go off to wars and dying— especially at Drogan's young age. He forbid Drogan from leaving their home and forge. They argued loudly, shoved and pushed each other, and when his father slapped him full in the face they had nearly come to blows. Drogan left in the dark of night while his father slept. It was the death of Danan, the young boy who had died in his squad, which caused him to think of his father that day. He wondered how the boy's own family felt at his leaving— whom had he left behind. Was his parting similar to his own? And now he was dead. "I have fought many battles over the years," he thought to himself. "Perhaps it's time I left the battlefields and returned home. Home to my father's forge— if it's still there. Back to a simpler life." What would happen however to his squad, he thought. He felt great responsibilities to his men. Certainly his second would be promoted to sergeant and take command of the squad. And then of course there was unfinished business between himself and Andorin. He knew however, his squad would keep a close eye on Andorin in light of the recent death of their youngest squad mate. Yes— he would turn in his resignation upon their return; a resignation he knew would be granted, given his service over the years. For now, he walked beside his horse, marching on foot alongside his men as he always had; a small gesture of respect toward them, that likewise, they respected him for. He looked over his shoulder toward Andorin's squad. Andorin, mounted as always, rode ahead of his squad, an arrogant smile upon his lips.

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Kendrick, riding upon the pale grey horse lent him by Donnagan, looked back toward Danir. There was nothing to see but rolling plains and the Stormblade Mountains beyond. The city nestled at the foot of the mountains had slowly diminished in size, until finally disappearing from view hours ago as the cold winds from earlier had gained strength and beat relentlessly at his back as he rode. The old priest had included in a pack given to Kendrick, a thick wool traveler's cloak which he now wore along with warm woolen gloves. But the wind was icy cold and the low angry clouds told him the first winter storm may come early this year— quite early, as it was yet late summer. "And here I am leaving the walls and roof of home with miles to go before I can find any shelter," he thought grimly. "Well Jandrous," he continued silently, "If this is what you of want of me right now, I am willing. And I'm relying on you to help me complete this journey— could you, however, tell the weather to hold?" Kendrick heard a long low rumble of thunder in the distance.

"That is not the answer I was hoping for." he said aloud.

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As evening was beginning to fall, thin feathery clouds above stretching from one horizon changed from dark blues and violets to lighter clouds above, appearing to glow as though painted in a golden light, and then changing to deeper oranges and reds on the opposite horizon as the sun slowly crept downward giving the world below a beautiful ever changing painting of light and color to see above. Jarren, The Hunter as he was known among many, and The Traveler, as he was also known, stood just inside the shadows of the Forever Lands; an expanse of forested and mountainous land stretching from the southwestern edge of Erinor to the northern most edge of Kyrolis to the north. It was named the Forever Lands, for many who ventured into the great wooded land could easily become lost. Many never returned. "Doomed to walk amongst the trees forever," people would say. They could be dangerous lands for one without proper guides, preferably elves who made the forests their homeland, or perhaps the dwarves, who dwelt in the hills and mountains. Deep into the woods where the trees grew to hundreds of feet in height, with trunks twice, and often three times the diameter of a castle's tower, the canopies above would be thick enough to block out the majority of the sunlight. There, when the sun was at its highest, down below it was late evening, and often times pitch black. No travel was possible after early evening without torch or lantern. And there were predators, it was said, within the Forever Lands that could be the images of the worst nightmares. Jarren, a man— not an elf or a dwarf, however, knew the woods perhaps better than even many of the elves. He lived among them often, but had his own dwelling deep in the forests, built of the trunks and wood of the smaller trees that grew on its border with the lands of Erinor, where he now stood. Jarren was a tall, strongly built man, wearing loose fitting, earthy brown leggings tucked into tall, soft leather, tanned boots. He wore a black, hardened leather breast plate over a dark forest green shirt, leather bracers on his forearms engraved with elven designs, and a long hooded cloak, brown on the outside and a dark green on the inside, which could be worn reversed. A long bow and quiver of arrows were slung over his shoulder and he wore a broadsword in a heavy belt at his waist. He stood, stroking his short thick beard and mustache with one hand, the wind blowing through his shoulder length brown hair as he looked out across the plains with deep brown eyes. He came here often to watch the sun melt below the horizon and as usual was not disappointed by the beauty of the sky above. At his side stood a very large wolf with a thick coat of charcoal grey fur. The shoulders of the massive creature rested at just above the waist of the tall man as it looked on with Jarren at the slowly changing hues above.

"It is early for such a chill wind, Runner." the tall man said to his companion while looking out across the plains where something in the distance suddenly caught his eye. Someone out there was moving—stumbling, falling— slowly rising and moving again through the tall grasses and toward the trees. Jarren watched as the figure in the distance moved towards them— stumbling, walking and stumbling again. Finally the figure stumbled once more and disappeared into the tall grass. This time, not rising again. "Come, Runner. We should see who it is and if we can help." He broke into a run, his long powerful legs parting the tall grasses and weeds, with Runner keeping pace beside him. Arriving where the figure fell, they found a late middle aged man wearing the robes of a priest of Jandrous, the white robes stained with dried blood. He lay on his side unmoving, with eyes closed, but Jarren could see he was breathing. Immediately he knelt and began checking the priest for wounds. The priest opened his eyes slowly— eyes that reflected fatigue, sadness, and relief of having been found.

"The blood is not mine, friend." he whispered. Jarren looked at the man, almost in shock, and confusion— knowing as well as all men, all people for that matter, be they man, elf, or dwarf, that the priests of Jandrous were peaceful people.

"What happened?" Jarren asked, as the wolf at his side seemed to be looking across the tall grasses toward something beyond.

"Our very own brothers—" the priest began to weep. "They turned on us— during worship— producing swords and daggers from under their robes. I am the only survivor— all that's left from my temple!" His tears flowed freely as Jarren helped him rise to a sitting position. The priest looked down at his blood stained and dirty robes, continuing his story. "In the panic— the chaos— many of us tried to escape the sanctuary but the doors were barred from without. They slaughtered us!" he cried. "They slaughtered us all, laughing all the while, as we pleaded for an explanation— pleaded for our lives! I slipped on— something— blood, I suppose, and hit my head when I went down. They must have left thinking us all dead. I awoke under another brother's dead body, and was able to sneak away, the doors were no longer barred, and when I made it outside, I just ran, until I could run no more, and then I walked— until I could walk no more. And— and here I am. I'm not even certain where I was going. I simply had to get away.

"Why are you traveling all the way out here toward these woods?" Jarren asked, understanding the temple was on the road, about half a day's walk to the great city to the north. "Certainly your temple is closer to Eagle's Crest, north of here?"

"I'm not certain, but I'm afraid I may have been being followed." the priest explained. "It seemed that I would hear or see something moving and I, being afraid, was trying to move away from it."

"Like you were being herded." Jarren said. It was not a question. Runner had started to growl, deep and low in his throat. His ears were laid back and his fur had risen at the back of his neck. "Stay down— someone's coming and Runner doesn't like it."

Jarren looked out across the plains, and could suddenly see something bounding animal like through the tall grasses— something it seemed, that was wearing the white robes of a priest. As it drew closer, it appeared manlike, yet ran like a dog, throwing its arms outward and pushing itself forward and following up with its legs. It came quickly. Instinctively, he knew it to be— unnatural. This thing, whatever it was, was no man. He ordered the large wolf to stay back. In a heartbeat, he readied his longbow, knocking an arrow to the string, drawing, and then letting the arrow fly. The arrow found its mark, catching the 'manthing' in the chest as it leaped and bounded toward them. It slowed only an instant, continuing to come right at them, even faster now. Jarren quickly let another arrow fly, striking the creature again, yet still it came at them and was too close for another arrow. Just in time, just as it came within just feet of them and leaped at the priest still sitting on the ground, Jarren dropped the longbow and the broadsword was in his hands. With a powerful, wide sweep of the blade, the creature's head was removed from its body. The headless creature rolled end over end through the grass, righted itself, and bound away. Runner was snarling and barking. "Let it go Runner!" he said to the large wolf. But Runner wasn't snarling in the direction of the now headless, bounding creature, but at its disembodied head now laying in the grass, face up. It looked somewhat human, yet the face seemed to have elongated almost into a hairless doglike snout, but more man than animal. Its eyes seemed to have no distinction between pupil, iris, or sclera. They were all black. The pale face appeared to look directly at the priest and opened its mouth with elongated, sharp teeth to speak. The priest looked horrified as it spoke.

"All your kind, priest," it spoke in a cross between a growl and a voice, and filled with hatred, "will soon die." Jarren kicked the head out of site, into the tall grass.

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Kendrick rode on in silence. An icy rain had begun to fall, and leaving shelter behind him, he wanted to curse. But he held his tongue, knowing it was not the way of a follower of Jandrous to speak thus. Yet, although not speaking the words, he still felt guilty for thinking them. Ahead was nothing but the now cold, wet plains, and hills beyond, and the muddy road stretching into the distance. Night had fallen, and he was at the mercy of the elements which were proving themselves to be quite unmerciful. He rode on, not knowing why he was making the journey, only that the high priest felt it was very important that he, someone who had never made such a journey, be the one to do it. He thought of those words spoken in a whisper by the older priest, and shivered, more from the memory of those words than the cold, as they continued to replay over and over in his mind.

"I'm afraid you're the only one I know for sure I can trust—"

©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010

Chapter 1: Call To War

Drogan fought on as men were fighting and dying all around him. He had joined the Duke of Grey Home's army as a youth, imagining a life more glorious and exciting than working at his father's forge as an apprentice blacksmith for the rest of his life. Now the lean, yet heavily muscled, blond haired and blue eyed man was in his twenty fifth summer and a seasoned veteran in Duke Nordhelm's army, and had quickly risen to the rank of sergeant over his own squad. Having served already in more campaigns than many of the older veterans, he had earned the right to forgo many, but he always volunteered, was always willing to do his duty. He, after all, had nothing else but the army now.

When he left his town, one of the outlying villages of Grey Home, to join the army, his father was his only remaining family member. He had lost his mother and a younger brother when plague had swept the country when he was just ten years old. His father had died during his first campaign, Drogan later learned, to pneumonia. He returned to see his father buried, but had never returned since.

Now he commanded a squad of ten men, his company given the task of routing raiders that had been attacking and pillaging outlying villages much like his own, through a pass in the southern tip of the Axeweaver Mountains. The nomadic raiders of the Barren Wastes to the east were little match for the leather and chain mailed men of southern Erinor this campaign, but often it was quite different. The nomadic people of the Barren Wastes, or the Haira'hem as they called themselves, were well trained fighters, often striking quickly and disappearing into the dunes and sandstone canyons of the desert. They wore loose fitting hooded clothes that blended with the colors of the desert, and wore a cloth mask wrapped at the bridge of the nose, covering the bottom half of their faces. They rarely carried a shield, although sometimes a small buckler, and fought with two weapons—a sword and spear, two swords, two spears, or whatever the Haira'hem's preference, and they were unmatched in their skill with a bow. Except perhaps by the elves of the Forever Lands to the east, or those elves of the Griffonwood, bordering the eastern edge of the Axeweaver Mountains. And Drogan himself, as brave as he was, would think twice before following a haira'hem into the dunes or canyons alone. They were masters of the ambush— so when the dwindling enemy suddenly turned and ran for the dunes beyond, Drogan ordered his squad to halt, as the rest of the company would do the same. As they ran off into the sand and dunes and sandstone, they blended into the desert land, seeming to vanish one by one until they could be seen no more. They would not return for at least a month or two, as was normally the case, perhaps raiding villages once or twice again during the autumn months before winter.

Drogan removed his helm; a helmet of rounded steel with a nose guard and cheek plates, with a skirt of chain mail that protected the back of the neck. He wiped the sweat, sand, dirt and blood from his face, and looked about the company of soldiers for his second in command, and squad. Finding Faldrek, and the rest of the squad nearby, he clapped his second hard on the back.

"We fought well today, friend." He said. "Did we lose anyone?" He noticed already that three were missing.

Faldrik sighed, "I'm sorry to say we lost at least two. Greagor and Yordin fell early in this last push to Haira'hem spears. Young Danan had been pushed near Andorin's squad last I could see him. Shall I see if I can find him, Sergeant?"

"No, Faldrek," Drogan answered. "Tell the men to sit and rest—and see to their wounds if you can. I'll see about finding Danan" However, Drogan feared the worst. Young Danan was only sixteen years old and this was his first campaign..

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Kendrick pulled the hood of his white robes over his head as he walked through the streets of Danir. Although a sunny day, cold winds swept down from the Stormblade Mountains whipping at his clothing and forcing him to hold his hood down with one hand as he walked. In his other hand he carried a book titled "The History And Teachings Of Jandrous," often called "The Jandrous Teachings," or simply "The Teaching," for short. He had just finished visiting a sick elderly woman and was now on his way back to the temple at the Northern end of the road. He was a young priest, barely in his twentieth year, but learned quickly and had even written and preached a couple of sermons as a secondary teaching at worship. The slender, short dark haired, and blue eyed Kendrick lived a humble life, but this is what he loved to do. Being a priest was his dream since childhood, and now the life of a follower of Jandrous was all he knew—and he loved it. He loved prayer, he loved helping the sick, he loved caring for and serving others in any way they may need. Others described him as "full of the joy of Jandrous." And certainly he was. He always smiled at friends and strangers, always offered himself to be of service to others. He rarely in his life was sad or angry, not for any long period of time. He was saddened, of course, when his parents had died of plague years ago, as he was when his first head priest had died of heart failure two winters past. But he knew and believed that the One God had a plan, and Kendrick clung to the promises of Jandrous with an iron grip.

As soon as Kendrick had walked up the stone steps of the temple, and entered through the double wooden doors, he was met by High Priest Donnagan.

"Young Kendrick. I need a favor of you," the older, white haired and bearded priest said. He glanced around, and his blue eyes darted left to right. He held a wooden tube in his right hand, and in his left was a travel pack made of brown leather.

"Uh— yes— of course brother Donnagan," Kendrick replied, taken by surprise and a bit confused. "What is it you need of me?" Donnagan pushed the tube into the pack, turned Kendrick around by the shoulders, and with one arm around his shoulders urged Kendrick back out the doors and back into the cold winds outside. He whispered urgently as he lead the young, confused priest around the back of the temple to a small stable and hustled him inside.

"I need you to take the letter in this pack here to the temple in Seaport." he whispered. "I need you to travel quickly, and I need you to travel now. You can take my horse." The old Donnagan was already fastening a saddle. Finally sensing a chance to speak himself, Kendrick questioned the old man.

"Uh, Donnagan— I mean brother Donnagan," he exclaimed, very much confused and even quite frightened. "I've never even been out of Danir! I wouldn't even know how to find my way to Seaport!"

"Hush now!" he chastised him. "Not so loud. I've given you a map in this pack," he whispered. "You will follow the road southwest to Ulrich, then further west to Kilmore, leaving the kingdom of Rylos. And then you'll head to Wolves Tooth which is in Kyrolis. From there, a road moves south through the Axeweaver Mountains and into Ravenhold, a city in the mountains. From there you will head southwest into Erinor, to Castle Erinor and then skirt along the Griffonwood, south to Newblade, Grey Home, and then Seaport. If you stop at all the places I mentioned or some of their outlying villages, you'll be able to replenish your supplies, and I've given you money, food, and warmer clothes—and you should have an occasional bed for the night."

"WAIT!!!" Kendrick Exclaimed. "I've never traveled— never been out further than the outlying villages of Danir— half a day's ride at most! I'd like to help, I'm sure you know me well enough to know that, but why must it be me when I'm sure there are others here who have that kind of experience— and why are you whispering?"

Donnagan put a hand on both Kendrick's shoulders and looked him dead in the eye. "I hate to say this Kendrick, but this is a matter of grave importance— and I'm afraid you're the only one here I know for sure that I can trust."

Kendrick, jaw hanging slack, and wide eyed, was shocked...

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"I don't know what to tell you, Drogan." Andorin sneered coldly, "The boy stepped in front of my blade mid swing."

"I don't trust you Andorin. He is not the first from my squad to die by yours or another of your squad's sword," Drogan said, staring the tall dark haired warrior full in the face, nearly nose to nose. Andorin had moved a hand to the hilt of his sword.

"Are you calling me a liar, Drogan?"

"I'm saying, Andorin, if another of my squad ever— ever feels your blade again, and I think for one instant that it was purposeful— you will feel mine." And Drogan turned and walked away.

"Is that a threat, Drogan?" Andorin called.

"It's a promise." Drogan answered softly to himself...

****************************************************************************

Gaulin looked out at the heavens... at a multitude of galaxies, stars, and planets, multicolored dots of light in the expanse of the universe before him. Prophecy foretold so long ago was beginning to come to pass. He looked in the direction of a tiny blue dot so many trillions upon trillions of miles away, and bowed his head.

"For your glory, Jandrous my king," he spoke softly. And then with purpose he raised his head, brought a great horn to his lips and blew. The blast of the trumpet carried out before him. Planets and stars exploded or moved from their orbits at the power of the sound wave. Great rocks floating in the weightlessness of space were blasted to nothingness. Some stars merely puffed out like a candle in the wind as the sound wave carried out toward the little blue planet so far away.

"Drayan!" Maragan then called out. "Take flight to war!" And thousands upon thousands of golden armored, white winged drayan swept past Gaulin, filling the blackness of space before him, on their way to a world where Jandrous their king, son of the One God, once walked as a mortal man. Spreading his own wings, Gaulin took flight and joined them.

©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010

Prologue

Xandrous, The Betrayer, Lord of Chaos and of War, Prince of Pestilence and Persecution... he of so many names of nightmare, was once the most beautiful and grand of all drayan. Now from the pits of the underworld, flames dancing around him and from him, licking at his black winged body like hot, translucent tongues of red, yellow and orange hues, the lord of all drayan'os, those cursed and exiled, spread his leathery, reptilian wings, raised his great horned head, each horn longer than a man's body, and raged against Jandrous. Echoing for thousands of miles, his bellows could be heard in all directions throughout the underworld.

"SON OF THE ONE GOD!!!" of the One God... the One God...One God... he echoed. "You have had your day! Now is MY day! MY TIME! For thousands of years I have been putting MY plans in place. I have whispered my poisons into the ears and hearts of your beloved creatures. I have caused murder and lies— lusts and greed! I have become the father of wars!" He raised his palms, shrugged his shoulders questioningly. "You are the son of the One God?" he chuckled. "I have become many gods! Every second of every hour of every day, more of your beloved creatures accept ME as God— in one of my MANY likenesses." He paused, reflecting on a long ago memory that seemed as distant as yesterday, inhaled and exhaled deeply through his nose, and continued. "You think you won when you 'sacrificed' your mortal body in The Valley of Dragons, but in reality it was my own being in the one who ran his sword through your body— because of ME you were pierced!!! Not to save the many as you would have the world believe. As I speak to you now my armies— mortal, and immortal begin their march to destroy those whom you love. I will then march upon the heavens and claim MY right as the true god! It is written that YOU will face me in battle and destroy me!!! In truth you are weak! Your own mortal death proved that. I will destroy you! I will be victorious! I will finish the siege of the heavens I began so long ago!"

Xandrous turned toward the massive gathering of drayan'os behind him, all as black as himself, devoid of all color... almost as though they sucked in and swallowed all light, and he spread his arms wide as if to take them all in, chuckled, and roared... his echoes seemed to last forever, loud enough to escape the underworld and perhaps reach the ears of the mortal world... perhaps to reach the ears of the heavens as well. "Go my followers," he roared. "Claim your mortal commanders, kings, and generals! Let us finish this war we began so long ago! Now is our time for victory— now is our time to rule! Let it be known to the mortal world that war is coming..." He turned his dark face upward, as though looking into the very eyes of Jandrous, Son of the One God.

"War has come," he finished quietly. But even spoken softly, those words seemed to reach out of the underworld, to the living world above, and to the throne room of the One God himself. "War has come."

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Jandrous knelt, flanked by two white winged drayan, before his father.

"Father," he spoke, and then stood. The two drayan remained kneeling. Raising his head to look upon his father with eyes that appeared full of joy, sadness, and fierceness together, he took a step forward. "How long father, before I return to the world of mortals?" The One God spoke not, simply gazed beyond his son and waited... the silence was deafening, yet no one dared to speak as they waited to hear his words. And then all in the throne room heard the ragings of Xandrous the Betrayer, and listened until they concluded with a soft whisper... "war has come."

"Announce it and let it be done," the father spoke.

"Gaulin," Jandrous spoke to the drayan on his left. "Announce it." And to the drayan on his right... "Maragan, assemble the drayan for war."

©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010