Chapter 10: A Bleeding Blade

Chapter 10 of the story continues below

***Note From The Author*** Chapter Ten... Wow! I remember years ago, I suppose I was about eighteen years of age, I attempted to begin writing a novel such as this one. I wrote a pretty impressive prologue, including the mythologies and histories of the world in which it took place. I wrote how the universe was created, as well as the world, and well.... you know all that lovely stuff. I think I made it to about chapter two before I was struck with the worst case of writers block the real world has ever witnessed. I don't know what I did with that story, it's lost somewhere forever I suppose. And the writers block persisted, and persisted. Oh, it calmed down a bit here and there, allowing me to write little short stories in my blogs from time to time. And then the block would return, and I would sometimes go months before my next post. I would be able to write a song or two from time to time, but that is in my opinion a different form of writing. Both take some level of skill and imagination, and talent—I won't claim to have much skill—but a story seems to be a whole different kind of animal. Especially fantasy. You're in a sense leaving the world you know, and embarking on a journey, not only as the reader, but as the writer as well, into an unknown land of imaginations and adventures and peoples and creatures and places alien to you, and living among them all. I suppose it can be a bit overwhelming at times, but you know... if only in the back of your mind... that it's not real and you can return to the real world at any time. Or is it? And can you? Ah... but now I ramble. I never would have thought I'd actually sit down one day and decide, "Anthony, you're going to write. Not just a little blog post, mind you. I mean, you're going to write something big. You've always wanted to write a fantasy novel and never thought you'd actually do it... so why not just shut up, sit down, and channel your imagination into your fingers and start typing?" Uh.... yeah right! "Hey... why not?" Ok. I'll give it a try. I've always wanted to know if I could pull it off, so for fun, I'm doing it. And I'm sharing it with who ever wants to read it.

I believe the good Lord above blesses all his children with talents. We all have our gifts that He has given us, but it's up to us to dive into those talents and gifts and make them grow... and if we don't, well—we'll never know how far they can take us! So I'm diving into this story with everything I have in me, because I figure if God gave me a desire to write and an imagination to write of imagined peoples in imagined worlds—how can I glorify Him if I don't put that to use? So I'm writing "To The Valley Of Dragons" to see if I can pull it off, perhaps a little to prove to others that I can pull it off, to share a story with whoever in this world wants to read it, and most of all, to use those talents God gave me, the desire He gave me, and hopefully in some way honor Him in the process.

And now I want to thank all of you readers; the new readers, and those of you who have been reading since day one for taking some time out of your crazy lives to get out of the real world for a bit and take a journey elsewhere. I especially want to thank those of you who have been a huge support and help to me while I've been writing this story. You all know who you are, and some of you have been a tremendous blessing to me. God knows I'm a support junkie, something I suppose I've only recently realized, and those of you who have supported me and showered me with kind words, as well as those who have given me honest constructive criticism and point out my mistakes, have given me the drive to continue writing. Thank you all so very much and may God bless you all a thousand times for each time you've blessed me! I can't thank you all enough. I'm coming to realize right now that if I'm not careful, this Note From the Author (man... that's a cool word) thing could very well turn into a book itself, and I'm sure you all want to get back to the story at hand. So once again friends, God bless you. May your imaginations never cease, and may your dreams never die.

Thank you,

Anthony David Rosenthal

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"So how, exactly, do you communicate with your roa'an?" Marek asked Tia'ialla. The Hunter, The Roa'an Rider, and the priest who would be a warrior broke camp as soon as the sun broke free of the chains that held it below the horizon. It painted the thin feathery clouds in a multitude of hues of indigo, violet, crimson, orange, and gold when it arose from its slumber, promising a day of sunshine after a night of heavy snowfall. As they rode eastward on their journey to Rosenguarde, despite the warm sunshine, the wind was very cold and the three of them huddled into their cloaks with hoods over their heads to fight off the chill. Elongated shadows of two mounted horses, and a roa'an with rider, as well as a large Forever Lands wolf spread out across the white snow covered ground to their left and rear. Marek watched the movement of the shadow horses as their legs moved as one with their hosts; the hooves of shadow and living creature joined together as one. He watched the black wolf attached to the grey wolf trotting alongside them, bounding away and returning, always moving away but always staying near. He watched the cloaks of the dark riders waving like standards in the wind as they rode, and heard the hooves of their beasts crunching in the snow. Tia smiled and thought a moment before answering.

"The question would be better asked as thus—" Tia answered, before continuing. "How does the roa'an communicate with its chosen? They can send and receive thoughts. One of the few creations that can do so." She thought a moment as she looked down at the large antlered roa'an she sat upon. "They are very intelligent creatures, able to think much like we do, and when communicating with each other or their chosen if they have one, their thoughts are transported into the chosen's own. Much like when you think to yourself in words."

"And you, in turn, can send yours back to the creature?"

"Oh no. Not any more than I could send my thoughts to you, Marek. But, the roa'an being able to receive my thoughts, it very well seems that way."

"It's fascinating," Marek replied. "I'm not certain I completely understand it, but it's still very fascinating."

"Well," Tia said. "Have you ever spoken quietly with Jandrous, or the One God—in your mind, and felt like you not quite heard the answer, but thought it— as though when you yourself thought toward him?" Marek reflected a moment and nodded.

"It is very much like that, Marek,"Tia smiled as she answered.

Jarren had listened to their conversation, but rode on in silence. It had been very long since he had such a conversation with the One God. It would be so easy—especially now, with all that was happening and knowing things were going to be far worse. But for some reason it was also very difficult. He knew he was going to need the kind of wisdom only the One God could give in the coming days, months, or perhaps years of the Long Winter. "Will you even still listen to me?" he thought. "After all I've done in my life— all the lives I've taken of man and beast—training one of your most devoted to kill?" There was no answer, but he didn't expect one either— or perhaps he simply did not listen for it. The Hunter was unsure if he truly wanted that conversation anyway. He felt the need to clear his mind and reined his horse to a halt. The others did so as well.

"I want to rest our mounts for a while," he said. "We'll take a short break." When the others dismounted, he continued. "Marek, get your sword ready. You still have much to learn."

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Donnagan had spent the night of the blizzard hiding in the back of the stable in Danir as the winds outside howled and screamed. He burrowed into a pile of hay for warmth as he slept a fitful, fearful night waking up at every sound and wondering if it were men who had come to kill him. The next morning when a merchant came for his horses, he was able to talk the man into secreting him out of the city among his wares for the price of the dagger the old priest had taken from the lifeless fingers of Janner. The heavy set man, smelling of ale and garlic, agreed to take him as far as Riverway, a village to the west, halfway between Danir and Ulrich, resting on the banks of the Great Dragon—a river that reached from the northernmost range of the Rylosian Stormblade Mountains to the sea far in the south. The old priest, although fearful of the recent events, was pleased to have been blessed with transport out of the city, and spoke often with the merchant on their journey in the large wagon. It had been very cold, but no more harsh weather fell over the following few days, and when the merchant drove the wagon into Riverway, the priest bid him farewell with many thanks and turned to find the temple. After unloading his wares, the portly man was soon on his way back to Danir.

Upon reaching the temple, Donnagan was welcomed warmly by the priest there. He was a younger priest, and this temple was his first assignment outside of Danir, where Donnagan had been his High Priest. When asked about Kendrick, the younger man explained that he had not seen him personally but had heard of a young priest that was rescued the night of the blizzard just short of the village by Kieran, a caretaker, and Broan, a river merchant. They had left the next morning, he believed for Seaport.

"That is wonderful news!" Donnagan exclaimed. "At least I know he is alright." Donnagan decided to tell the younger priest what had happened to the temple in Danir and their fellow brothers and that he believed they were entering into the Long Winter and the Great Hunting. He warned the young man that perhaps he should pack up and flee somewhere he knew would be safe, but he refused.

"I cannot run from such danger, Donnagan," he said. "Although, I have been recently studying the prophecies of Jandrous and I agree with your assumptions, the people of Riverway need a priest. This is the path I've been given I believe, and I will stay as long as I can." Donnagan admired the young priest's resolve and his faith and commended him, but pleaded that he be careful and ever watchful. The attack in Danir was unexpected even to himself. He briefly considered staying in Riverway, but was determined to catch up with Kendrick to warn him the Great Hunting had begun and decided he would leave after a good meal and short rest. The young priest was able to give him enough coin for travel and some food for his journey, as well as clean robes and a warm travel cloak. Donnagan prayed with the man before booking passage on a small boat that would take him as far as Ravenhold, a stronghold for Erinor in the Axeweaver Mountains built as a defense against Skraeg in a pass that led to Rosenguarde. Donnagan was not certain he liked the idea of going through that section of the Axeweaver, but realized Kendrick was likely going that way as well and he wanted to reach him. He couldn't help but think Kendrick already knew the danger the priests were in, and wondered if his wanting to reach him was less to warn him, but more to be close to the only other survivor of his temple.

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Drogan on his black charger, with Faldrek and Halin on bays, rode along the chasm in search of another bridge across. The morning sun shone as pillars of light through the canopy above, and although the terrain was treacherous along the chasm, they were able to make their way safely northward. They had ridden two full frustrating hours without any sign of another bridge across before finally finding another. This one was much like the last; a rope bridge extended high above the river below. Once they had deemed it safe and crossed over to the other side they hurried southward again to the location of the bridge Andorin had downed the night before. Upon reaching it, Halin had little trouble finding the tracks left by the deserter's horse, and with him leading, they quickly began their pursuit toward the east. They knew they would have to ride hard to gain any ground they may have lost over night, but they knew also that at some point Andorin would have to rest himself and his horse.

"If we're lucky," Faldrek said. "he rested sometime over the night as we did. He would expect that we would have, and perhaps felt it safe to do so himself."

"He was riding hard," Halin added. "He would have been lucky not to have injured his horse or himself riding through these woods in the darkness." And as they rode down a sharp incline and up and over another, and through the close trees, around or over the trunks of a fallen tree or two, he added. "The terrain is quite treacherous."

"Let us hope not, Halin." Drogan replied. "If he or his horse were injured, there's a good chance Annyaa may have been as well." Halin nodded in agreement and continued to ride point, always keeping an eye on the tracks before them. After some time, it appeared to Halin that Andorin had given up his wild flight of escape in favor a more conservative one.

"He slowed down here," he said. "I suppose he decided he put enough distance between us to ride a little easier." Soon after, they found themselves on a beaten path in the trees heading northward; Andorin's tracks showing that he again was riding hard.

"This path looks to be well traveled," Faldrek said after a while. Drogan and Halin agreed, and the three of them surmised it was a trail used often perhaps by Griffinwood elves and maybe by dwarves from the Axeweaver mountains. Both were very possible, and perhaps the trail was used by both peoples. This area of the Griffinwood was in fact a part of the lower hills and mountains of the long range that spanned from the southern coast of Erinor and The Barren Wastes and stretched as far north and then westward, all the way to The Forever Lands to mark the southern border of Kyrolis and the northern of Erinor. The woods themselves began where they first entered them, and continued north to Ravenhold; the stronghold in the Axeweaver protecting a pass into Erinor. "I suppose we should pick up our pace as well?" Faldrek questioned. "No good will come if we let him ride further away from us." And the three rode hard upon the more easily navigated terrain.

Drogan had said very little since they broke camp and began their journey; speaking only when he felt it necessary or when he was spoken to. He kept thinking of the failed rescue attempt the night before—the shout that gave away their stealthy surrounding of the camp, the fight that followed, the race for the prisoners. He thought of the look of recognition and surprise on Annyaa's features as she saw Halin and himself running toward her, and the look of fear and lost hope in her green eyes as he was unsuccessful of reaching her when Andorin cut down the bridge. It was dark—did he truly see those eyes looking back at him, or what it his imagination? No. He saw those eyes; he was sure of it. Maybe a bit of moonlight or starlight had shone down on them at just that moment; he was not sure. But he was certain he saw those eyes as clearly as if she stood in front of him. Those big, beautiful eyes. Those fear filled eyes. He shook his head in frustration with an audible growl—his teeth clenched tight.

"Are you alright?" Faldrek asked, as he and Halin slowed their horses.

"Huh?" he said, slowing his horse as well and looking at Faldrek. "Uh—yes, I'm fine. It's nothing." He snapped the reins and booted the chargers flanks to ride off again. "We should keep moving!" he yelled back as Halin and Faldrek followed. Halin hung back for just a moment, watching Drogan as he rode away.

"It's nothing, eh?" he said aloud. No—it was far more than nothing, he was certain of that. Halin had been alive long enough to know when someone was stricken—in love. And Drogan was smitten by Annyaa the moment he first saw her upon his return to Misting Hill. "And the poor fool is either too naive to realize it, or too stubborn to admit it." He spurred his horse to catch up to the others as they rode around a bend in the path but something suddenly felt wrong and as he slowed and came around the bend he quickly moved his horse back and out of sight. He had caught a quick glimpse of his companions' horses rearing in surprise as arrows stuck in the ground surrounding them. Quickly and silently, he dismounted and led his horse into the trees.

Elves walked out of the woods surrounding Drogan and Faldrek; half a dozen of them with longbow cords pulled back and ready to shoot. Drogan looked around in surprise, noticing as did Faldrek, that Halin was nowhere to be seen. Neither said a word. As the elves encircled them, some with blond and some with light brown hair, and wearing dark grey leggings and tunics, Drogan and Faldrek calmed their horses. The elves' dark gray leggings were laced at the thighs with leather cord dyed a dark green, tucked into knee-high leather boots, which were a dark green in color, laced with grey leather cord. Their tunics had bits of green embroidered vine the length of their sleeves and about the shoulders where seen under the long forest green cloaks. One of them, wearing a long black surcoat over his tunic reaching down to his ankles with red embroidery on the sleeves and shoulders, was obviously the leader. Upon the chest of his surcoat were a red, rampant griffin upon his left breast, and a rampant horse upon the right. His cloak had golden vines and leaves all throughout the hemming of the cloak and the hood as well. This one, with his light brown hair reaching down his back, halfway to the thick black belt at his waist, stepped forward, a stern countenance upon his angled features, his eyes an icy blue as he kept an arrow pointed at Drogan's throat. Drogan slowly raised both hands to show he meant and wanted no harm.

"We are soldiers of Grey Home," he said. "By that alone, you should know we are not your enemies."

"Two of our men were found slain early this morning," the leader said coldly. "One of them, my close friend. He was able to describe their killer as a warrior of Grey Home with his last words."

"Everyone needs to calm themselves and relax their bowstrings." Halin said from beyond the trees. "My arrow is pointed at your leader. Let us not allow this to get any uglier than it is already." When the elves hesitated, he continued. "I assure you I can kill him easily and send another one or two of you to your graves as well—before you can even begin an attempt to get to me. I'd much rather not do so, but I will not hesitate. What say you?" The elven leader lowered his bow and motioned for his men to do the same. "I thank you for your cooperation," Halin said a moment later. Drogan slipped out of the saddle and stepped to the elven leader.

"I'm sorry about your friend," he said. "Did he say anything else? Was the soldier carrying a woman with him?" The elf looked over his shoulder, and Drogan motioned for Halin to come out. The big bearded man emerged with his arrow still ready and aimed. Drogan made a downward motion with his hand, and Halin slowly lowered his bow, but kept it ready with arrow nocked should he need it.

"He was," the elf answered.

"We are after that man," Drogan exclaimed calmly. "He's a deserter and a traitor who burned the temple in my home village, and took the woman and a priest. The priest is dead, and we would like to retrieve the woman before the same or worse happens to her. The man, we intend to take to Grey Home where he will stand trial." The elf looked long into Drogan's blue eyes as though judging his honesty, and perhaps his soul, and finally he allowed himself to relax and let out a deep sigh.

"I believe you," he said. "We are all very agitated right now. The two that died were two of our best, and well liked by all E'eldroan from our village, and known by all the villages." He offered his hand to Drogan, "I am Ardena'athurin—or Arden, if you prefer."

"Prince Ardena'athurin?" Faldrek asked.

"Yes. I apologize to the three—?" Drogan nodded at the question. "I apologize to the three of you," the elf continued. "This could have become very bad between our people. I suppose I should thank the man behind me with the bow." He allowed a small smile to play at the corners of his mouth with the statement.

"No thanks necessary," Halin smiled. "Just doing my best to avoid a crisis."

"Where did your men encounter the one we're after?" Drogan asked.

"About a mile up the path from here. He then left the path and backtracked through the woods and moved about quite a bit in this area. It seems he lay quite the trap for his pursuers—meaning for us to dispatch of you three. He's a sly one it seems."

"It appears that way," Drogan agreed.

"I'd like to see his capture if you are willing to allow me to accompany you," Arden said. "I have keen eyes, and can continue to track in the darkness when you no longer can."

"It's a good idea, Drogan," Faldrek said, and Halin nodded his agreement as well.

"It's decided then," Drogan nodded and agreed. "We'd be glad of the help." Prince Ardena'athurin, who was the second son of Arusa'averan, also known as King Arus of the E'eldroan, looked at the five elves who accompanied him.

"I'm going with these men. Tell my father and my brother what has happened here and that I will return when the man they're after is caught. Hara'aran—I place you in charge of the mountain guard until my return." One of the elves, a grey eyed one, slightly shorter than Arden nodded, and had another retrieve the fast looking, tall grey horse that belonged to his prince. When the prince swung into his saddle he asked for his soldiers' attention once more. "Stay vigilant," he said. "Remember; we heard the Horn of Gaulin only days ago—hard times are coming, and we know not how they're going to play out. I intend to see you all again very soon." He turned and nodded to Drogan. "I'll take you to your sly fox's tracks."

"Lead the way," Drogan replied.

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The Borderwood was an elongated forest reaching from the Mistwood and marking Rylos' southern border with The Barren Wastes, and the western border with Kyrolis. It reached the northern Rylos and Kyrolis Stormblade Mountains and the Axeweaver Mountains where it blended into the mountainous terrain there as the Great Dragon flowed through it and into the mountains to pass by Ravenhold and continue on into the Griffinwood and into parts of eastern and southern Erinor. The boat Kendrick traveled on was engulfed in a thick fog as it journeyed through the Borderwood, and he could not see any further than twenty feet beyond. They traveled slowly to be sure they were safe from running aground. No one spoke. Broan had long since ordered everyone to be as silent as the wind was that day. The tall, powerful looking man stood with arms crossed in his long red coat peering into the fog, listening to every sound, occasionally scratching his beard or smoothing out his mustache. He looked grim. Kendrick was about to walk toward him when long ropes shot out of the fog, attached to black iron grappling hooks that snared the boat. Broan acted instantly.

"Cut them!" he ordered loudly just as the boat began to be pulled in the direction of the ropes. His men, of course didn't even need to be told, they had all grabbed small axes from their belts and began hacking away at them one by one. But more grappling hooks came. "Kendrick!" Broan called out and passed an axe to the young priest. Kendrick, fumbling with the axe, with hands shaking, nearly dropped it into the river but was able to catch it, and began cutting the ropes as well. It seemed every time they cut the ropes, more would appear; and each time pull them—Kendrick guessed, closer to shore. Kieran was helping as well, frantically moving from one grapple to the the next, hacking with a small axe at the ropes. It seemed hopeless, however, and soon Broan was ordering his men to take up arms; some of them grabbed short swords while others seemed to prefer the same axes they used to cut the ropes. Broan disappeared into the cabin and a moment later was back on the deck with a thick wooden staff as long as he was tall. The men gave up the fight against the ropes and stood ready on the boat as they were dragged through the fog toward the riverbank. Kieran lost her footing when, with a mighty pull, the boat lurched up on one side. She slipped and rolled, but Kendrick caught her wrist and steadied her before she could fall overboard. Then they were both on their feet, looking for weapons themselves, knowing they would have to fight. Kieran found a couple broken discarded oars, hefting one and handing the other to the young priest. Her eyes were wide, as she peered into the fog trying to see their enemy. Kendrick was sweating, and shaking from both fear and adrenalin. He had never been in a fight, never lifted his hand to harm another, but knew he would soon be defending himself and perhaps others. "Oh Lord Jandrous, protect us!" he thought. Suddenly the boat ran aground and Kendrick had to catch himself from hurtling forward. With a shout, a crowd of men ran to swarm the boat, and Broan's men were hard pressed to keep them from boarding. Broan himself was among them, his staff spinning and striking, spinning and striking, blocking, deflecting and striking. Fierce determination shone on his features that he would not lose his boat or his cargo without a hard fight. His crew fought hard as well. When some of the bandits were able to break through and onto the boat, Kieran joined the fray—her broken oar swinging in wide arcs at any bandit that came near. Kendrick was at her side in an instant, no longer thinking, only acting on pure instinct—to survive—to fight so that he may live another day, and to hopefully help his new friends. When Kieran was tripped and fell hard to her back, Kendrick stood over her, to defend her with his oar against those that would deliver a killing blow—he had no doubt these thieves would kill a woman—or worse. Too late, he realized, he was in over his head. Two men, armed with wicked spiked maces faced him, and attacked at once. He swung his makeshift weapon at the first one to come close, and was able to strike him hard in the knee. But when the bandit went down the other had swung his mace for Kendrick's head. The priest flinched, just in time to evade a direct hit that would have split his skull like a melon, but was still hit quite hard against the side of his head. Everything seemed to turn red in his vision, and all sound was muffled as he heard the deafening sound of his own fast beating heart. The pain in his head paralyzed him, and he fell to his knees, certain his end was near. He saw Kieran struggling to regain her footing, as one of the thieves moved toward her. "Oh no—" he thought. "Such a nice woman— why must her life end in this way?" There was suddenly a flash of blond hair and silver steel, as the bearded Durinald was suddenly among them, standing before him and Kieran and fighting off the two attackers. "I have to help him," Kendrick thought; and he slowly raised himself to his feet. His ears were ringing, and tiny bits of light flashed before his eyes as he shakily raised himself. He felt dizzy; so dizzy. And his head throbbed. He raised his oar and attacked; striking at the one who had hit him with the mace, and heard and felt the thud when wood made contact with the thief's head. The bandit stumbled backwards dizzily and fell into the river.

"Come on men!" he heard Broan shouting. "Drive these foolish thieves back into the woods! Make them scurry off in fear like the cowardly rats they truly are! They attack under cover of heavy fog, for they are cowardly rats!" Kendrick's knees buckled and he fell. His face hit the cold wood of the deck and he saw the boots of struggling men moving to and fro before him—and then everything went dark.

Kendrick felt a cold wet cloth on his forehead and slowly opened his eyes. A very blurry Kieran knelt over him, wiping his forehead and face. "Don't move," she said. "Trust me, you'll regret it." He took her advice and stayed still, watching her as his vision slowly cleared.

"What happened?" he asked.

"You took a nasty blow to the head, hero," she replied sarcastically—but with a smile.

"Oh— yes," he replied. "I seem to recall that, now."

"What all do you remember?" she asked, sounding serious with a concerned look about her blue eyes.

"I remember that it hurt—a lot."

"You're going to be fine," she chuckled. "For now though, stay put and stay still. Otherwise it's going to hurt a lot again."

"Durinald saved us both," Kendrick said. "How is he?"

"He's fine. He's helping with one of the wounded right now as well. We had three wounded, nothing too serious—you included, and we had to fish a couple out of the water when it was all over, but we certainly taught those bandits a lesson."

"I've never been in a fight before, Kieran. I must say, I'm not proud of myself for hurting another man. But I believe it was necessary."

"Well you helped saved my life—and that's necessary enough for me," Kieran chuckled. "Looks like we're even."

"No—not quite." Kendrick managed a weak smile. "Once again I'm flat on my back, and your tending to me." Kieran laughed, and then ordered Kendrick to stay still. She warned him not to turn his head to quickly, and then stood to go help others. "Send Durinald my thanks," he said, and Kieran nodded. "My Lord, Jandrous," he thought. "Thank you for sparing us this day—but was it necessary that my head was cracked in the process?"

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Deep below the royal castle in Rosenguarde, in a dark, damp cave lit by a single torch held high in his left hand, Erehk, King of Erinor stood before a narrow, waist high platform of stone. Upon it lay a great sword. Built for two handed use and nearly as long as the king was tall, it shone like brilliant silver in the torchlight, somehow immune to the rust that would have long covered any other weapon in its environment. It was an impressive sword, forged for royalty out of dwarven steel, and crafted by the finest of elven sword smiths. The leather wrapped hilt was topped by a pommel crafted into the head of a roaring lion, and the crossguard bore the heads of two dragons. Finely engraved vines and roses entwined the entire crossguard, and even wrapped around the necks of the two dragon heads. The sword was a remarkable work of art. It was possible no other sword ever built was its equal. Fresh blood was on its blade; fresh but at the same time—very old. Curiously, yet hesitantly, the King reached to take the hilt in his hand almost afraid to touch it. Slowly he wrapped his fingers around the leather and lifted the sword, marveling at its balance. He reached into his white surcoat, withdrew a pure white cloth and wiped the blade clean, revealing the engraved vines upon the blade as well. But a moment later the blood slowly returned as though bleeding through the steel itself. He shook his head in wonderment as he lay the sword back down on the stone. He looked at his cloth—it remained clean and free of blood. "Amazing," he murmured. The sword had lain in secret in the cave for thousands of years; a secret few—other than the royal family knew about. He thought of the horn call heard just days ago. He knew immediately what it was when he heard it. And the sword was kept here so that it could be given to Jandrous when he returned as prophesied. It could very well mean giving up his kingdom, for who knew if there would be other kings and kingdoms when the One True King came? But it was an oath sworn by all kings of Erinor before him, and by himself, that they would do everything within their power to be sure the blade was delivered into the hands of Jandrous. And with the sound of the Horn of Gaulin, it became clear the duty would fall on him. Erehk would do what must be done— but first, they would have to find the man who would be the One True King.

"It is a beautiful sword is it not?" the King asked; his deep voice resonated off the stone walls of the cave.

"I find it frightful, King Erehk." High Priest Greandor, formerly of Seaport, answered.

"Perhaps— but it is a symbol of hope as well. It is the sword that slew Jandrous—but it also the sword that will make him King."

"And what will you do with the sword, now that we know the Long Winter is upon us?" The old, yet strong voice of the priest asked. The king shook his head, and audibly sighed. He turned to face the old priest.

"I do not know," he answered. "Perhaps when we find him, or he somehow makes himself known, we will have the sword safely hidden away and be able to place it in his hands. Until then, the sword will stay here. I suppose the answer will reveal itself in due time. Come, Greandor. Let us leave this cold dark place for now." As the king of Erinor began to ascend the stone stairs leading up and out of the cave to the keep above, Greandor hesitated a moment. He looked long at the bleeding blade; much of his faith was built on the story of that sword and he never would have imagined he would actually see it. And now after leaving a new High Priest in Seaport, and taking over the temple in Rosenguarde after his predecessor had died a few months ago, he was able to lay eyes on something few before him were privileged to have seen. The former High Priest sent a letter to Greandor to take over the Rosenguarde temple while on his deathbed; and although he much rather would have stayed in Seaport, he felt duty bound to honor the dying man's request. He knew as well, such a request was not made lightly. Only a select few were ever deemed worthy of High Priest in Rosenguarde, and he now knew why. The High Priests in Erinor had long acted as councilors and advisors to the royalty of this great kingdom. But the real reason was laying on a cold stone slab just a few feet away. They were granted, after swearing an oath of secrecy, the knowledge of the sword's location. He heard the king's footsteps slowly fading away, as well as the light from his torch, and quickly the old priest turned to follow.

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Belkarus walked quickly through the large iron doors from his keep and across the stone bridge suspended over a thousand foot drop to jagged rock below. His long dark hair and black cloak billowed behind him in the wind like wings of darkness poised to lift him into the black clouds that were always present above the Shadow Lands. Crowds of men, elves, and skraeg, along with taurians and massive beasts parted as he moved among them. A dozen black dragons had recently landed in the courtyard beyond, carrying the large cages below them; cages that held walven. Crowds scattered away from the dragons and the cages they held, not wanting to be in close proximity to either beast. As he came near, the dragons were already leaving to retrieve more of the walven in Nerak, where more cages awaited. A red robed priest, seeing his approach, bowed and then spoke quickly.

"My lord, Belkarus. I must inform you before you draw too near, that although bound, the walven are still very unpredictable. Only minor bindings could be placed upon them, and although they obey, they do so grudgingly. They are very dangerous, my lord." Belkarus did not slow as he walked up to and amongst the cages holding the massive beasts. Skraeg and Taurians were nearby, readying ropes and chains; the task was given to them to move the beasts into their specially made stables and to care for them. Many of them would also become riders in a new cavalry in which the walven would be their mounts. He wanted the largest of the first arrivals as his own, and stopped before one of the large iron cages. Green glowing eyes stared back at him and he could feel the heat on his face when the massive wolf-like creature breathed. Tongues of fire and black smoke escaped the toothy muzzle of the beast with every breath.

"Open it," he ordered the priest.

"My lord?"

"You heard me!" he snapped. "Open the blasted cage and let me get a closer look at it!" The priest turned to some of the skraeg nearby, ordering them to do as Belkarus demanded. Six of them came forward with ropes fashioned with loops, as another stepped forward to open the cage and move aside. The massive black horned head slowly exited the cage and the six skraeg tossed their ropes around its massive horns. It snarled angrily at them, great puffs of its breath throwing flames and smoke all about as the skraeg struggled to pull it entirely free of the cage. Suddenly it leaped at those with the ropes, grabbing one in its massive jaws and tossing the creature into the air. More skraeg rushed forward with ropes and they surrounded it, pulling the ropes taught to hold the beast in place. It breathed fire, but they were just out of reach of its breath and when the ropes caught fire, they were replaced anew. The walven struggled, and snarled, and snapped; its smoky breath filling the air all about until it was nearly hidden from view. Belkarus moved to stand directly in front of the massive, black furred beast, unheeding the priest's protests. He looked up into the beast's green glowing eyes and grabbed the creature by the fur of its jowls. "Cease your struggles beast!" he commanded and the walven tried to wrench its jaws free of the steel clad hands that held it. Normally the beast would have been able to do so easily, but the ropes of the skraeg held it in place. Still— it could very easily incinerate the man holding it now. "You want to kill me, don't you?" Belkarus asked, and then he slapped it hard against the jowls with one gauntleted hand. The walven growled and snarled angrily, flames licking just short of the man's face. The beast was pure hatred in a thick, black furred body; this one with smoke grey markings on its face and chest—its twisted black horns as black as night. "You will obey me beast!" the dark clad lord shouted. "You will have your taste for blood satisfied soon, I assure you." He turned to the priest and the skraeg holding the frightening creature. "This one is mine!" he shouted. "See to it that it eats well and has a stable with plenty of room to move—as for the rest of them; make sure they all get a good whiff of the stench of Jandrous in their nostrils and set them loose in all the lands to the west. Send more as they arrive as you see fit, priest. But make sure I have enough for my cavalry as planned. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my lord Belkarus," the priest answered with a bow, as Belkarus swiftly turned and walked back to the keep.

©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010

Chapter 9: Fear Filled Eyes

Jarren watched Eagle's Crest from a distance. Before him, an army of Skraeg encircled the walls of the city on three sides; it's rear built into a large hill between the two mountains that flanked it. He had seen the glow and smelled the smoke of countless fires outside and inside the walls long before he drew near. He could not remember ever witnessing a force of Skraeg so large. He watched as the mass of creatures threw themselves at the walls again and again, only to be repelled by the men on the battlements above. Multitudes of arrows, lit with fire, arched over the walls at the enemy below, answered in turn by the same from those laying seige. Even as he watched, a company of Skraeg slowly made their way toward the wall pushing a large, wheeled battering ram with them. Many of them would fall to arrows, only to be replaced by more grey skinned beasts intent on breaching the gates and entering the city. He knew a slaughter would soon come after. This attack was not expected, and there was little warning, Jarren assumed. Otherwise they would have encountered more refugees fleeing the city, not the few dozen they found dead. The few fleeing citizens of Eagle's Crest had tried to leave too late, and were chased down and slaughtered on the run. How could such a large force have arrived at the walls of Eagle's Crest undetected? He shook his head, a little in sadness, a little in anger. That so many enemy were able to march undetected to the very walls of the city disgusted him. He turned his horse, growing tired of watching the inevitable doom of the city, and ready to return to Tia, Marek, and Runner. There would be no going to Eagle's Crest. The city would likely be taken before dawn. He rode past the bodies of the Skraeg he fought earlier, already half buried in the falling snow, and knew the bodies of those fleeing the city would be buried soon as well. How many, he wondered, would be buried thus in the Long Winter, and with it, the great war that appeared to have already begun.

Tia and Marek conversed quietly, sitting and warming their hands before the low fire. Runner lay nearby with his head resting upon his forelegs, occasionally raising his hears as he appeared to wait for Jarren's return. The snow had begun to fall heavily now, and Marek looked out of the low, concaved hillside in worry.

"He's been gone a long while," he said.

"I worry for him as well, Marek," the elven woman replied. "But Eagle's Crest is a ways from here, and Jarren knows well how to protect himself."

"He comes," Silverprince sent his thoughts to Tia, and an instant later the large wolf's ears perked up and he stood wagging his tail. A moment later they heard horse hooves crunching on the snow and Jarren came around the hill and into the glow of their fire. He looked grim as he lowered himself out of the saddle and to the ground. Tia'ialla noticed spots of blood on the grey side of his cloak and on his face, as well as spatterings upon his gloved hands, and the sleeves of his shirt.

"You've been in a fight?" The e'eld woman asked, concern on her features as she stood.

"I am unharmed," he assured her. "But yes—three Skraeg I encountered on my way to Eagle's Crest." He knelt by the fire warming his hands as the others looked at him expectantly. "Eagle's Crest is under seige," he continued. Marek looked at the tall man in surprise, while Tia gazed at him silently, waiting for more information. But Jarren hesitated, his jaw clenched, in obvious agitation.

"How do they fare?" she finally asked.

"I have no doubt the city will be taken by dawn, Tia," he said. "I've never seen so many Skraeg." He inhaled deeply through his nose and slowly exhaled, calming himself before continuing. "It seems many of the clans have united. I wonder if all of them have."

"Should we return to the Forever Lands?" Marek asked. "Should we inform Grea'oran what has happened?

"They will likely already know before we were to arrive," Tia answered. "And obviously far too late to be of any help to Eagle's Crest."

"I agree," Jarren said. "I want to ride for Rosenguarde. I'd like to think someone got out of Eagle's Crest to ride there and inform the king, but we can't be certain. And we should warn any villages or travelers along the way."

"What will happen to the people of Eagle's Crest?" Marek asked softly. Jarren simply looked at him, and slowly shook his head. That was all the answer the priest needed, and he bowed his head in prayer. A lump formed in his throat, but no tears came. It seemed, over the course of the last few days, he had run out of tears. Tia had bowed her head along with him, but Jarren stood and walked outside of the natural shelter, watching the snow fall, while the two prayed. "It's been long since I sought your guidance," he said. However, he could think of no more to say to the One God and turned around to rejoin the e'eld woman and the priest at the fire. When the two finally lifted their heads, he told them they should get some sleep. Dawn was fast approaching, and he wanted them to be well rested to begin their journey in the morning.

"No, my friend," Tia said. "You should sleep. You have been traveling hard, and fought, while we rested here. I will take watch for a couple hours, and Marek can afterward." Marek nodded his agreement.

"Thank you, e'eldsian," Jarren said, using the word for elven sister. "Keep a sharp ear, however. We cannot be sure more Skraeg won't come near."

"I will," she said. "And the roa'an will inform me as well if anyone comes near. Runner would likely hear them or catch their scent as well." Jarren nodded, and then wrapping himself tight in his cloak, lay down and was soon sleeping. "You should sleep as well, Marek," she said soon after.

"I'm not certain I'll be able," he admitted.

"Try—rest in the knowledge that the One God looks upon us," she said. Marek nodded and lay down, still uncertain he would be able to sleep, but as soon as he lay his head back, he closed his eyes and sleep covered him like an invisible blanket.

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In the darkness of the night, with the sound of chirping crickets and other insects in the Griffinwood behind her, Annyaa hugged her arms to her body as she sat on the damp ground, her ribs aching from being slung front first over a horse for what seemed like another day of countless miles. Her long brown hair was a nest of tangles, and her plain white dress was filthy, torn at the hem, and torn at the right shoulder. Her face was covered in dirt and grime, streaked where her tears rolled like rivers, cutting a cavern in the dust of travel. The tears were more from the pain of her ribs bouncing against the horses back, than from fear now. She was certainly frightened, but had ceased to cry from fear, not wanting to give her captors the satisfaction of knowing she was scared to death. Borian, the priest, helped with his praying and quoting hopeful messages from The Teachings, assuring her that although their situation was dire, the One God watched them from the heavens and would give them strength and peace through their ordeal. Annyaa did not feel at peace, however, but she hoped upon the One God and prayed for deliverance for both her and Borian. If not for Borian, she feared, she surely would have gone mad by now. His hope alone gave her strength, and kept her own hope burning—a hope that somehow, some way, they would find a way to escape or be rescued. She thought of the moment she ran to Borian's aid, and the hard backhanded slap that drove her to her back. As she struggled painfully to regain her breath after having the wind knocked from her lungs, she saw the recently returned Drogan, rushing to her aid, only to receive a sharp blow to the head by a rider's sword pommel. The strong man was out cold before his knees gave out, and he fell to the ground in a heap. She was uncertain why she seemed to care so much, and everything happened so quickly, she had little time to think about it anyway. One thing was evident; she was angry. She was known to have a temper, unafraid to scold a visitor at her fathers inn and tavern when he became—dishonorable in his treatment of her. Many times she had slapped, yelled, pointed her finger at, thrown food, or poured a mug of ale on someone's head, for an ungentlemanly remark—or sometimes worse. And when she was able to breathe again, and saw her father struggling to break free of Halin, and Drogan laying in a heap on the ground, Borian being bound hand and foot, and tasted the blood from her split lip—that temper surfaced. She was still holding onto the mug and towel she had been carrying when her and her father walked outside the White Swan to see what the commotion outside was about. She saw Drogan lying in a heap; she had always liked him, even though he hardly noticed she was alive when they were younger. She felt the heat behind her eyes, and itching at the top of her ears. She saw the smug look upon the man who had been speaking; the commander of these men who had waltzed into her home village and were seizing Borian for no apparent reason, and without thinking, she launched the mug right at the tall dark haired soldier, knocking that smug look right off of his face as he fell backward out of his saddle and landed hard on the ground. As soon as she started walking toward the man to give him a real taste of her anger, everything went black. She woke up later, bouncing her ribs against a horse's broad back and her head aching where she had received a blow much like Drogan's. Borian sat next her, his back against a hollowed out log, occasionally poking his sore ribs as well. She felt so bad for him. Over the course of the journey he had been treated far worse than her; his lip was split and he had a deep cut over one swollen eye. He had been kicked, pushed, thrown off a horse every time they stopped to rest, spit on and punched. His shoulder length shaggy brown hair looked no better than hers, and his white robe was torn and more brown than white now. He somehow still managed to smile, and his blue eyes sparkled, when he prayed with her or tried to lift her spirits. About the same age, they had long been friends, and they spoke often when she was not working at the White Swan, or he was not busy with the temple. Andorin spoke little, and bothered them not, and in fact had killed the man that had given the two the most grief, not that it helped matters much. He was still planning on turning them over to someone, for something, and planning on getting some form of payment in the process. He looked at her angrily when he would put a hand to the cut on his right eye, and she would stare back defiantly until his attention was drawn elsewhere. He was a dangerous man, she found out quickly, and she supposed she should be thankful her and Borian yet lived. But she so badly wanted to get away, to return home and be held by her father. And that did it—thinking about her father caused the tears to come strongly, and as much as she tried to hold them at bay they flowed freely, carving new lines upon her dirtied face. She thought of the stories she used to read as a child, of damsels in distress held captive by ogres, goblins, and monsters, and of the tall strong warriors and princes that would save them. How she wished someone would ride out of the darkness to rescue her from the monster that sat by the fire now, again looking at her in anger while poking at the cut upon his brow. She shook her head as she cried. Children's stories, she thought to herself angrily. This was real. There would be no champion hero in armor of gold.

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Drogan led the company of riders hard throughout the night, determined to close the distance and stop Andorin before he could do in another village what had been done in Misting Hill. Halin, now wearing a chain mail hauberk, with a sword at his belt, had been riding point and keeping a close eye on the tracks before him, when he put his hand up to halt those behind him. They were gaining quickly on the others, who were apparently slowing down for the night. Remmin mentioned the nearest town was yet another two hour ride, around the southern edge of the Griffinwood. He guessed they would rest for the night, likely on the outskirts of the forest, and continue to the town of Autumnleaf at dawn. Drogan, wanting to hurry, knew Remmin may be right, and they continued slowly. When Halin held up his hand the second time, he cautioned Drogan to move everyone off the main road, and out of sight.

"I believe I saw a faint glow ahead, Drogan," he said. "Might have been my imagination, but it may be a fire. I'd like a closer look." Drogan nodded in agreement.

"Be careful," The acting lieutenant said. "Be wary of guards posted." Halin checked the knife at his belt and made sure the sword at his side was secure, before shouldering his bow and disappearing into the tall grasses. Faldrek and Remmin began moving the company off the road to the shadows of a low hill in the distance. Drogan caught up and handed his reigns to Faldrek and then waited, kneeling in the grass near the road for Halin's return.

Halin did not have to travel long before he was certain of the small campfire in the distance. He moved slowly through the tall grasses, staying low, as though he were stalking game. Finding the sentries was easy this time and he was able to stay clear of them. The camp was made on the edge of the Griffinwood, and Halin decided to enter their dark shadows so he could move closer and undetected for a closer view, so he cut wide to his right to put distance between himself and any more sentries. He was always silent, and always watchful, moving like a predator in search of prey, and soon he entered into the darkened tree line where he slowly cut back to his left eying the glow of the campfire between the trees. He kept a close eye out for Annyaa and Borian as he watched the soldiers within the camp, sitting and talking quietly to one another. When he saw them, their backs were turned to him as they sat leaning against an old log. He badly wanted to get their attention, to let them know help was soon coming. If he could crawl along the ground through the tall grasses he may be able get behind them without being seen, but it would be very risky. One or both of them could be startled and cry out, dooming him, and dooming their rescue in the process. Finally, after a long few minutes of thought, he decided to act on the side of caution and simply took mental note of where those on watch were standing sentry and the location of the two prisoners, before turning back and retracing his steps to Drogan and the others.

"Bah... " Halin said disgustedly when he met Drogan just off the road, and they walked toward the others at the base of the low hill. "They were less than a stone's throw in front of me! If I'd been a few years younger I might have risked sneaking in and cutting their binds. But I'm out of breath as it is and I thought it too risky. It's been long since I've worn so much steel," he said indicating the chain mail hauberk and the sword now at his side.

"No matter, Halin," Drogan said and patted him on the shoulder. "You did well again, and you have the strength and stamina of someone half your age." Halin then told him and the others the location of the camp, where the prisoners were sitting, and how the sentries were spaced out. "I made a count of the men, and they're all outside of the tree line," he concluded.

"A serious mistake," Faldrek said.

"That we can take full advantage of," Remmin added.

"I agree," Drogan said. "We'll split into two squads. Halin and I will accompany your squad in the woods, Remmin, where we'll wait for Faldrek and his men to sneak through the grasses and silently dispatch of the sentries."

"Alive if possible?" Faldrek asked.

"If possible, yes." Drogan said. "Once that's accomplished and we see you moving toward the camp we'll come out of the trees and surround Andorin and his men between us, before they have a chance to arm themselves." He looked to Remmin and Halin. "You two will immediately move to secure the prisoners. I want no harm coming to them." They all nodded, and Faldrek and Remmin both went over the plan with their squads.

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Annyaa, shivering, watched the fire as Borian lay back with his eyes closed. "Are you sleeping?" she asked turning toward him.

"No, Annyaa," the priest replied quietly. "I'm just resting—thinking."

"I'm cold, Borian."

"As am I," he said, opening his eyes to look at her.

"You—wouldn't think wrongly of me if I leaned against you?" Despite the dire circumstances, Borian smiled and was soon laughing quietly, tears of both laughter and pain falling down his face, as he tried to hug his bruised ribs with bound hands. Annyaa was soon laughing as well, and before long they couldn't laugh quietly anymore and were chuckling and laughing out loud, both trying to hold their bruised ribs. Andorin and the other men were staring at the two as though they had finally both snapped and gone mad.

"No!" Borian said in his laughter. "Of course I wouldn't! The One God knows it's cold, I'm sure. I don't think he would mind if we attempted to warm ourselves!" He continued to laugh, and wince in pain as Annyaa leaned against him, laughing and wincing as well.

"Good," she chuckled. "If my teeth chatter much more, they'll likely shatter."

Drogan and Halin watched the exchange from just within the tree line with Remmin and his squad on both sides of them, and turned to face each other, both raising a brow in wonderment.

"Well," Drogan whispered. "It seems they're in good spirits, at least." Halin nodded with a smile. They turned again, looking beyond the two prisoners and the soldiers in the camp. Soon, those standing guard would be subdued, and Faldrek and his squad would move toward the camp. When they saw them, that would be their signal to move out of the trees and hopefully catch the deserters by surprise, and there would be no bloodshed. Suddenly a shout was heard from beyond the camp, and Drogan knew that one of the sentries had discovered Faldrek's men before he could be silenced. Andorin was immediately on his feet with his sword drawn, pulling another man with him toward Annyaa and Borian, shouting at the others.

"The prisoners!" he shouted, anger on his features. The element of surprise gone, Faldrek and his men had no choice but to run into the camp as did Drogan and the others. Time seemed to slow. It was a race for the woman and the priest as Andorin and another, as well as Drogan and Halin, swords drawn, ran toward the two from opposite sides. Andorin was closer, and Annyaa turned to face the newcomers just as her captor snatched her by the arm and pulled her toward a horse. There was a look of surprise and recognition on her face as she saw Drogan and the big bearded hunter. Borian was able to duck the other man who tried to grab him and the man stumbled and fell. Trying to reach them, Drogan and the others were suddenly engaged in battle with the deserters, as were Faldrek and his men. Frustrated and angry, Drogan fought to get to Annyaa, but when he had finished one deserter, and attempted a run toward Andorin and his captive, another stood in his way. Andorin, reaching a horse, threw the woman face down over the animal's back and pulled himself into the saddle. One of Remmin's men reached them, but Andorin was quicker with the blade and the man fell dead. Borian stumbled forward hoping to help Annyaa in some way, and upon reaching the horse, reached up to try and pull her down. He grabbed her by her bound hands and pulled, just as Andorin stabbed downward with his blade.

Annyaa heard herself scream as the priest's face distorted in pain. His blue eyes seemed to apologize as his hands slowly released hers, and he fell to the ground. In a mad dash, with the battle going on all around him, Andorin spurred his horse and ran down two men as they tried to stop him. He broke through and rode straight into the tree line. Drogan cursed, and ran for the nearest horse. Most had bolted, but a few still stood within the camp, although nervous and agitated. Getting into the saddle was not easy, as the horse tried to turn away from him. Finally reaching the saddle he spurred the horse and gave chase, leaves and branches from the trees slapping his face and body as he rode between them. Andorin was not yet out of sight, and Drogan leaned low in the saddle to protect himself from forest growth while riding hard. He could ride faster than the other, he knew; he wasn't trying to hold onto a prisoner and ride at the same time. He heard someone shout his name and looked back to see another rider break through the tree line to help in the chase. "Andorin!" Drogan called. "Give up now! You cannot get away!" He heard the sound of hooves on wood, and knew that up ahead Andorin had ridden onto a bridge. When he reached the rope bridge spanning a narrow chasm with a river below, Andorin was already on the other side but no longer fleeing. Without thinking, Drogan rode onto the bridge, and as he neared the halfway point Andorin began hacking at the thick ropes with his sword.

"Drogan!" he heard Annyaa scream. "Go back!" He tried to turn his horse, but the bridge was too narrow and he had no time to back the horse up so he turned and leaped from the saddle, running back the way he had come as soon as his boots hit wood. He jumped for the other side a moment before one rope was severed. He looked back as the man who had followed, now dismounted, steadied him just inches from a drop. The bridge had twisted to the right, and the horse screamed as it fell a hundred feet to the river below. He turned and watched angrily as Andorin hacked at the other rope to finish the job. The tall dark haired warrior looked back at Drogan with hatred. When the rope was severed and the bridge fell toward Drogan's side of the chasm, Andorin turned his horse and hurried into the darkness. As they rode away, he could not take his eyes off of the fear filled eyes of Annyaa looking back at him. When they were out of sight, he turned to hurry back to the camp, the soldier following close behind and leading his mount.

Faldrek hurried up to him when he again entered the campsite. Their eyes met, and Drogan just shook his head. His old friend informed him there were wounded and dead on both sides, mostly among Andorin's men. And despite the chaos, they still had the surprise, and a number of them were subdued, or knocked out before they could pull their swords.

"What happened?" Drogan asked.

"The last of the sentries happened to turn just as he was about to be knocked out," he said. "He managed to give a shout before we could silence him." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Drogan."

Turning away, he found Halin kneeling before the lifeless body of Borian.

"He was a good man, Drogan." The big man sighed. "And braver than I knew. I saw him trying to help Annyaa, when he was killed." He looked up at the younger man questioningly.

"There was a bridge," Drogan explained. "He cut the ropes before I could cross." Kneeling beside Halin, he reached with one hand to close the still open eyes of Borian. "I'm going after them," he continued. "You're a good tracker. I could use you." Halin looked at him for a long moment.

"I was planning the same, Drogan," he said finally, before rising to stand. Drogan then turned to Faldrek and Remmin.

"Let's get the wounded to Autumnleaf where they can better be tended to," he said. "After they've had their wounds tended, get a good rest and begin your return with the deserters to Grey Home at dawn. I'll be going after Andorin from here."

"I'll be going with you," Faldrek said. "This mission isn't over until we get Andorin back to Grey Home as well. Remmin, take good care of my squad for me until I return."

"I will, Faldrek," Remmin said.

"Are you sure, Faldrek?" Drogan asked.

"Well, someone who's still officially a soldier needs to be on the mission. May as well be me." Drogan clapped him on the shoulder and thanked him. When everyone was in order, Remmin gave a salute to Drogan and Faldrek, and led the soldiers and the bound deserters toward Autumnleaf. Drogan decided they would have to take up the chase again at dawn. They needed rest, and would be hard pressed to track Andorin in the darkness of the forest. Also, they would have to find another way across the chasm, since the bridge was cut down. Andorin was likely not stopping again for the night, and Drogan worried about the distance he could be gaining, but tired and in the dark, they would have a hard time finding another way across and picking up the trail again. They'd have better results in daylight. He sat down, and shook his head. This was nobody's fault; just a plan gone wrong, but he still felt like he had let down Annyaa and Borian terribly. He lay back and closed his eyes, but immediately had to open them again. When he closed his eyes, he could see the fearful, pleading green eyes of the woman he had hoped to rescue slowly fading into the distant blackness of the forest.

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

The man, still not remembering what happened to him, or who he was for that matter, lay back against a tree to rest for the night. He was weary and cold, having spent another day and most of the night traveling through the woods, searching for a way out. With none found, no roads or paths, only the river he followed, he decided to rest his tired body and begin anew at dawn. He was hungry, but was able to find berries here and there for nourishment, and drank from the cold water of the river when thirsty. "What happened to me?" he wondered. "I remember nothing of who I am, what I do, or even of any friends or family." He looked at the trees and growth of the forest around him, listened to the sounds of nocturnal life that surrounded him as well as the sound of the river, and looked at the stars peeking through the holes in the canopy of leaves and branches above. "Where would you have me go, Father?" he asked the One God silently, not knowing why he gave him the title, but thinking it felt right to do so. He decided he would continue to follow the path of the river until he found people that could help him, or he found his way out. At the moment, he decided, he would close his eyes and sleep.

©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010

Chapter 8: Every Legend Begins In Truth

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