Chapter 11: Dreams And Darkness In Foul Weather

Ravenhold was built as a defense against Skraeg attacks through the mountain pass leading through the Axeweaver mountains to Rosenguarde. Because it acted as a safe place for river travelers to stop as they continued their journey along the Great Dragon through the mountain range, it quickly became a small city. Built into the pass itself, there were three walls; the eastern side having two walls with a growing secondary city between them, and the one western wall. The eastern walls faced the pass where Skraeg, or another invading army would have to travel from; as well as the Great Dragon river, and the western wall faced the pass leading to Rosenguarde.

When Broan's merchant boat landed at the dock, the river was becoming increasingly swift and treacherous. A heavy thunderstorm pelted the crew with rain, and flashes of lightning lit the mountainous terrain through which they passed—as it had for three days following the attack by bandits in the Borderwood. Now the storm had grown terrible over the past few hours, and with night fallen, everyone aboard the boat was pleased they would be able to disembark and find shelter and a warm meal in Ravenhold. Kendrick sat in the small cabin where Kieran lay wrapped in warm blankets up to the neck, shivering uncontrollably, her face and reddish brown hair drenched in sweat, and pale as a ghost. Kendrick heard, as he wiped sweat from the womans face, the shouts of the men outside, and orders barked by Broan amidst the sound of heavy rain and thunder as they struggled to secure the boat to the dock in choppy waters. Kieran had come down with fever the first day of the storm as she struggled to help the men, as well as cared for the wounded. She took care of Kendrick as well; the blow he took to the head caused him to become sick when the choppy waters had begun. He rubbed the back of his head—it was still very tender but the dizziness had ceased, and although it still throbbed if he turned too quickly or took a heavy step, he was none the worse for wear.

"How is she?" Broan asked as he entered the cabin.

"No better," he replied, shaking his head in worry.

"Well let's get her into Ravenhold and out of this cold wet weather. I've placed Durinald in charge of securing our wares, he and the rest will follow when that's finished." He bent down and lifted Kieran, wrapped in blankets. She almost looked like a child in the big man's arms. She murmured something incoherent as she shivered. "There, there, Kieran," Broan spoke softly. "You're going to be just fine. We're at Ravenhold now. We're going to get you someplace warm." He motioned for another blanket, and Kendrick found one which he lay over her in Broan's arms. "I want to keep her as dry as we can until we get her indoors." The big man said, and motioned for him to follow.

"Should I stay and help the men?" Kendrick asked.

"No, they'll be fine," the river merchant said. "You seem to have a good bedside manner. And I think Kieran would like to know you looked after her. Durinald will see that the wounded men are helped off the boat as well." Kendrick nodded, and followed him off the boat onto the docks. Soldiers stood watch at the docks, despite the weather, and he saw a few more walking to and from the pass that led up a gentle rise to the tall stone walls ahead. Broan walked and bent his body over Kieran, trying to shield the feverish woman from the weather as Kendrick walked beside him. The great wooden gates stood open to allow the merchant and his crew into the city, and would close again as soon as they were all within the walls, and they entered Ravenhold where Broan hurriedly led the way up a muddy road to the closest inn. Kendrick held the door open for him and they stepped inside. An old man stepped from behind the counter upon seeing them, and recognizing the big merchant came forward to speak with him.

"Kieran's terribly sick, Haren," Broan said as the thin man came forward and placed a hand on her face.

"She's burning up, Broan." The thin, grey haired man said looking up at him. "I'll have a couple of the girls get her out of those clothes and into something warmer. But first," he continued, "let's get her upstairs and into a bed." His brown eyes searched the common room of the inn, and he called for two of his tavern maids to follow, giving orders as they climbed the stairs for blankets, warm clothing for Kieran, and a number of other things as Kendrick followed. When the sick woman was placed in a bed, the two tavern maids hastened the three men out the door so they could change her clothing. Broan mentioned to the innkeeper that they would need lodging for his crew, and Haren told him that a few of them would have to share rooms because the weather had brought some extra business to the inn, but he should be able to accommodate them all. Kendrick mentioned he would sleep on the floor in Kieran's room.

"She's looked after me a couple times now, I'd like to repay the favor," he added. Haren mentioned they could probably find a pallet and some warm blankets to put on the floor and Kendrick thanked him.

"At present," Haren spoke to Broan. "Let's get something warm in your stomachs while the women tend to Kieran. I'll have my cook throw something together for your men as well. They're likely to be hungry." When they returned downstairs, Kendrick looked around, noticing for the first time the sawdust covered floor and tables spaced throughout the room. Men and women talked quietly as they ate or drank, and Kendrick overheard a few rumors of "the Long Winter, assuredly this is," and "just north of the Axeweaver, we witnessed the worst blizzard in years—especially this early in the season—why it's truly not even winter yet!" He also heard, "temples burned to the ground with the priests still in them," as well as, "some priests have flat out disappeared," and "the Great Hunting perhaps? Dark times these days, I tell ya." He had himself witnessed from afar the burning of a temple when the merchant boat stopped in Ulrich, and he nearly froze to death in the blizzard and was rescued just outside Riverway. He thought of the letter he carried for Donnagan, and worried for the safety of his High Priest and brothers in the Danir temple. He had not heard of the priests disappearing, but knew some of the rumors were true, and believed in his heart that the Long Winter truly was upon them—what terrible hardships would it bring in the future?

Durinald and the others soon came through the door, the young looking bearded blond with bits of grey in his hair coming forward to speak with Broan. "The rain's beginning to turn to ice out there," he mentioned. "The boat's secure, as well as the cargo. How's Kieran?"

"She's upstairs with some women tending to her now," Broan answered. "Kendrick will be looking after her shortly. She's bad with fever." He shook his head. "Make sure the men eat well, Durinald. They deserve it."

"I'll do that, Broan." Durinald turned to Kendrick and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Help her anyway you can, Kendrick. We've come to rely on her, and the whole crew cares very deeply for her. She's like a sister to us all, especially to Broan," he nodded at the big man.

"I'll do what I can. I'll see about getting some medicinal herbs brewed into a hot tea, if the owner of this inn has or can acquire some for me. And I'll have to keep her warm." He looked at the two men and added, "Other than that, I can also pray for her. And I encourage you two to do the same."

"Well, you know I'm not completely sold on the idea of prayer," Durinald said. "But I'll do so anyway." Kendrick smiled at the blond man and thanked him.

"Whether you believe it or not, Durinald, the One God will hear you."

Soon after eating a small meal himself, Kendrick hurried upstairs to Kieran's room, where he sat in a wooden chair in candlelight, again wiping sweat from her heated brow. She moaned and shivered and occasionally spoke quietly through her dreams as Kendrick read quietly to her from The Teachings. He had been praying, and felt that perhaps, just hearing the words from the book might calm her and give her comfort, so he read as he wiped her brow, and occasionally placed his hand upon her head to judge her temperature...

Little Kieran had just reached her fifth birthday; the sun was shining warm and a cool breeze gently brushed the tall grasses as she danced and played amongst the wildflowers while chasing butterflies. The clouds above, resembling thin stretched cotton, slowly sailed across the blue late morning sky, occasionally slightly dimming the the sun as they passed before it. She giggled joyfully as a butterfly with black, red, and blue markings landed softly upon her little nose causing her wide blue eyes to momentarily cross. When she tried to grab the butterfly in her tiny hands it fluttered away just out of her reach. "Hey you bubberfwy," she giggled. "Come bag here!" She felt a rumble and heard a low grumble, and placed her hands on her stomach. "Hungwy," she said with a laugh. Mommy was usually awake by now and breakfast served but today Kieran was up before her this morning. Finally becoming bored after waiting so patiently for her to awaken, she decided it would be much more fun to play with the butterflies she watched from the window inside. And so she did just that. But now a tiny frown played upon her lips—she was tired of waiting and would wake Mommy for breakfast. Running back to the small cottage, she reached up to grasp the door's handle and pushed it open. She walked to Mommy's bed and placed both hands on her mother's cheeks. Mommy sure was warm today! "Wake up, Mommy." She smiled as her mother's blue eyes slowly opened to look into hers. "I'm hungwy."

"G'morning Sweetie," her mother said quietly. "I'm afraid Mommy can't right now. Do you know where the sweetbread is?" Kieran nodded. "Good Sweetie—tear off—as big a piece of sweetbread as you want—and let Mommy sleep a while longer. When you're done with the sweetbread—run over to Harilie's home—bring her here, alright?"

"Awright, Mommy."

"Now go on, Sweetie—go get your sweetbread." Kieran turned to find the sweetbread, and her mother gently grabbed her hand and held her there for just another moment. "I love you, Kieran."

"I know, Mommy, "Kieran smiled. "I luvoo too." And then she turned to find the sweetbread. Afterwards, as her mother continued to sleep she made her way to the next house in the village, and knocked on the door. A short plump woman with graying dark hair answered the door.

"Well hello, Kieran!" She exclaimed with a smile bending down to hug the the little girl. "What brings you here this fine morning?"

"Mommy is still sweeping, and wanted me to bwingoo over."

"Sweeping? Does she need help with the cleaning, lass?"

"No no no no," Kieran giggled. "She still sweeping in bed!"

"Oh dear—I hope she's alright." Harilie had a worried look upon her face, but quickly masked it, and bent low with wink in her kind brown eyes. "You know I have some sweetbread on the table?" Kieran was delighted and giggled. Two sweetbreads today!

"Can I hab some?" the little girl asked.

"Of course you can! Now you go sit down at the table, and I'll go see your mommy."

But Mommy never got out of bed that day. She went to sleep and traveled to the heavens, Harilie had told her, just as her father had traveled to the heavens a year before. Kieran wasn't sure what that meant exactly at her young age—but something in her heart told her Mommy wasn't going to be coming back. And she cried and cried, burying her little face into Harilie's embrace as she instinctively knew Mommy would not be hugging her again.

"Mommy!" Kieran cried aloud in her sleep.

"Oh my," Kendrick said quietly, as he wiped her brow. "There, there, Kieran. Rest easy now. Seems we both lost family at a young age."

"She was raised by a caretaker woman named Harilie, in Riverway." Kendrick turned at the sound of Broan's voice. He stood in the doorway. "That's where she learned how to care for the sick or injured." The big man shook his head sadly. "It appears she is reliving the loss of her mother in her fever—has it lessened?"

"I'm afraid not, Broan." Kendrick returned his attention to his sick friend. "On the table there is a bowl of broth with some herbs. Could you hand it to me?" Broan did as was asked, and Kendrick began slowly spooning some of the broth into Kieran's mouth, waiting to see that she swallowed before giving her more. "If this fever doesn't break soon, she may die. I worry for her."

"As do I—and the rest of the men," Broan said. "The weather is getting worse. The rain has turned to ice, and the ice has turned to a heavy snow. The wind has picked up as well. We may be in store for another white beast like before. If so—I'm afraid we're going to be here for a while. Bad weather tends to hang still within these mountains." He leaned over the fitful form of the woman and placed a hand to her cheek—still very hot to the touch. "She has become like a little sister to me, Kendrick. Look after her well."

"I promise you, Broan, I will do all I can. I already know she would do the same for me. And she has." He allowed a small smile to play at his lips. "In the short time I've known her, she has become like an older sister to me. I suppose that makes the three of us family?"

"I suppose it may, Kendrick," the bearded merchant smiled. "I suppose it may. Look after our sister, Kendrick. I'm going to check on the men, and then I'll be getting some sleep." He turned then, and walked out the door, shutting it quietly. Kendrick rose and returned the bowl of broth to the table, before stepping to look out of the window at the weather outside. Indeed the weather had worsened and he watched as the snow and ice flew horizontally past the window in the strong winds. The lightning still tore the sky; jagged blue and silver lines in the blackness momentarily revealing the angry clouds above and the jagged peaks and walls of the surrounding mountains. He knew what was coming—but not how it would affect him. And he wondered what role he would play in the Long Winter. He ran a hand through his short dark hair, and winced as he inadvertently passed his hand over his earlier head wound. Turning from the window he picked up The Teachings from the small table in the center of the room and returned to sit at Kieran's side. After he said a brief prayer, he began to read...

...and Jandrous walked amongst those wounded after a great battle saying, "Have the peoples of this world fallen so much that they will not help the wounded here? Look about you—these are men and elves just like yourselves! The creations of the One God, as are you!"

"But Jandrous," one of his followers said. "They are the enemy. Show them how you will rule as king. You will rule justly, but be swift to destroy your enemies!"

"What do you know of how I will rule!" Jandrous raised his voice, angry, so that his followers and the army nearby could hear them. "All of you—my followers, and you soldiers! You want me to come as a ruler of nations and a king of war! But I say to you that I have not come this time to make war against the evils of this world. I have come as a servant to those in need!" And with tears in his eyes, he knelt before one of the wounded enemy, and placed a hand upon the man's side where his life was bleeding slowly out of his body. When he took his hand away, the wound was gone. "I ask you my followers, to do just as I have. When your faith is strong you too will be able to heal the sick and wounded in the One God's name. Ask to heal, and you will be given the ability to heal. And I ask you soldiers, have mercy upon these soldiers—your enemy, and bind their wounds so that they may live. Be servants of your fellow peoples! Oh but if all peoples of this world would look upon each other as the fellow creations that they are, perhaps you would then treat each other like brothers—and not enemy!"

Kendrick closed the book, and placed a hand upon Kieran's head. "And he will grant me healing when asked in faith, so that I can show his love for his people..." he quoted a writing of one of the original followers of Jandrous. He glanced at the candle on the table—there was plenty of candle left to burn, and there were two others unused. He would not be sleeping tonight.

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From atop a snow covered hill the three riders looked down upon the lights of the great city of Rosenguarde—the capital city of Erinor. Her strong, tall walls had never been breached, though throughout history, many armies had tried. She was the seat of a proud lineage of kings and queens; just rulers loyal to the One God before and after the time of Jandrous. She was the great city where the royalty of her allies, Kyrolis and Rylos to the north, met once a year; sometimes accompanied by the E'eldradin and E'eldroan. Occasionally—every few years or so even the E'eldhiavan—the elves of the Mistwood—or one or two representatives of the dwarven kingdoms would be present. Even the Haira'hem would sometimes have a chieftain present. The dukes and nobles and lords of lesser cities would also often attend and they would talk about the affairs of their lands; trade, defense, production and all things important to the growth and economies of their holdings. Here were the tall white walls of engraved stone; vines with leaves and roses, leaping doe and stag, fox and rabbit, and griffins, dragons, and lions—the engravings of master stone workers reached from top to bottom and side to side all along the three outer walls. The back of the city was protected by the flat stone face of a mountain of the Axeweavers. However; the beauty of Rosenguarde was lost in the darkness, but Jarren remembered her quite well. He smiled to himself. The Traveler felt more at home in a dwelling made of the trunks and branches of trees, or under the stars themselves, but he felt a special love for the great city. He had fought for her in the past, and she in turn had treated him well. But although he loved her, he could not stay. He had left her long ago—without word, in the darkness of night. Now he found himself returning, again in the darkness of night and he wondered if she would welcome him back, or resent him. Without a word to the others he moved his horse forward toward the gates of Rosenguarde with Tia, Marek, and Runner following close behind. They rode past the various outer farms, the inhabitants mainly asleep for the night, although here and there, candlelight still shone through some windows.

"We'll rest at an inn tonight," Jarren said as they neared the outer city gates. His face was calm but he spoke softly, and it seemed, with a sorrow in his words. "Tomorrow, Marek, you can see about visiting the high priest here—I will seek a visit with King Erehk and tell him what has happened in Eagle's Crest."

"You sound troubled," Marek said as he moved his horse beside Jarren.

"We bring troubling news," Jarren responded. "Your temple, the city of Eagle's Crest—" He looked away, silent for a moment, and then sighed heavily before continuing. "The king wished to make me his champion and commander of his personal guard. There was to be a ceremony the next morning—I rode out through the gates of Rosenguarde that night for some time alone, some time to think outside the walls that felt like they were closing about me—and I kept riding. It seems so long ago now, yet it could have been only yesterday. I've always considered King Erehk as more than a king, more than my friend. I think of him as a brother."

"Why did you not stay?" Marek asked wonderingly.

"I was young," Jarren answered. "Perhaps I wasn't ready for that kind of responsibility, and I've never liked being tied down in one place for very long. That is partly how I came to be known as the Traveler. The longest I've ever stayed anywhere is in the Forever Lands—and even there, I have come and gone quite often." He then rode ahead while Tia, Marek, and Runner trailed behind him. As they passed through the tall wooden gates, they received curious glances and stares from soldiers upon the walls as well as the inhabitants of the city still moving about the cobbled stone streets. The two men were dressed in elven style clothing, Jarren with the black leather chest plate armor and bracers. And following them was a sight even more rare—the elven woman, Tia'ialla riding upon a roa'an. The city was visited from time to time by elves, but rarely a woman, and roa'an were rarely seen here, other than every year or so when representatives came from the Forever Lands for meetings. And every so often someone they passed would spare a second glance at the tall rider in the lead, their eyes squinting as though they may have recognized him. Jarren rode straight down the road, past the cobbled stone buildings with wood shingled roofs on either side, and past any onlookers without turning his head in either direction. He held his head high, as he always did. But it seemed to Marek, riding just behind him, that perhaps his shoulders slumped just slightly. Turning off of the road, Jarren led them to a stable next to an inn and tavern where they left Runner and their mounts.

Entering the inn and the warmth of a fire burning in a large fireplace along one wall, Jarren moved through the room to speak with the innkeeper who it seemed may have recognized Jarren, for he put a finger to his lips to signal that he wished to keep his identity secret. Shortly he returned and mentioned that he had secured lodgings for them all upstairs, as well as a warm meal, and led them to a table in one corner near the fireplace. The warmth of the inn and the food brightened their spirits a bit, although knowing the next day would find them bearing ill news. Marek asked Jarren if his training in the sword had brought him to a level in which he could defend himself well enough in a fight.

"You have improved much," Jarren said with a small chuckle. "But you still have much to learn. We may be very busy tomorrow, but perhaps we will find the time to continue your training. As of now, you may defend yourself quite well—against a child." The three of them laughed then. The first they had laughed since the journey began.

"I will accompany you, Marek, to the temple tomorrow," Tia said. All smiles were lost.

"I—I would like that." Marek suddenly remembered everything that had taken place up to now. He remembered the treachery of the sudden attack in the temple. He remembered his brothers screaming in fear, pain, and death as they begged for an explanation from those who attacked them. He remembered slipping on someone's blood and hitting his head as he fell. He remembered waking up to the slaughter of his fellow priests. Marek thought of his escape and his flight from the temple and eventually being found by Jarren the Hunter and of the attack by the drayan'os possessed priest slain by Jarren's sword. He remembered the three of them finding the burned to the ground ruins of the temple, and thought of how he would tell the high priest in Rosenguarde what had happened. His voice shook, but he would not allow the tears to come again. "Thank you, Tia," he said. "I may need the support." The elven woman reached across the temple and took his hand in both of hers. She locked her sparkling green eyes under long red hair on Marek's hazel eyes.

"We have known each other only a short time, Marek," Tia said as she held his gaze. "But may I call you friend?"

"Of course," the priest replied.

"This is what friends do, Marek, when one is in need of support."

"Thank you, Tia." The priest managed a smile as the elven woman smiled in return.

"So be it then," Jarren said. "You two will see the high priest. Talking to King Erehk tomorrow, however, is something I feel I must do alone."

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For three days and nights Drogan, Halin, Faldrek, and the elven prince Arden, pursued Andorin through the Griffinwood but were unable to gain any distance on the man and his captive. Twice they rested in elven villages along the way where no others had witnessed any sign of Andorin's passing. Although mainly traveling the road through the forest, he was able to stay out of sight when others had come close, hiding apparently in the trees until safe to resume his hard ride northward. And he was indeed riding hard. When the four riders entered the great elven city, E'eldaduranus; simply Elven Home in the common tongue of man, they were shivering and miserable in the icy rain falling through the forest canopy above. The city, although much larger, was much like the elven villages they had seen before, with some buildings and homes built upon the ground, and others built into the trees above with rope bridges leading from one to another. The lights of the city were a welcome site to the travelers, and they looked forward to a warm fire and meal. Drogan wanted to keep going, knowing that Annyaa would not have such luxury, but the others convinced him the weather was too terrible to be traveling in any further that night. Andorin would have had no choice but to find some form of shelter as well. Few elves were outside, other than sentries guarding the perimeter or high up on the rope bridges above—most choosing to stay within the warmth of their homes out of the cold wet weather as Ardena'athurin led the three men toward a great, white, smooth stone palace in the center of the city; an octagonal building with towers at each corner and a tall central tower—the keep—rising above the canopy of the trees. They heard a sharp, piercing cry, and looked upward to see a large winged shadow swiftly flying through the breaks in the canopy toward the palace ahead.

"What was that?" Halin asked while peering up through the branches above.

"Griffin Rider," Arden chuckled. "Likely returning with news from afar, or perhaps a scouting mission somewhere."

The gates to the palace were massive thick wooden gates engraved with a large tree in the center and griffins in flight, and deer and horses below. Guards stood before and to either side dressed in grey leggings and tunics, with green embroidery upon the sleeves, and wore long forest green cloaks. Over their chain mail hauberks, they wore black surcoats similar to Arden's, with the red horse and griffin. They wore rounded helms with nose guards upon their heads, as well as leather bracers upon their forearms. All wore swords belted at the waist, and stood with spears in hand; raising them in salute when their prince came into view. When the guards opened the gates, Arden led the three men with him into a large hallway with large tree trunks built into the walls on either side and branches woven together in the ceiling above, giving the great hall the appearance of a forested path. Torches in holders upon the stone floor were spaced every few yards, lighting the hall in a warm glow. Here and there, as they walked the indoor forest, would be a break in the trunks where against the white stone walls were hung great colorful tapestries depicting moments in the history of the E'eldroan.

Drogan and the others were led into a great room, decorated much like the halls with a large table in the center. Against the far wall, upon a risen section on the floor, stood a throne of carved and engraved wood. There were two long wooden tables to the left and right sides of the room. Large colorful tapestries were hung about the walls and behind the throne. This was the E'eldakune A'hule A'e'ldroan; the Hall of Kings of the Griffinwood elves, Arden explained, the same name given to the palace itself.

"Please—sit." He motioned to one of the tables. "I will see about getting us something to eat." And he left through a doorway to one side as Drogan, Halin, and Faldrek slowly eased their tired bodies onto one of the long table benches. Arden returned shortly, another elf in tow. The elf following him was a tall one with blond hair worn long, and he was introduced as Hardis, the Griffin Rider they had seen earlier. Arden asked him what news he could give, and as two young elves entered the room with plates of food and drink, he told his tale.

"Everything throughout E'eldroan seems fair—with the exception of this foul weather," he said as he ate. "However there was a running battle between the northern and southern tribes of the Haira'hem. The southern tribes were on the run, and it appeared that soldiers of Grey Home, expecting an attack were waiting for them in the southern mountain pass into Erinor. The southern tribes army was effectively destroyed in the end—caught between the two forces. The survivors scattered."

"So the Haira'hem we heard about were on the run." Drogan said to Faldrek, who nodded.

"Yes," Hardis continued. "I spoke to the Grey Home commanders after the battle. It seems the Haira'hem believe we've entered into the Long Winter prophesied in the The Teachings of Jandrous. The commanders told me the northern and southern tribes had a gathering to determine who would be loyal to Jandrous in a coming war, and those against him. The Haira'hem loyal to Jandrous—mostly those of the northern tribes, felt there was no point in wasting time, and shortly after the gathering, joined forces and attacked those who would be against them in the near future. Many lives were lost, but the southern armies were routed. They were on the run still when they met the Grey Home soldiers."

"I would never have known there were Haira'hem loyal to Jandrous," Drogan said.

"Indeed there are," Hardis explained. "The name Haira'hem is from an old dialect that means quite literally, those who follow. Or—those who follow him. Unfortunately, only the northern tribes in general stayed true to their name." He then looked to his prince. "There is more Prince Arden," he continued grimly. "Skraeg are on the move further north in the Axeweaver Mountains. We're not certain what it means just yet, but other Griffin Riders and the dwarves are watching them closely."

"I see," Arden answered. "We should keep close watch on them then. Our friends here," he continued, "are searching for a man riding through the Griffinwood. He has a prisoner—a human woman, and he has killed many, including some elves. Have you seen them?"

"I'm afraid I have not," Hardis replied to the three men. "But I will be leaving again at dawn after I've spoken to the king, and will keep an open eye. I will spread the word, as well."

"Thank you," Drogan said.

"We should all get some rest," Arden then said. "We'll continue our chase at dawn." He showed the three men to vacant rooms where they would rest the night and promised to meet them again at first light when he would again join them on their hunt for Andorin.

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Padded canine feet raced through the mountainous terrain of the Axeweaver as the massive, black furred beast ran through the darkness of the cold storming night. Steam and smoke rose from its jowls as it breathed heavily from the run, and tongues of flame escaped from between its large sharp teeth. It's glowing green eyes scanned the terrain around it as it ran. Coming to a halt the beast raised its great horned head and sniffed the air, and let out a long lonesome howl sounding like the cries of many spirits. A moment later, its call was answered by others over the wind—its howl through the trees and mountain passes as forbidding and lonesome as that of the beasts. With a snarl, and droplets of drool like molten iron falling to the cold wet ground before it, the giant wolf-like creature threw itself forward on its powerful legs and ran on toward the strong scent of goodness—a putrid stench, yet a sweet smell of a coming meal for the beast. In the darkness were the sounds of others on the run as well—more black beasts that could have been from the depths of the darkest pit of the underworld. The Walven were on the hunt.

©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010

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