Chapter 6: The Horn Of Gaulin

Although considered an outlying village of Grey Home, Misting Hill, the outlying village of Drogan's youth, was actually an equal distance between Grey Home and Seaport to the south. As it rained often in Grey Home, there was often light rain, or a mist, that fell on the outlying village and the surrounding countryside. There was its share of sunny days, and even heavy thunderstorms that fell upon the little town, but the mist appeared to be its norm. As he rode within sight of the village, Drogan thought of his former home and home to be. Memories of friends, memories of his father, memories of working in the heat of his father's forge, all played through his mind. A light, cold, rain fell as he rode toward the village in the distance, but Drogan was not bothered by it. He'd ridden, walked, marched, slept and fought in worse weather than this. He felt as though he were taking a big turn in the road of his life, leaving his life as a soldier and returning to his roots. He only hoped his father's forge still stood, that their home still stood. He both looked forward to reestablishing old friendships, and dreaded them as well. What would the people of Misting Hill think of him now? Would they welcome him back with open arms, or would they be wary of him. The people of Erinor loved and respected their soldiers. However, Drogan also knew they could be wary of those who left the army. Sometimes a soldier did not reintegrate well into civilian life, and he hoped he would not be one of those. He then thought of Andorin— there was one soldier who definitely would not reintegrate well. Drogan had always kept a level head. He fought not for the love of battle; he fought because it was often necessary. It was a matter of duty in his eyes. Of course he joined for the glory of battle, to be a great respected warrior of Erinor, but that mindset he outgrew quickly. He learned in his first battle there was nothing glorious when killing and seeing your fellow soldiers killed. His boyhood dreams became nightmares. He remembered little of his first battle now. He only remembered it as a blur. He fought. He killed. He stumbled and slipped amongst the dead, and became ill more than once. He was pulled out of the fight when he took a nasty wound to his thigh and spent the remainder of his first campaign on his back, and with fever when the wound became infected. He remembered the field surgeons worrying they might have to remove his leg. That was when he befriended Faldrek, who happened by to visit and pray for him. He had believed the stories of Jandrous then, but over the years his belief slowly faded. He had seen too much suffering. He had seen too many die despite prayer. But he respected Faldrek's beliefs and respected him for his leadership and genuine care for his fellow soldiers. The older warrior often prayed aloud or quoted The Teachings as he fought. There was a man Drogan sometimes thought was meant to be a priest, not a soldier. But as Faldrek would sometimes say, "Sometimes it seems we choose our own paths to tread, but perhaps our paths are chosen for us. I feel this path is the one I've been led to. So I follow it." He was going to miss Faldrek, he knew. He was a good friend, and he hoped he would be able to visit him from time to time. As he began to ride the gentle slope of the hill where the village rested above, he could see some of the inhabitants working the fields, some stopping to watch as he rode into view. In the village above were the wood and stone built cottages and buildings, with straw thatched roofs, where the people worked and lived. There was an inn and tavern on the edge of the town where people would gather to eat and drink and talk about the day, and where travelers passing through would rest for the night. With evening fast approaching, Drogan was planning on resting there as well, and would see about his father's house and forge the next day. As he rode into the village and to a stable outside the inn, The White Swan, there were some villagers walking about who recognized him and smiled or stopped him to greet him, which helped to ease the tension he felt from returning home. It was not just returning home— he was leaving one life behind him and starting another life anew, both very different. And he was returning without his father to welcome him home. He dismounted the big black charger and led it into the stable where he gave a young boy a couple of coins as payment. He then entered The White Swan, where he was greeted with laughter, yelling, and all the typical sounds of a tavern inn— and then silence as one by one everyone stopped to stare. "Well this is a bit uncomfortable," he thought to himself as he looked about the room. Slowly men, some he recognized and a few he did not, sitting at tables or at the counter, returned to their food, drink, and conversations. There was old and grey farmer Middens looking dour as ever, and fat farmer Fenrick, who's belly hung over his belt. Big curly haired Halin, a hunter and skinner by trade and a mountain of a man, sat near the fire at the far wall, scratching his black beard. There were so many familiar faces, although a bit older, and new ones as well. Behind the counter, wiping a mug with a towel was Rodrick, the owner of The White Swan and, Drogan remembered, his father's closest friend. Rodrick was a tall, thin, kindly looking man who kept his balding grey hair cut short. He wore a white apron over a brown shirt, and when Drogan stepped toward the counter, the older man stepped out from behind it with a smile to embrace him, patting him hard on the back.

"Drogan!" he said. "It is good to see you. What brings you home to Misting Hill, and how long will you be staying?" Drogan felt more at ease after receiving the warm welcome from the kindly Rodrick, and returned the embrace, clapping the older man on the back as well.

"I'm here to stay, Rodrick," he replied.

"You've left the army?"

"I thought it was due time I returned home to carry on my father's wishes. If the forge still stands." Drogan looked questioningly at the innkeeper who smiled.

"That is wonderful news, Drogan," the tall man said. "Here— sit, sit. Take some weight off of your feet," he motioned to a seat at the counter and then asked a passing tavern maid to bring some food and ale for him before continuing. "Yes, Drogan. Your father's house and forge still stand. I have tried, as well as big Halin to keep them in good order, fixing a door here, or some thatching on the roof there, but we've had little time between the both of us lately. The thatching by now is going to need some real work, at least on the house. But we were sure to make time for the forge itself. All of your fathers tools are still there, and the thatching is in good order as well. Halin has seen to keeping the tools well oiled, so they would not rust." Halin had walked up to them both and placed a big hand on Drogan's shoulder.

"Thank you," Drogan said. "Thank you both," he continued, acknowledging the big man who joined them.

"It was the least we could do for your father, Drogan." Halin said in his deep voice. "We knew someday you'd return, and now you have. I'll be happy to help with any repairs you need to make as you move in."

"Until then," Rodrick continued where the big man left off. "You have a room here upstairs as long as you need it." He softened his voice to a whisper while looking around. "Free of charge. But don't you go telling anyone."

"I won't," Drogan laughed. "And again, thank you very much." The tavern maid returned with a plate and mug and set them down in front of Drogan, and the brown haired woman stood looking at him expectantly. She was a good looking woman, not tall, but not too short either, curvaceous, with green eyes. Drogan was stunned. "Uh— excuse me," he said and then reached into a pouch on his belt to produce a few coins.

"I don't want your money, Drogan," She said and abruptly turned and walked away and into the kitchens.

"My daughter, Drogan," Rodrick explained with a smile. "Annyaa." Drogan's jaw dropped, surprise and unbelief on his features. Last time he had laid eyes on Rodrick's daughter she was a short, too skinny, bony kneed young girl with a face full of freckles and messy hair. Now, even wearing a dirty tavern maid's apron, her hair messed up from a day of work, and apparently mostly without freckles, she had grown into a beautiful woman.

"That—? " he questioned. "She was Annyaa?" Seeing Rodrick's raised brow, he attempted to recompose himself before continuing. "Forgive me, Rodrick. I didn't recognize her. Uh— she's grown up quite well indeed!" He exclaimed with a smile. Rodrick raised his brow even higher, and Drogan turned his attention to the food and drink in front of him, his ears burning and face flushed in embarrassment. "This gravy is wonderful!" he said through a mouthful of food. Rodrick winked at Halin over Drogan's back, and the big, bearded hunter roared out in laughter.

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Night had fallen, the blizzard had worsened, and Kendrick rode on in silence. He had no idea if he continued in the right direction anymore. He was blind in this weather, and unimaginably cold. The grey horse labored beneath him and all Kendrick could do anymore was sit and ride, slumped over in the saddle against the horse's neck. He could not feel his hands or his feet, from numbness. He could not think clearly anymore, his mind as numb as his tired, shivering body. He wanted to sleep. He was freezing to death, he knew. And the horse, he thought, would be soon to follow, as it trudged through the deepening snow. The wind screamed like a thousand angry ghosts. And they taunted him— beckoning him to sleep so they could take his soul. "You can't have me!" He screamed. "You hear me? You cannot have me!" He was becoming delirious. "My king will lead me through the many storms— He will lead me through the darkest nights and into peaceful lands where the sun shines eternal and warm," he quoted The Teachings. He looked out at whiteness all around him, swirling around him, and he slowly raised a fist at it. He gritted his teeth in anger at this enemy— this great white beast that was everywhere, but could not be touched. "You cannot have me!" He screamed again. The horse stumbled, losing its footing, and went down, Kendrick tumbled into the snow. He crawled on hands and knees to the horse where it lay. "No!" He cried out. "You can't do this! Not now!" He tried to get the horse to rise, but could not. The grey animal lay on its side, great puffs of steam rising from its nose and mouth. "We have to move— or we will surely die." He lay a hand on the horse's neck. "Please, Jandrous— not like this." He had to get the horse back on its feet so he pulled at it's bridle, forcing its neck up, and trying to force the horse to follow through to regain its feet. "Get up!" he screamed. "Get up!" He pulled and pulled, exhausting his energy, he knew, but he had to try. Finally, slowly, the horse rose up onto its forelegs and pushed its hind legs up behind it until it was again standing. "Good. Good. Yes. I will walk awhile— let you regain some strength." And so he started walking again, leading the horse behind him. He stumbled on, knowing that he and the animal were likely to die, but that he had to keep moving, holding on to some hope that shelter would be found. He had a mission to uphold, a mission given him not only by Donnagan, but perhaps by the One God Himself. He thought for an instant he could see lights ahead through the snow, but they quickly vanished. "Oh let it be so," he thought. He peered through the storm as he stumbled on, trying to catch another glimpse. Perhaps it was his mind playing tricks on him, he thought. He continued in the direction he saw the lights— there! Yes, he thought. He could see what appeared to be lights leaking through shuttered windows. He tried to quicken his pace but at that moment the horse fell again. "No!" he rushed to the horse's side. "Look you dumb animal! Shelter is just ahead!" He tried again to get the horse to rise but could not. It lay there looking at him with one eye as if to say it was sorry but could go no further. He looked in the direction of the lights and yelled out as loud as he could, "Help! There's someone out here! Hello!" He yelled. "Help!" He continued. Trying once more to help the horse regain its footing, he fell exhausted to his knees, but was unable to stand again himself. "Help!" He cried out again before falling back against the horse. He was too exhausted to move anymore and just lay there. He thought he heard the sound of hooves on wood for a moment, but then nothing. He slowly turned his head in the direction of the lights again, and thought he could see fires floating in the distance, bobbing up and down. Two, no— three— three floating fires were bobbing up and down, and moving toward him through the swirling snow and ice. "Strange fires," he said aloud. "Are they Drayan coming to usher me to the heavens?" he thought. And then his eyes closed as he lost consciousness and the white turned to black, and the dancing flames disappeared.

"He lives." he thought he heard a man say. "Quickly, help me get him on my horse."

"The horse yet lives as well." This one a woman. "Perhaps we can save it."

"It's not moving, that's certain. You'll have to ride back to town to find something to use as a litter. But you'll have to be quick about it."

"I'm sure we can find something." Another man.

Kendrick felt himself being lifted up and slung on his belly over a horse. He was too tired to open his eyes. He lost consciousness again just as he felt the horse begin to move.

"Quickly now! Cover him well, get him warm." He heard the first man's voice again, as he felt himself laid in a bed and his boots removed. "Frostbite?"

"He's lucky," he heard the woman again. "Thank the One God. What is a priest doing out in this weather?"

"Who knows? From Danir most likely. There are no other villages on the road between here and there. I guess he got caught out in the open. This storm was sudden. Let's get that fire stoked. I want to get some hot broth in him."

"I agree. Should one of us get the priest?"

"No point in waking him. I think our young friend here will be all right. He has you caring for him after all." Kendrick heard the door open and close. and then the second man's voice again.

"The horse is in the stable. I think it will be ok. How is he?"

"He's young," he heard the first man reply. "I think he'll make it all right."

Kendrick fell into sleep again until suddenly coming awake with a start; coughing and choking.

"Easy now," the woman said. She sat on a stool next to the bed holding a wooden bowl and a spoon. "What is your name?" She was older than he, probably in her thirtieth year or so, a handsome woman with reddish brown hair and blue eyes. "What is your name?"

"Kendrick," he answered. "I should thank you."

"You're welcome," she said with a smile, and spooned more broth into his mouth. "You're lucky Broan heard your call for help over that wind." She continued, "My name is Kieran. I guess you could say I'm a caregiver in this village. When I'm here that is. Normally I'm traveling up and down the river and back on Broan's boat. He's a merchant, and pays me well to cook and clean for his men and care for the sick or injured."

"I would like to thank him and the other man as well," he said after swallowing the warm broth.

"I'm sure you'll be able to do that later," she replied and continued. "As for now, however, you should focus on drinking this broth, and getting some rest. How you and that horse didn't freeze to death is a miracle."

"I think you're right," Kendrick said with a smile.

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Jarren stood on one of the bridges looking out at the E'eldradin village. Night had fallen and torches blazed outside of homes and buildings below, as well as amongst the homes and buildings built up and among the trees. Placed evenly along the bridges were more torches to light the way for those walking to and from one place to another. He looked up through the canopy at the stars visible here and there and the moon shining brightly above. He thought of Grea'oran's belief they were entering the Long Winter, and of the Great Hunting of those loyal to Jandrous. A war would be coming like the world had never seen before. He had seen war, he had fought with the elves and dwarves in many battles against evil elves from the Blackwood who had traveled the sea and entered into the Forever Lands to the south with the help of the bull headed Taurian's from the Kylerian Island off the southern coast. The Blackwood elves themselves were a strong, dangerous opponent, but a large and enraged Taurian, with its massive pointed horns was a beast of a warrior that could lay waste to many enemies on its own. The Taurians were a divided race. Some were loyal to Jandrous, yet other clans despised those loyal to the One True King. The smaller number of Blackwood elves, and the fighting amongst the Taurian clans was a deciding factor in the E'eldradin being able to turn them back time and time again. If the Taurians ever united either for or against Jandrous, they would be a force to be reckoned with against any enemy. He had also fought in the east, acting as a scout for Duke Nordhelm's armies against the Haira' hem in the Barren Wastes. He had also fought for the northeastern Haira'hem tribes against the same tribes that regularly threatened Grey Home. He was also known amongst the E'eldroan of the Griffinwood as well as the E'eldhiavan of the Mistwood. He had traveled many places, hence the name 'Traveler' along with 'Hunter' as some called him. He was no stranger to fighting when the need arose. He despised it— but knew it as an often necessary act, and was willing to help whenever and where ever he could if the cause was just. He breathed in the cold night air, and exhaled sharply. There was always a measure of anxiety when you knew you were going into battle, but this— this was something far more. What was coming, he was sure, would be terrible beyond words. He had already seen firsthand a small piece of what was to come— the possessed, priestly betrayer that had attacked Marek and himself on the plains. What would they face in the coming days, months, or even years? How many of those he loved would die? He heard footsteps on the bridge moving toward him and Tia'ialla's voice when she drew near.

"You look troubled, friend," she said as she stood beside him looking down below. "You normally hide that quite well."

"I was thinking, Tia." He glanced at her with a small, reassuring smile. "I was thinking of what Grea'oran said earlier— The Long Winter, The Great Hunting. A terrible war will be coming. I cannot say I'm not worried."

"As am I, Jarren," she said. "Do you think those loyal to Jandrous will be victorious?" Jarren shook his head, unsure of the answer.

"I cannot say," he said. "I would hope so."

"The prophecies are not very clear in that matter," Grea'oran said as he and Marek walked across the bridge to join them. "I know Jandrous comes as a mortal, as he did before. Meaning, he can be killed."

"And," Marek continued for him. "He will not know he is Jandrous, the One True King, until he holds the sword that slew him in his very own hand. Meaning the people of the mortal world loyal to him will not have someone to rally behind until then."

"I fear," the E'eld prince said with a shake of his head, "dark times are coming. This could be a very long, terrible time in our history. Those of us loyal to Jandrous will be hunted down like dogs. Even more so, the priests." He motioned toward Marek with his chin. "As you my friend, already know. Are you sure, Marek, that you want to take this journey tomorrow? You are welcome to stay. You will be in relative safety here— at least for a time, I believe."

"I'm afraid I must," Marek replied. "I thank you for the offer, but I cannot leave the bodies of my brethren unattended. I must see that they are laid to rest properly, if I can. And the High Priest at Eagle's Crest must know what has happened— if Jarren and Tia'ialla are still willing to accompany me." The tall man and the Roa'an rider both nodded, and Tia placed a hand on Marek's shoulder.

"You are very brave, Marek," she said. "I would be honored to travel with you."

"Strange," Marek said shakily. "I certainly do not feel very brave."

"Courage and bravery, my friend Marek," said Jarren as he placed a hand on each of the priest's shoulders, "is not a lack of fear. Rather, it is the will to do what you know must be done, regardless of the fear within." As Marek nodded his thanks with a smile, Jarren continued. "Now my friends, we must all get some rest. We leave at mid-morning tomorrow."

"That is odd," Tia said as the others were turning toward the prince's home. "A star... no... two stars, three rather, just disappeared. Look there," she said pointing through the canopy where they could see the constellation called the Sailor's Eye. They could all see the constellation clearly through a break in the canopy above. The constellation's pupil was there, but three of the six stars that made up the shape of the eye around it had clearly disappeared. There was no cloud cover. They all looked up, puzzlement upon their features looking at the stars, here, there, another disappeared as they watched. It seemed that quite a few of the constellations suddenly were missing at least one or two stars. "What do you suppose caused—" The loud, rapid blast of a horn suddenly sounded, and they looked around, unsure of its direction. Jarren drew his sword, his longbow left in Grea'oran's home, as he prepared to run down to the ground to defend against attack. Bowmen on the bridges and around the buildings above the ground peered downward with arrows nocked, ready to shoot at an unseen enemy. Soldiers down on the ground were already joining formations around the perimeter of the village. E'eldradin were running to and fro, preparing for an attack. Jarren was stopped by a strong hand on his arm. He turned to look into the silver eyes of Grea'oran who shook his head. He motioned to the ground below, where no enemy could be seen. Many of the elven soldiers below looked around and at each other in puzzlement as did the bowmen in the trees. A few soldiers traveled into the tree line with torches to appear a few moments later shaking their heads.

"I believe," the prince said, "what he have just heard, was the Horn of Gaulin, calling the Drayan to war.

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Drogan knocked over his chair in The White Swan, sloshing his ale all over himself and the counter, as he suddenly snapped to action at the sound of a loud horn's call to battle. Others had risen as well at the sound, puzzled and curious. They all began to look out of the windows, or move toward the door. Drogan's sword was wrapped with his pack, and he pulled it free as he stepped through the door and into the night air. The rain from earlier had stopped and the clouds had cleared away, and Drogan looked out toward the plains beyond. He was a soldier. He knew the call to battle well, yet there was nothing moving out on the plains, nothing but the people of Misting Hill walking out of their homes and looking about, wondering what the noise was or where it came from. The horn call seemed to have come from somewhere very close, although he was unsure of its direction.

"What do you suppose that was?" Rodrick asked, as he came to stand behind him.

"That was a call to battle," Drogan answered. "I see no one out on the plains however."

"Perhaps a child playing soldier?" Rodrick asked as he looked about for the mischievous culprit.

"Perhaps." Drogan said. He looked down at his sword. "Seems old habits are hard to break."

"Give it time," the big, bearded Halin said. The three of them stood out in the cool night air watching as others grew tired of looking about in wonderment, and returned into their homes or to the inn. "What do you make of that?" Halin asked. "Look there," he said pointing north to the Eye of the Sailor. "Stars missing." Drogan looked to the constellation, a grim look upon his face.

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Kendrick had just lay back down after drinking the warm broth Kieran had spoon fed him, when he heard what sounded like a horn blast. He knew it was not the sounds of the weather, it was something different. He rose to his feet, and Kieran sitting nearby protested.

"You should stay in bed, Kendrick!"

"I'm alright," he said as he stumbled to the door, and opened it to look out into the blizzard.

"It took this long to get you warm again and you're just going to stand there letting the cold in?"

"Did you hear that?" he asked the woman standing by him.

"Of course I heard it! Now come," she said and closed the door, leading Kendrick back toward the bed. "What do you suppose it was?" she asked in a softer tone.

"You ever hear of the Horn Of Gaulin?" he asked her as he lay back down.

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The great dragon raised its grey and white scaled head as the sound suddenly grew stronger, and he knew it to be the blast of a great horn. He knew it to be the Horn of Gaulin calling the Drayan to war. Across the valley he saw the black dragon raise to its full height, spreading its wings in anger and blowing a huge plume of fire into the sky, snaking its head back and forth and whipping its tail into the rocks and ground. It let out a sharp piercing cry and then made eye contact with the white.

"Soon we will face each other, you and I."

"Yes— but not today." The white dragon spread its wings wide, letting the air currents fill the leathery membranes before flapping them once, and then twice, to begin lifting its massive bulk off the ground and into the sky. He gave a sharp cry of his own and flew eastward. "The time has come to gather my brethren," he said as he rose into the clouds and out of sight as the big black roared its defiance toward him.

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Lord Belkarus heard the horn as well, as he sat upon his throne with his chin on his black gauntleted fist. He rose from his throne, walked across the room and out onto the balcony where he stood a moment, taking in the site of the army milling about far below. Looking to the sky above, he laughed in contempt at the heavens and then spoke."I know you come Drayan— to fight for your so called one true king. The prophecies say he will come, and that you will come as well. They do not, however, say you will win." He turned and re-entered his throne room to sit once again. "My people have infiltrated the temples and cities of those who follow your king. My master has helped me to lay down plans that will make your defeat inevitable. Come to war then Drayan— come to your final defeat."

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The next morning the sky was clear and the sun shined brightly, but a cold wind blew from the north. Drogan, with Halin beside him, stood outside surveying the old cottage with the forge built alongside. He could see some thatchings on the roof would need replaced and a window shutter or two would need repaired. Entering the cottage, there were some cobwebs in the corners and dust needing cleaned, but everything appeared as it had when last he had been there. The forge itself appeared in good order, and the great gated doors that swung outward to allow air in were well oiled and opened easily. All the tools, anvils, gloves and thick leather aprons were all kept as his father liked them, hanging on one wall, and there was plenty of wood stacked along another wall. He grabbed a wooden ladder and climbed to get a closer look at the roof thatchings when he heard the sound of hooves approaching. He turned to watch twenty mounted men, wearing the typical battle dress of Grey Home, fast approaching. "I wonder what this is about," he said as he climbed down the ladder to stand beside Halin. The soldiers rode up the hill, passed the two men, and continued to the small wooden temple on the far side of the village. "I want to see what's going on," Drogan said, and began walking toward the temple and riders, with Halin following him. As they neared the building, two men dismounted and walked into the temple, roughly pulling the priest out with them a moment later. More people began walking toward the temple as well, and Drogan, and Halin were joined by Rodrick with his daughter, Annyaa following close behind with a mug in one hand and a towel in the other.

"What's going on here, Drogan?" Rodrick asked.

"Your guess is as good as mine, Rodrick," he answered. As they came upon the mounted soldiers, Drogan was shocked to see Andorin riding with them. The tall, dark haired warrior looked down at Drogan and a moment of surprise shone in his eyes. "Andorin, what is going on here?"

"The Duke has ordered that all priests of Jandrous be arrested and imprisoned. We have orders to travel here and to another village north of Grey Home to do just that."

"This is outrageous, Andorin. Why would he do such a thing? It makes no sense!"

"I didn't realize you were a follower of Jandrous, Drogan." Andorin said with contempt.

Drogan was fighting to control his temper. This was wrong. As far as he knew, Duke Nordhelm himself was a devout follower of Jandrous. He had often heard him quote from The Teachings to his soldiers before they marched. "I'm not. But that doesn't matter at the moment— this however does."

"Drogan—" Andorin rolled his eyes back. "Do I really have to explain everything to you? And do you really think it's going to help? I have my orders, now stand aside!" He ordered the two men holding the priest to bind his arms and legs and to hoist him atop one of the horses. The people of the village were beginning to loudly protest, and the riders formed a line in front of them to hold them at bay.

"Now just a minute!" The priest yelled as he struggled. "I have done nothing wrong!"

"Now hear this!" Andorin called out so all could hear him. "All priests in the lands under Duke Nordhelm's rule have been labeled heretics and liars! All will be hunted down and arrested!" Those who harbor them shall be arrested as well— or worse!" he added. "If you know what is best, you will all stand aside and return to your homes!"

"Let Borian go!" Annyaa called out. "He has done nothing!" As the priest struggled to break free of the men holding him, she suddenly rushed forward to his aid as Rodrick yelled for her to stop. One of the soldiers backhanded her hard across the face and she fell back heavily. Drogan gritted his teeth angrily.

"There was no reason for that!" he yelled, and was rushing to her side to help her to her feet when another soldier rode quickly beside him, and hit him with the heavy pommel of his sword in the back of the head. Drogan fell to the ground as everything went black.

"Burn the temple to the ground!" He heard Andorin order before he lost consciousness.

©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010

Chapter 5: Long Winter Comes

Jarren, once again holding a torch high with Runner walking alongside, led Marek through the dark as night woods of The Forever Lands. He explained they would rest for the day upon reaching the elven village. Upon the next morning they would borrow a couple horses and observe the priest's temple from afar. If they assumed it were safe enough they may ride in and perhaps see to the dead. From there they would ride to Eagle's Crest to inform the High Priest what had occurred, and Marek of course, would see about moving into the temple there. Jarren pitied the priest who often broke into tears as they traveled through the woods— he had lost friends, brothers in his faith, to what seemed a senseless act of betrayal and murder. Jarren was a follower of Jandrous, as were the elves, and he knew they would be shocked and angered by what happened at Marek's temple. They had talked about the 'man thing' that attacked them out on the plains, and Marek assumed it must have been one of the priests that turned against his brothers, perhaps possessed by a drayan'os. He had never witnessed such a thing himself, but he had heard and read about it happening before.

When they entered the elven village, it was nearly as sudden as entering the clearing the night before, and it was quite a site to the priest. The tall trees were less dense here, and so the canopy above allowed some sunlight, which shone through the trees like beams of light scattered all about. Dwellings were built both on the ground and in the trees above with wooden stairways spiraling up and around their massive, tall trunks. From tree to tree, and dwelling to dwelling, were rope bridges, with wooden planks for walking, and torches carefully placed to light the way for easy travel at night. This was a busy village. All about, the elves moved to and fro, back and forth from one building to another, from dwelling to dwelling. Some were working in a section of ground cleared for farming, others worked inside buildings on the ground, a craftsman here, a blacksmith there— having a conversation with what Marek assumed was a short, stocky dwarf about how best to hammer and fold steel. Males and females shared in the work, there did not seem to be professions strictly for either. One female led a roa'an into a stable, as a male led a horse out. Even spaced on the bridges above, along the perimeter were soldiers dressed similar to Jarren in earthy browns, greens, and greys, some male and some female, with chain mail and leather armor. Some wore light rounded helms upon their heads with a nose guard. Children played and ran, laughing and dancing, and jumping and joking, as smiling parents watched on. Some of the children ran to hug and pet Runner, delighted to see him as they passed. They were very human-like in appearance, perhaps a little shorter on average, though a few were as tall as a tall man. With pale skin, and most with red hair worn long, some pulled back and bound with leather cord, they moved gracefully along the high bridges or down upon the ground. Marek watched them in wonder— he had never seen an elf in person although he had heard stories, but the stories offered little justice to the remarkable people he now walked amongst. They appeared to have a lean, yet athletic build to them. Not one appeared overweight, nor did they look underweight for their frames. They bore striking angular features upon their faces, with sharp thin brows and narrow noses. None of the men bore facial hair, and all the women were amazingly beautiful. They watched Jarren and Marek curiously, some nodding at Jarren in passing, or smiling at the priest. Marek saw the greenest of green eyes, and the brightest of blue, shiny silver, and smoky grey. Those who wore their hair pulled back revealed ears slightly pointed at the top, and they all seemed genuinely welcoming of the pair as they walked through their village. They were going to visit Grea'oran, a prince amongst his people, Jarren explained to Marek. There, they would tell the elven prince what had transpired, see about gaining a couple horses for travel, and preferably the aid of an elf to travel with them. If danger presented itself again, Jarren said, he would like to have someone with them that could fight. Marek, looking around at those elves armed and armored, thought to himself there would be little trouble finding one who could protect himself.

Reaching the trunk of one of the large, tall, Forever Lands trees, they began to ascend the spiral stairway leading up into the branches above. Marek raised the hem of his robes with one hand and tightly gripped the wooden rail as they climbed with the other, occasionally looking down and wishing he had not. Jarren had instructed Runner to stay below, and Marek saw him sitting patiently as elven children hugged his massive neck and pulled at his ears, a big grin on his muzzle and his tail wagging as he soaked in the attention. When they reached the building built into the branches of the tree, they were on a platform built around the wooden structure. Rope ladders led from this building to others in adjacent trees. Elven guards stood at all four corners of the building as well as on each bridge. They all nodded a greeting to Jarren, as well as to the priest, and at a word from the tall man, one entered the building through a pair of doors. He returned shortly and motioned them both to enter. They entered into a large room, with a long table and multiple chairs, Jarren explaining that this was where the village council met or held talks between this village and another. A tall elf, nearly as tall as Jarren, was sitting at the far end of the table and stood when they entered. Motioning to a pile of parchment on the table, he apologized for the clutter and smiled a greeting at Jarren.

"Traveler," he said. "I'm pleased to see you." The tall elf, dressed in the same earthly colors as the other elves, but in a long, form fitting, high collared coat that reached the heels of his boots, walked over to Jarren and embraced him and then turned his silver eyes to Marek with a smile. Upon the chest of his dark green coat was embroidered a silver sword with a red tip pointed down, the head of a roa'an above it, also in silver thread. Offering his hand in greeting, he introduced himself to the priest. "I am Grea'oran, First Prince of the E'eldradin, and I welcome you."

"I am Marek." The priest returned.

"Forgive me Grea'oran, I had intended this to be a social visit but I happened upon Marek on the way." Jarren said. "I am sorry to say a wicked deed has been dealt and I cannot stay. I will be helping Marek reach Eagle's Crest." The elven prince motioned them to sit, and he joined them, not sitting at the head of the table, but with them, at one corner. Jarren urged the priest to begin the story, and Marek recounted the horrible tale of betrayal and murder at his temple and his escape. The tall elf listened intently, concern evident on his angular face, a serious look about his eyes, as the middle aged human priest shared his tale. He placed a comforting hand on the priest's shoulder when, lips trembling, Marek was overcome with emotion. Jarren picked up the tale himself, where Marek left off, recounting the events that transpired when he first saw the priest stumbling and falling on the plains outside the forest. He spoke of the creature wearing the robes of a priest, and its attack and final disembodied words, its statement that all the priest's kind would soon die.

"After some time," the elf sighed and continued, "the betrayer will grow in strength, seeking to destroy all those most faithful to me and who teach my story. In those days, a long winter will cover the land, not for a season, but multiple seasons and autumn will become winter, and the winter months will be intensified. The spring months will come, and the summer months will follow, yet the winter will hold strong until the time I speak of comes to an end. A great hunt, by the betrayer's followers, will devastate the faithful. It will be a time of great fear and sorrow accompanied by terrible war," Grea'oran quoted the prophecies of Jandrous. He shook his head and stood, and walked to a window where he looked down at the village below. He held his hands clasped behind his back. "I have been thinking much in the past week, with these unseasonably cool days, that perhaps it was a sign the Long Winter was coming. Weather is a strange creature," he said. "It changes and morphs at a moments notice sometimes. One can look at the sky and the clouds, feel the humidity or its lack, and make a guess to its intentions— but no one can truly predict its next act. Therefore I had written it off as my imaginations getting the best of me." He was silent a moment, looking out at the trees, the movement of the wind through their leaves and branches. And then he turned to face Jarren and Marek again. "Your story, Marek, reignites my thoughts that perhaps this is indeed the case. If so— although I rejoice in the knowledge that Jandrous returns soon, I also fear greatly greatly what comes before his eventual victory." This was a possibility Marek was ashamed to admit to himself he had not thought of. Of course these last couple days, he had done little but prayed and mourned his slain brothers, all the while fearing for his own safety. Jarren told the elf prince his plans and his need for a couple horses, and requested assistance from another who could travel with them for added safety in the event danger presented itself again, and Grea'oran nodded his assent, telling him to take the best horses he could find and anyone of his choosing to accompany them. "I understand, Marek, you would like to be on your way," the tall elf continued. "But I can see you are fatigued, and could use a good meal and a good rest. I would strongly suggest you do that, before traveling again." Marek was reluctant at first, but knew the prince was right, and nodded his agreement and thanks. It was decided that they would rest the remainder of the day and get a good night's sleep, and then ride out mid-morning. Grea'oran mentioned it may be wise that Marek not wear the white robes of a priest on their journey and that he would see about finding some clothing that would fit him. He offered freedom of entry to his own dwelling, for both Marek and Jarren, where they would each have a guest room for the night, and dine with him and his wife. Marek nodded his thanks in silence, unable to find the correct words to communicate. The prince, understanding, again placed a hand on his shoulder with a reassuring smile.

Jarren walked through the elven village with Runner trotting alongside, without Marek, who decided to catch up on some much needed rest, and had gone to the room given him by Grea'oran for a nap. He hoped to find a friend, but was informed that she had been 'chosen' by a roa'an and had been on 'the chase,' the act of hunting and catching the roa'an that had chosen her, for the last four weeks. Jarren whistled through his teeth at this news. A month was quite a chase, meaning either the roa'an was a strong spirited and strong willed creature, or that Tia'ialla, or Tia as he often called her for short, had found danger in the process. He knew, however, that she knew the woods and dangers of them as well as any other elf, and that she could protect herself well if need be. She was like a younger sister to him, although elven, and he knew her ability to survive as they had traveled together many times. He could not help but feel a small measure of worry for her, however. He had just decided he would have to travel without her, and was walking toward an elven commander to see if he could offer the assistance of one his soldiers, when the sharp cry of a horn was blown in rapid succession from a guard high on a bridge above him. Many elves began to walk or run past him toward the southern border of the village, and a crowd of elves cheered loudly as a female E'eldradin rode in from the dark forest beyond upon a large and majestic male roa'an, an impressive rack of antlers atop its head. He recognized Tia'ialla immediately; even wearing the nose guarded round helm with her hair tied back, when normally she left her hair down and wore no helm. He felt a sense of pride for her and smiled when he saw her smile. When last they talked, she had mentioned her concern that perhaps she would not be 'chosen' by a roa'an. She hoped upon hope that one day she would be the rider of one of the magnificent creatures. And now her dreams were realized and his heart swelled in sharing the happiness so evident in the smile upon her lips. He walked toward the throng of elves to greet her, already eager to hear the tale of her 'chase.' Tia'ialla smiled and nodded to the elves surrounding her and the roa'an she rode, leaning down to take someone's hand, or to ruffle the hair of a young one as she laughed, the pride of her victorious chase evident in the sparkle of her bright green eyes. Dismounting, she saw Jarren walking toward her, and her smile grew even wider.

"Jarren, my friend!" She exclaimed. "Oh this is a wonderful day! I am pleased you are able to share it with me!" She embraced the tall man warmly and he grabbed both her arms and held her in front of him, bending the knees just a bit to look into her eyes. He laughed heartily as he then picked her up and held her high for all to see.

"Behold E'eldradin!" he shouted aloud with a laugh. "Tia'ialla, Roa'an Rider!" And the E'eldradin shouted in congratulations and laughter once more as he set her back to her feet. He put an arm about her shoulders, and with a brotherly squeeze, continued. "It's about time, Tia," he chuckled. "And here I was beginning to think you were doomed to ride a horse— or walk for the rest of your life." She struggled free, and gave him a playful shove.

"Well," she said. "You are doomed to ride a horse— or walk for the rest of your life." Her green eyes flashed mischievously.

"Haha! Well said my fiery friend, well said," Jarren replied with a chuckle, as Tia'ialla gathered the leather straps for reins in her hands, and began walking toward the stables. He walked with her, pleased to see his friend, but also so he could tell her the events of the past few days, and his request that she join him on the coming journey. Tia'ialla listened concernedly as he told her of Marek and the encounter with the 'priest' that attacked them, of Marek's story, and the conversation with Grea'oran and his belief that they could be entering into the time foretold as the Long Winter... "and I would like someone to travel with us to the temple and on to Eagle's Crest," Jarren concluded.

"When do you leave?" Tia asked.

"Sometime mid-morning, tomorrow," he replied, scratching his beard. "Although I would prefer sooner, Marek needs the rest. He was exhausted to the point he could go no further when I first found him. He is sleeping now, but I'll wake him in a short while to eat."

"Then we leave on the morn then, friend," the elven woman said. "But now, let me tell you of my chase!" And Jarren listened attentively as Tia'ialla, Roa'an Rider of the E'eldradin, told her tale.

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By mid-afternoon, the wind was blowing with such force, and seemingly from all directions, that Kendrick was forced to wrap the tail of his cloak about his face to ward off the icy chill. The cold wet weather of the day before was unseasonal, but this was far more so and he knew he would have no choice but to find some kind of shelter before nightfall. This was a dangerous cold. The prophecy of the Long Winter played through his mind as he rode, and he believed Donnagan may very well be correct in his assumptions. He must make haste, he told himself, to complete his journey to Seaport as quickly as possible. Glancing slightly to the right he could see dark, ominous clouds on the northern horizon. And with the cold wind he knew, first and foremost, he must find shelter for the night. He wanted to move quickly, yet he did not want to exhaust the horse, so he switched from a walk into a trot, and would lead the horse into a canter for a time before moving back into a walk again. As the dark wall of clouds appeared to be quickly moving closer he rode at a canter. "Jandrous," he said aloud. "Please help me find shelter again soon." His prayer seemed unanswered, for within an hour, the dark clouds had long covered the sky from horizon to horizon and a heavy snow began to fall. He lowered his head against the ice and snow stinging his face, and tried to keep it covered with his cloak. But still the biting snow and ice stung like thousands of tiny needles, and his teeth chattered as he shivered uncontrollably from the cold. To try and warm himself, he lowered himself out of the saddle, and began to walk, leading the horse behind him as he tried to rise his body temperature. And so he continued. He would walk for a time, and then remount and lead the horse through walking, trotting, and cantering, to dismount again and ride again. This was a miserable pattern in the biting cold, but it seemed a sensible plan of travel, in his mind, in the harsh weather. The grasses of the surrounding plains were beginning to collect a dusting of snow, as was the road and he hoped upon hope the snow would not fall so heavily as to obstruct it from view. There must be a village somewhere close by, he thought. He had seen no other travelers, no signs of civilization since leaving Danir, but he knew he could not stop until shelter was found. Out on the open plains, he knew he could easily freeze to death, and after nightfall the danger would greatly increase.

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High Priest Donnagan looked outside from his room on the top floor of the three story temple. A blizzard was blowing angrily and he could scarcely see anything outside other than the snow as it raced horizontally past his window. A tree stood just outside, and he watched the snow gather on its limbs and the leaves that had only recently begun to change color. He watched the snow as it bonded to green, yellow, and red turning leaves, and listened as the wind whistled and whined. He shook his head, amazed at the fury of the storm and worried for Kendrick. "Oh Jandrous," he said. "Keep that young man safe. I feel responsible for sending him out there in this, and I fear for his well being." He thought about the prophecy of the Long Winter, and wondered if perhaps it was just the imaginations of an old man. But this was such a storm he had never seen come so early. He turned from the window after closing the shutters and sat at a small table in the center of his room, opening The Teachings to read. He read for a short time before there was a knock on his door. "Please, enter!" he called as he closed the book looking expectantly at the door. A priest of about thirty summers, with brown hair and wearing a short beard, entered and closed the door behind him. Donnagan knew him as Janner. He stood, motioning for the other man to sit at the table across from him. "Please sit," he said.

"Oh... that is not necessary brother," he said. "This shouldn't take too long."

"Well then, Janner." Donnagan replied and continued, "What can I do for you today?" Janner turned and locked the door. When he turned again he held a long dagger in his hand and moved toward the older priest. "What is this?" Donnagan asked, suddenly frightened and taking a few steps back.

"All your kind, Donnagan, will soon die." The young priest lunged forward, as Donnagan retreated backward trying to put some distance between himself and Janner. He backed up against the wall near the window with nowhere to go, the younger man between him and the locked door. Janner lunged at him again stabbing at the older man's torso, but Donnagan was able to grab the man's wrist and move aside. He grabbed his other wrist as he shouted for help, looking for some way to escape, some way to break free and make a break for the door, but he knew a struggle with the younger, stronger man was futile. He was old—he didn't have much strength in him. He was already tiring as the other tried to force the knife into him. He did not believe he could break away and get through the locked door before he was stabbed from behind. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, breathing heavily and struggling to find some leverage. The other did not answer, his cold blue eyes locked on Donnagan's frightful blue eyes. He had said all he was going to say. With much effort, Donnagan was able to twist away and to the side and for just an instant the younger man slipped and lost his balance. Donnagan swung the man around by the arm with all the might left him, hoping to trip him up, to make him fall so he could make a run for the door. His shoes sliding on the floor, the younger priest lost his balance as Donnagan let go to attempt an escape. The other man fell backward and tried to right himself, but crashed into and through the shuttered windows. Donnagan gasped, and placed a shaking hand over his mouth, breathing heavily from the exertion as he slowly and shakily walked to the now open window. One shutter was gone while the other hung on a broken hinge. He took a deep breath, willing himself to look down to the ground below. Janner lay on his back motionless, his neck twisted at an odd angle. "Oh— oh Jandrous," he whispered, feeling sick and with tears welling up in his blue eyes. "Forgive me." He turned away from the window and leaned back against the wall, his hand still over his mouth as he tried to gain his composure. He had to find someone, let others know what had just happened. Slowly he walked to the door, and unlocked it, about to move into the hall when he heard a scream, and then another. There were more of them— they were killing his brothers. He relocked his door and fell against it, sliding down as his knees grew weak. "Oh no, oh no, oh no!" he wept. "I have to do something— what can I do? Lord Jandrous," he cried. "Help me please— help us!" Whether his own thoughts, or if it were the One True King speaking in his mind he was not sure, but three words played through his mind. Get... out... now! He slowly rose off the floor, wondering how to get out and where to go. He knew he couldn't go out the door. There were others out there in the halls and in the other rooms killing his brethren. The window stood open, and the tree seemed to beckon him forward. He had not climbed a tree since he was a young boy, and now an old man, the idea seemed ridiculous. He saw no other choice, however, and hurrying to the window, he stepped up onto the ledge and reached for the closest branch. With shaky hands he forced himself to step out and swing into the tree. The cold air blasted him and the snow and ice stung his face and hands. Slowly, branch by branch and very carefully, he eased himself down the tree to the ground below where he stopped and leaned against the tree for a moment. Janner lay at his feet, eyes open but unseeing, the dagger still gripped in his hand. After a thought, Donnagan knelt to take the dagger and then turned, weeping as he ran into the blizzard and out of sight of the temple, his white robes blending in with the white storm. He knew not where to run; only that he had to get away. He thought of making his way to the Duke's keep, but was afraid there was nowhere safe for him in Danir.

He knew the events that had just transpired were proof that the Great Hunting was beginning, and those priests that attacked him and killed his brothers were part of the turning away prophesied in The Teachings. He stumbled through Danir in the blasting cold of the storm simply to put as much distance between himself and the temple, knowing the traitors would discover their dead brother before long, and realize that he, the High Priest of the temple, had somehow managed to escape. He could not stay out in this weather, however, and knew he must find some kind of shelter, some place to hide before leaving Danir. And he already knew he was going to do just that. He must leave— he must try and catch up with Kendrick. He had to warn him somehow, that all priests of Jandrous were now in inevitable danger. How many brothers had he lost today? How many had he lost in other temples already? How many more would be slaughtered? So many thoughts raced through his mind as he stumbled along the streets, down back alleys between stone and wood buildings. He could go nowhere public, as any public place may be watched. After doing his best to stay out of sight, and sneaking from one alleyway to the next, he found himself standing before a stable on the far side of the city, just inside the walls near the gates. He looked around certain he was not being followed and stepped inside, out of the fast flying snow and ice, out of the blasting winds. He found an empty horse stall at the far back of the stable and sat down in the hay, tired and cold, and more frightened than he could ever remember being as he stared at the stable gates. He expected at any minute one of the betraying priests would enter and find him, to finish the job Janner failed to complete. He could not shake the images of his encounter with they younger man from his mind. They played over and over. The flash of a dagger suddenly in Janner's hand, the attack, the struggle that followed resulting in the betraying priest crashing through the window shutters and to the ground below— the blank unseeing eyes— Donnagan saw them over and over again. He never would have thought in all his years that he would be responsible for another man's death, but today it happened. "Oh Jandrous," he said as his eyes again filled with tears. "Oh Jandrous forgive me." He wept, great sobs escaping his throat, and even as he cried aloud he stuffed his face into his sleeve to stifle the noise. Outside, the winds of the storm wailed and cried like angry spirits, screaming their accusations at the miserable old man in the stable.

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Grey, white, and blue interlacing scales stirred as the massive dragon stretched its long, thick neck to look down from the mountain it perched upon to the valley below. He remembered a battle fought there long ago. He saw it in his mind's eye and heard it all anew. The humans, elves, and dwarves west of the Stormblade Mountains, all at war against each other, all under numerous banners even amongst their own kind. He heard the roars of defiance from all armies involved as they all faced off against each other. All were fighting for rightful rule of the lands. "They were fighting in greed," the dragon thought to himself. He remembered the man, and those who followed him, as he walked into the valley. They all knew who he was by this time. Many wanted him to be High King, but he declared many times that the time for his kingdom had not yet come. He came only to talk of his father the One God, and of peace. He spoke to all the people of loving one another, not warring in hatred and greed. He spoke of many things, the dragon remembered. Sometimes he would speak of justice, and honor, and the blessings of the One God, and... he asked how could anyone speak of justice and honor, or the blessings of the One God, if they themselves had no justice or honor within themselves? He told them to accept him as king although his rule was not yet to begin. And when he walked into the center of the valley that day, he called those who followed him to himself, and called the leaders of those others all to join him so they could perhaps leave in peace and not bloodshed. It was a prince from the east of the Stormblade Mountains, a follower and one who declared himself a personal friend of Jandrous who dealt the first blow of that dreadful day. In a sudden turn of betrayal he ran his sword through Jandrous, and as the peaceful man fell, the armies on all sides facing each other rushed into the valley to do battle. The dragon remembered his kind, those loyal to the One God, facing off against the black scaled dragons loyal to Xandrous— that wicked, fallen drayan'os now ruling in the underworld. The smell of sulfur and smoke filled the air as the dragons fought in the sky above and the people of the world fought below. Never before had a battle so great been fought, and never again after. A countless number from all sides fell that day— there was no true victor. Even the dragons were at a stalemate. At some point, most understood that the fighting was futile. And even those loyal to Jandrous did not realize until late that the very battle was foretold by the peaceful man. His death by betrayal was foretold as well. A truce was called by all involved with the exception of the betraying prince. He chose to continue fighting. He wanted conquest, and glory and power. In the end he was pushed back into his lands which had become cursed due to his betrayal. The name of the once great kingdom was no longer spoken. To this day it had become known only as the Shadowlands. The grey and white dragon loathed the Shadowlands and its dark beasts, and evil peoples. He lifted his great horned head skyward, while stretching out his massive wings to ease the tensed muscles. He thought he heard something from afar— what was that sound? He became as still as the rocks of the mountains, closing white lids over ice blue eyes. He stopped breathing, not a single hint of air escaping the nostrils at the end of his long ridged muzzle. It was very faint, even with the amazing hearing abilities of the dragons; he could not make out the distant sound. Lowering his massive body to lay down and resting his head on the long curving tail, he settled in to listen until it became more clear. He would not move, or breathe, or blink until then. And he knew the large black dragon that had been watching him from the other side of the valley would be doing the same.

©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010

Chapter 4: Crimson Blood On Black Stone

Chapter 4

High Priest Donnagan, of Danir Temple

To High Priest Greandor, of Seaport Temple,

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

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

Your old friend,

High Priest, Donnagan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marek indeed rested easy, the remainder of the night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My lord— I—" the priest stammered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010

Chapter 2: Travelers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010