Chapter 12: Anger, Surprise, And Pain

Kendrick awoke in his small chair beside Kieran. He had dozed off and her labored breathing awakened him. The candle on the table had burned out and he stumbled over to light a new one before returning to the woman's side. Her face was flushed and hot to the touch. Taking a cloth from a small bowl of cool water on the table by her bed, he wiped her forehead. The medicine had not helped her, it seemed, and he shook his head in worry. There was a knock on the door, and Broan and Durinald entered. The broad shouldered river merchant explained they could not sleep and had both come to see how Kieran was doing. The look in Kendrick's blue eyes told them without words, she was only worse and they came to stand behind him. Suddenly, without any warning, Kieran began to gasp for air and frantically Kendrick leaned over her, his hands on her face.

"No, no, no, Kieran!" He exclaimed softly. "Don't do this!"

"What is wrong?" Durinald asked.

"She's dying," Broan answered, and choked on his words. "What can we do, Kendrick. Is there anything we can do to help?"

"I—I don't know," the young priest answered. "Pray. I think—I think that's all there is left to do at this point." And the big bearded man dropped to one knee to do just that. Durinald watched helplessly, as Kieran gasped for air. And then slowly, although not a believer in prayer or in the One God, the blond bearded Durinald sank down to one knee as well. "I've been through much, my lord," Kendrick said aloud. "Please—don't take this woman who has helped me so much and been a friend to me in my hardships." But Kieran's gasps became quick and short as she took her final breaths and became still. "No!" Kendrick yelled. "Please no!" In a panic he tried to pray but couldn't find the right words. Broan and Durinald continued to pray on their knees behind him. He remembered a verse he had read aloud earlier that night. "And he will grant me healing when asked in faith, so that I can show his love for his people..." He knew there were no other options, and he believed with all his heart that such a thing was possible. "And he will grant me healing when asked in faith, so that I can show his love for his people," he said aloud. "My lord the One God, I ask you not to take this wonderful woman from us yet," he said aloud and placed a hand on her head as he spoke it. "If it is within your will, please leave her with us in health." She felt cooler to the touch, but if her life had passed this would only be natural—and she had stopped breathing. He sat back down heavily and the others rose to their feet.

"Is she—" Durinald could not finish the question and Kendrick sighed heavily.

"I'm afraid so—" Kendrick began, but there was a sudden gasp for air from the woman on the bed and she opened her blue eyes. She looked in confusion, at the three men staring at her. Kendrick sat back with a hand over his mouth and tears in his eyes. Broan stood misty eyed as well, with a big grin on his bearded face. And Durinald—Durinald sank to his knees again, weeping, thanking the One God, and asking him to forgive his unbelief.

"Wha—what's going on here?" Kieran asked, puzzled. "Where are we?"

"We are in Ravenhold, Kieran!" Broan said loudly with a hearty laugh. "And you just died!" And Kieran looked at the three of them in wonderment as Kendrick grabbed her hand and buried his face, weeping and laughing in the joy of the moment. He knew a wonderful gift had been given them. And the verse he had quoted rang true.

"And he will grant me healing when asked in faith, so that I can show his love for his people," Kendrick again quoted The Teachings, and looked over his shoulder at the weeping Durinald. "Welcome brother," he said with a smile.

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Jarren walked through a long hallway in Rosenguarde's keep, past colorful tapestries hung upon stone walls, to a pair of open doors where a guard stood.

"State your business," the lightly armored, bored man spoke.

"The king and I were friends once," Jarren said. "And I bring news from Eagle's Crest and the surrounding areas."

"A man claiming to be your friend, Highness," the guard called out. "With news from afar."

"Come forward then, friend," the king spoke, and Jarren entered the room. As the tall man walked down the center of the throne room toward the king, the ruler slowly stood. There was recognition in King Erehk's emerald green eyes as The Traveler walked closer.

"Stop—" the king said. Slowly the king rose from his seat. His light brown hair, worn long, was kept in place by a simple silver band with gold markings—the crown of the kings of Erinor; the same modest crown worn by many before him. The crown was also embroidered upon his white surcoat, as well as two rampant dragons facing away from each other. Slowly, the king stepped down from his throne to stand before Jarren. He looked long at the man he had not seen in years. "Old friend—" the king said before embracing his long absent friend. "There is something of importance that brings you to Rosenguard." It was a statement of fact; not a question. When Jarren answered, his voice was not pleasant. It was a voice that spoke of ill tidings.

"I'm afraid so, King Erehk." The features on Jarren's face were grim.

"Please," the king said. "There were never any titles between us. It has been a long time, but why start with the formalities now?" He locked his green eyes on Jarren's brown. "It is simply Erehk as far as I'm concerned." Jarren hesitated a moment before answering.

"So be it then, Erehk," the tall man said. "It is, I fear, an important matter that brings me to Rosenguard." He told the story of meeting Marek out on the plains just outside the Forever Lands and the encounter with the drayan'os possessed priest. He told of the slaughtered priests of Jandrous and the burned down temple and of the people slaughtered in the snow as they fled Eagle's Crest. He told of his fight with the three Skraeg and finally of the siege upon Eagle's Crest.

"My One God—" King Erehk said slowly, shaking his head. "So truly the war to come has already begun. How many were this Skraeg force?"

"Many, Erehk," Jarren answered. "I'm certain Eagle's Crest had fallen by dawn." The clean shaven king studied the face of the bearded man before him as though judging the truth of his word. But he didn't study him long. Jarren had always been a man of his word and King Erehk doubted that had changed.

"Ravenhold may be next." The king thought a moment before continuing. "There's a good chance the Skraeg from Eagle's Crest will come here. And they've effective destroyed any chance of reinforcements from that city. If Skraeg can take Ravenhold, they will hold the lands between here and the elves of Griffinwood—and the lands of the dwarves of the Axeweaver Mountains."

"Do you believe the Skraeg have united their clans?" Jarren waited for an answer.

"It appears to be obvious, if they had a force large enough to take Eagle's Crest. There may be other players involved as well if they took the city somehow with little or no warning." Erehk walked up and down the throne room, stopping occasionally to admire the colorful tapestries upon the stone cold walls. Jarren watched in silence—some things never changed. King Erehk would do the same thing many years past when they were both young. When the king was deep in thought, or worry, he would do just as he did now. Walking, pacing, stopping, and walking, pacing, and stopping over and over again. Suddenly he stopped; his green eyes suddenly afire it seemed. "I must ask you," the king said. "Not as a king, but as an old friend. There are few men such as you Jarren." He walked away a moment before turning on his heels and standing before Jarren once again. "Very few. Dark times have come. Will you be of service to me once again?"

The Hunter thought long in silence. Was this something he wanted? Likely, it was not. But many roads he had traveled in his days that were not of his choice. This could be one such road, he thought. He knew he could not say no even if he wanted to.

"What is it you need of me?" Jarren asked.

"I must entrust something to you—" Erehk said. "Something of very high importance." He looked away from the tall man before him and shouted to the guard standing outside the throne. "Wil'm!" The king shouted. "Leave us. You may leave for the day. I will send for you, if you are again needed." The guard was soon gone, and the two stood in silence before each other. "Follow me," the king finally broke the silence and motioned Jarren to follow him. Erehk led Jarren to a tapestry hung behind the throne, and moving it aside, he pressed upon a stone in the wall. There was a click, and a door unseen before opened silently inward. After Jarren followed him into the hidden passage, the door closed and they stood a moment in total darkness until with a flash a torch appeared in the king's hand and the tall man was led down a spiraling stone stairway. They descended for many moments, the light from the torch casting elongated shadows of the two men upon stone walls, until arriving in a large cave-like room. Certainly, they were far beneath the keep.

"Where are we?" Jarren's voice echoed loudly off the cave walls.

"A secret that has been kept by the royal family since the time of Jandrous," the king answered and walked to a stone block in the center of the cave as Jarren followed. Upon the stone lay a long two handed, lion head pommeled sword, gleaming like silver in the torchlight. A pair of dragons made the cross guard, engraved and bearing vines and roses. The sword itself was beautiful, but curiously fresh blood stained the majority of the gleaming blade crimson.

"That blood is fresh," Jarren said. "What is this, Erehk?" Jarren was suspicious. When the king took the blade in his hand, Jarren took a step back, suddenly cautious of the man who was at one time his closest friend.

"Be at ease, old friend." Erehk allowed a small smile to play at his lips. "Watch." And the king took the hem of his white surcoat and wiped the blood free, only for the blood to appear again shortly upon its vine engraved blade.

"What dark magic is this, Erehk?" The Hunter's brown eyes were grim and he studied the king before him as he would an opponent in battle.

"It has been many years, Jarren," the king shook his head sadly. "But you can still trust me as a follower of Jandrous, and not a man of dark mischief." He offered the hilt of the weapon to Jarren. "Take it," he said. Slowly Jarren reached out and took the sword in his hand. "Wipe the blade clean." Doing as Erehk said, he took his cloak and ran it along the blade of the sword, wiping it free of blood. As before, the blood returned, and when Jarren looked down at his cloak it was clean—as was the king's surcoat he then noticed. His eyes grew wide, and he looked at the weapon in disbelief.

"This is not—" The Hunter could not finish the statement.

"It is indeed," the king answered. "The sword that slew Jandrous."

"Why are you showing me this?" Jarren looked questioningly from the king to the sword and back again.

"I had originally felt it would be safest here, with the coming of the Long Winter. But I've recently changed my mind. After what you've told me of the Skraeg at Eagle's Crest, I believe it would be best to move the sword away from Rosenguarde. For it to fall into enemy hands would be terrible beyond imagination."

"Erehk— I have never been one to underestimate an enemy, nor one to overestimate anything either," Jarren said. "But this is Rosenguarde! Never have her walls been breached."

"It must leave Rosenguarde if we are to ensure in any way that it reaches the hands of Jandrous," the king replied.

"And how will Jandrous find the sword then?" Jarren argued. "Do you have any idea, where he could be?"

"Jandrous will not even know who he himself is!" The king snapped angrily. They stared at each other in silence for a moment, and the king calmed himself with a sigh. "Even if Rosenguarde's walls never break," he asked quietly, "how could Jandrous come here to claim the weapon if the city is surrounded by enemies on all sides?" Jarren took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He eyed the blade in his hand, studying its beauty and its masterful craftsmanship. Those who forged and crafted this sword must have been the the greatest sword smiths and artisans in all of history. Even the feel of the blade itself—it felt like an extension of his arm.

"What am I to do with it?" Jarren asked at last.

"I'm not entirely sure," Erehk answered almost sheepishly. "I know you cannot go traveling all the lands in search of any and all men who have lost their memories in hopes that one of them would be the One True King—but now that you're here, I cannot think of anyone I'd rather entrust the keeping of the sword too. I can only ask you to take it, leave Rosenguarde, and stay alive. Keep the sword safe at all costs. Keep your eyes and ears open for any rumors of anyone who could possibly be Jandrous. If you think you can find him by searching directly for him than do that as well—you earned the name, The Hunter. There are few men like you, Jarren. Very few. Please do this." Just as when they were younger, King Erehk rarely ordered Jarren to do anything. It was always more of a request. And it was one of the things about Erehk, that made Jarren respect him. This was not Erehk the King standing before him and commanding him to do a duty—this was Erehk, his old friend, asking a favor of him. He knew he could not refuse.

"I will do it, Erehk," Jarren answered.

"Very well. Thank you, Jarren," Erehk smiled. "Come," he continued. "Let us eat and talk. We have twenty years or so to catch up on, and I am hungry." The king began leading the way back up the stairway. "Besides—I'd like to know where you ran off to the night before you were to become commander of my personal guard—" Jarren lay the sword down carefully upon the stone and began to follow.

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"Excuse me!" Marek called out, trying to catch the attention of an old priest walking up the steps to the temple. Accompanied by Tia, he dodged between people walking about the streets of Rosenguarde. "Excuse me!" he yelled more loudly, and the old white haired priest, short and somewhat portly, slowly turned to see who called. "Brother! A word please!" Marek continued as he and Tia made their way up the stone steps. The old priest stood just outside the doors of the temple, scratching his thick white beard as the two drew near.

"Ah—a Forever Lands elf!" The old priest said apparently quite pleased. "And a man—dressed as a Forever Lands elf. I've heard of a man who lives amongst the E'eldradin—but if you are the one called Jarren the Hunter, I must say you are not what I expected." He looked at Marek quizzically.

"N—no, brother," Marek said. "My name is Mar—"

"Well it's obvious you had something important to say, man. Get on with it! I'm a busy man!"

"Well—yes," Marek began. "I have terrible news I must bring to the High Priest. And I thought perhaps you could take me to him. You see, my name is—"

"Mar— yes I understand. You've already introduced yourself. I am—"

"No, brother. My name is Marek."

"Ah—very well then. Marek it is."

"And you see, I come from the temp—"

"Are you a priest?" The older man asked.

"Yes. I am Marek from the temple near—"

"Well you certainly don't look like a priest! You are dressed as an elf and carry a sword!"

"I know, brother. But if you would let me expl—"

"You wish to see the High Priest." The old man said.

"Yes! Now please! Could you possibly take me to him?" Marek shouted the question, becoming quite irritated.

"Well—?"

"Well, what?"

"Well get on with it!" the older priest exclaimed.

"I must speak to the High Priest, please." Marek sighed.

"I am he—High Priest Greandor. How may I help you." Tia had begun to chuckle, but stifled her laughter at a stern look from Marek.

"I am Marek, from the outlying temple near Eagle's Crest," Marek began. "I have terrible news." After being certain the old priest would not interrupt him again he continued. "I'm afraid to say, brother, I am the last one."

"What do you mean?" The priest became serious, looking intently into Marek's eyes. Marek told him all of what had happened at the temple as the high priest listened, and was not interrupted again. When Marek's tale was told, the old priest sat slowly down upon the stone stairs and shook his head sadly.

"I'm afraid that's not the only case," Greandor said. "I've received news of other attacks on temples and priests. Do you know anything of the temple within the city of Eagle's Crest?"

"I'm afraid they would be another casualty," Tia spoke. "Eagle's Crest was under siege by Skraeg when we passed near."

"What?" Greandor exclaimed. "I must go. King Erehk must hear of this!" He began to stand but was stopped short by Tia.

"He likely already knows," she said. "Jarren, our companion, was to talk with him this morning."

"The same Jarren I mentioned a few moments ago?"

"The same." Tia answered.

"Ironic." Greandor rose to his feet, and after shaking his head sadly, turned to Marek. "I'm under the impression—you brother, will need lodging at the temple here. We'll see to it later. But first—I plan to leave for Ravenhold today. You can travel with me, there and back, so we can get to know each other."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Tia asked concern on her features. "There are the attacks on priests, and the weather has been—interesting to say the least."

"We will be fine," Greandor said positively. "One great addition to being High Priest in Rosenguarde is that I have my own personal guard of twenty well trained soldiers. They will be coming with—what is that?" He finished his statement with a puzzled, questioning look down the road. People were screaming and hurrying out of the way of something running in the distance. Man-like it was; but it appeared to be running on all fours, leaping and bounding toward them.

"It's a drayon'os possessed!" Marek exclaimed loudly. "Like the one that attacked me outside the Forev—" He was unable to finish as the creature, already upon them leaped up the stone steps heading straight toward the high priest who stumbled backward. "No!" Marek screamed in rage. He had made the decision that he now was a soldier of Jandrous, not simply a priest, and while many others may have run in fear, he quickly raised his sword and stood before the drayan'os as it leaped toward Greandor. Trying to move away from Marek's sword, the creature jumped sideways but Marek leaped in front of it again. Anger in its already distorted and elongated face, it hissed, bared its teeth, and charged. Marek stood his ground, and the creature was impaled upon his sword. This one was different than the one that attacked him before. This one had long hair as black as night with pointed ears and milky white skin, but the eyes were the same—completely black, even the whites. The creature tried to claw at Marek, but was unable to reach him. "It will not die!" Marek screamed as he struggled to hold it at bay. There was a flash of steel as Tia's blade swept off its head. The headless torso struggled a few more moments, still trying to claw at Marek's face and body, just out of reach until finally the struggling ceased and the indwelt creature went limp.

"Are you ok?" Tia turned to the High Priest—then the sound of a bowstring reached her keen elven ears. Without thinking she twisted, grabbing hold of the portly old man and spinning him out of the way. The black shaft of an arrow passed through her flying red hair to embed itself in the doors to the temple behind them. She turned her attention in the direction the arrow came. There—down the street, a figure in a plain hooded brown cloak, bow in hand, spun in an instant and ran. "Get him inside, Marek!" She yelled and took off at a sprint. A couple soldiers in chain mail armor had witnessed the events and had already begun running toward the fleeing figure, but Tia was faster, over taking them easily and passing far beyond them as she ran after the assassin. Running down the street the assassin soon ran into a market district and was forced to slow while running between and literally through people, knocking them aside or down in his wake. The quick agile Tia nearly overtook him but was knocked aside and rolled heavily to the ground as she collided with a man who stopped in front of her to watch the one fleeing. Regaining her feet, she continued her chase, her feet barely seeming to touch the ground as she ran. Ahead, another dressed in a plain hooded cloak as well, waited at the gates with two horses. "Stop them!" she shouted at guards that stood atop the wall above the gates, but was too late. The assassin leaped into the saddle and the two rode quickly out the gates. "A bow! Give me a bow!" she called as she bounded up the stairs leading to the battlements above. She snatched a bow and an arrow quickly from a startled guard atop the wall, and setting the arrow to string, steadied herself, pulled—waited for the wind to cease just for an instant—felt her heart beat. In between beats she let the arrow fly toward her mark. It soared, striking the figure in the back just as the wind blew again, and the fleeing assassin fell out of the saddle into the snow. The assassin's companion rode on at a full gallop. Leaping down the stairs she hurried to the gates where she was met by one of the soldiers she had passed a moment ago. He had acquired a horse and gave her a hand to rise up behind him. When they reached the fallen assassin she lowered herself down, and kneeling, turned the body over. Black hair fell over pointed ears and milky white skin.

"An elf." The soldier said as he lowered himself to the ground to stand beside her.

"E'eldnarak," she spat. "Blackwood elf—the high priest is fortunate. They do not miss often."

"There were three," the soldier said.

"No—" she replied as she raised herself. "That other was not an elf—not anymore. He was drayan'os possessed."

"I want to thank you for your assistance. I saw what happened," The soldier said. "I am Dran, commander of the High Priest's personal guard. Come. Let us go back to the temple. I would like to know more about this possessed elf." Turning, they walked back toward the gates of Rosenguarde.

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Hooves pounded on the forested path as the four riders gave chase. They were riding at a full gallop, their quarry close at hand. Low in the saddle and giving their horses rein, they thundered through the Griffinwood, cloaks flying behind them like pennants.

"There they are!" Faldrek yelled as they rode along a bend. Ahead, Andorin rode hard, bent low in his saddle over the bouncing form of Annyaa, slung bodily over the horse's back. Drogan urged his horse faster, riding ahead of the others. Only the swift grey horse of Prince Arden was able to keep pace as the others began to fall back.

"Curse it all, where are you?" Andorin screamed as the three riders behind him, especially Drogan and the elf, began to gain on him. Arden heard the call, and yelled at the others to halt. But it was too late. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh—the arrows flew out of the trees. The riders had just enough time to check their mounts, sliding to a halt just before the arrows flew and throwing their shooters off target. Halin, however, took an arrow in the shoulder, its point finding a way through his chain mail. He cried out in pain as black and grey clad shapes burst out of the trees.

"Blackwood elves!" Arden yelled, as they were attacked by half a dozen pale skinned elves who sought to pull them from their saddles. Within seconds they found themselves unsaddled and desperately fending off the blades of their attackers. Andorin sat atop his horse, a smile upon his lips as he watched what would be the inevitable death of those who pursued him.

"I've wanted to watch you die for a long time, Drogan!" The dark haired warrior yelled. "It seems I will win a prize for this woman after all! She will make a great slave under Lord Belkarus' rule! I do not believe I must tell you what will likely become of her!" Drogan was too busy to reply, fending blow after repeated blow by the elves. The others fought just as desperately—Arden's sword rang upon Blackwood elven blades, as did Faldrek's. Drogan's old friend shouted verses and quotes from The Teachings as his steel met steel. Halin, with an arrow in his shoulder fought valiantly as three elves sought to surround him. He slowly backed up, moving with them, trying to keep them before him as he fought with his one good arm. It would not be long now, Drogan thought. Soon one of them would fall and then he and the others would soon follow. A rage built up inside him. They were so close, and now this. The elves had been waiting for Andorin here. He was angry, as he left one of his attackers dead at his feet. He was enraged at the smug look on Andorin's face, as another fell to his sword. Suddenly another attacker was on him. Halin had fallen, but the big man had taken a couple of the elves down with him. Drogan, even in the heat of battle, felt a sadness as his father's long time friend who had become his own friend lay on the cold wet ground. He breathed heavily and was growing tired, as were Faldrek and the elven prince Arden. They were practically encircled and could not run. Suddenly—a screech, high pitched and above them rang out, and a massive winged creature crashed through the canopy of trees in a shower of leaves and branches. Like a huge lion it was, with the wings and head of a bird of prey—a griffin with rider. Drogan recognized the rider at once. It was Hardis, whom they had met the night before in E'eldaduranus. His blond hair flew behind him, and his spear struck like a snake at the Blackwood elves; the griffin he rode upon attacked with its sharp powerful beak and claws. Suddenly the tide of the battle had turned, and Drogan, Faldrek, and Arden quickly finished off the elves that Hardis and his griffin had not. And then there was silence. In the chaos of the melee, Andorin had again disappeared.

"Halin!" Drogan cried out and stumbled to the big bearded hunter. Faldrek was there before him, kneeling down beside Halin and speaking to him softly. At a questioning look, the long time second in command of his squad shook his head.

"He yet lives, Drogan," was all he said before backing away to give Drogan room.

"Halin— oh Halin—" he said as he knelt beside the wounded man, seeing the severity of his injuries. The elven sword that brought him down still protruded from his side.

"I am slain, Drogan— forgive me." Halin's face was ashen and pale beneath the dark beard, with blood on his lips. He spoke softly—a barely audible whisper.

"No Halin," Drogan said. "You fought well, you have helped so much—and become a great friend."

"I am sorry—" Halin coughed, and Drogan gently wiped his face clean. "I am sorry I couldn't help you bring back Annyaa, Drogan. Get her back for old Rodrick, Drogan. He is a good old man, a close friend of your father. And—get her back for yourself, Drogan. I have seen how you look at her."

"I will Halin. I will get her back."

"Listen—" the dying man whispered. "You're father—he was hard on you, I know. Perhaps too hard at times. But deep down, he was a good man, and he loved you very much. He would never admit it to himself—but he was proud of you. He hoped to bridge the gap between the two of you someday. He was a soldier once too, you know. Saved the life of Jarren the Hunter once, he did. Remember him for his goodness, which he rarely showed you, but was there none the less. And take this—" Painfully he reached down to a leather pouch at his belt and fumbled with a buckle. Drogan helped him open it and withdrew an old copy of The Teachings. Halin raised the book and pressed it hard against Drogan's chest. "Read it, Drogan!" He had to force the words to come. "Read it—and give it a chance! Go after Annyaa, and take her home, something I know you cannot truly promise—stay alive in these days to come, they will become far worse soon. You cannot—promise that either. But promise me—you will—read that book!" He coughed fitfully, and Drogan took his hand in his and held it tight.

"I promise, Halin." He said and then—"Please, Faldrek— pray with him in his last moments, as you believe the same!" he choked on his words. Faldrek, as he came forward, had a tear in his eye. Kneeling once more beside Halin, he placed a hand on the man's head and took his free hand. He prayed as Halin took his last breaths and died. There was silence for a moment as they all rose and stood beside the body. Drogan and Faldrek had both seen death many times. It was never easy, but they had grown accustomed to it, and expected it in battle. But this was different. For Drogan, it was link to his past and to his father. To Faldrek, it was a moment in which he could share his faith with a dying brother. Only Hardis the griffin rider moved, as he checked the Blackwood elves for signs of life.

"One yet lives," the rider said. And in a fury, Drogan spun and knelt before the Blackwood elf laying and dying.

"Where is he taking her?" Drogan asked with growl. "Where is he taking her?" He screamed it this time in the elf's face.

"No place—I—would ever tell you, human," the elf said quietly.

"Where is he taking her! Where is he taking her! Where is he taking her!" Drogan was shaking him violently and flinched when he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. It was Arden, the elven prince.

"Let him go. He is gone," was all he said. Drogan slowly rose to his feet, stumbled a few yards away from the others and shouted into the trees. His frustration, raging anger, and sadness all coming to the front of his emotions all at once.

"Andorin!" He screamed. "I'm coming for you! Know that! Expect it! I am coming for you!"

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The Mistwood was in flames. Dragons as black as night skirted the tops of the trees, breathing fire onto the elven villages below. They blackened out the sky like a writhing, massive black cloud of moving death, as the elves below fought in vain. By the hundreds they burned and died, or were ripped to pieces by the dragons that crashed through the canopy to attack them on land. It was a sudden attack, they had no chance to ready any defense and were being slaughtered.

An enormous gathering of whites were flying across the Barren Wastes to the west. Gathered by their king, they were flying to the Valley Of Dragons where they would eventually take part, they knew, in a battle the likes had never been seen before. The smell of smoke and death filled their nostrils as they flew high above the sands and canyons and seemingly desolate barren land. They heard the roar of dragons to the east and to investigate further, the lead dragon, the very king of them all, turned toward the sounds and smell. There—in the distance. Blacks were attacking the Mistwood in force.

"Must we interact with the people of the lands so soon?" A few of them sent their thoughts.

"Yes." Their king replied. "Yes— the time of prophecies is among us. And we loyal to the One God cannot simply watch from afar the lives of the people of the world any longer. We must aid them." He led them high into the clouds where they broke apart into formations of three or four, and silently they soared above the blacks wreaking destruction below. And then, when they were right on top of them, the king tipped his wing and went into a dive. The three dragons behind him did the same, and then one by one, formation after formation followed his lead, and tucking their great wings to their bodies, they fell like giant white arrows upon the blacks below them. The roars and shrieks of anger, surprise, and pain filled the sky and the lands below. Charging into the blacks, they scraped their claws along scales and bit into the necks and bodies of their foe. Dragonfire lit the shadows of the forests below, and the Mistwood elves—the E'eldhiavan were finally able to mount a defense of their own. As the white dragons tore into the blacks the elves brought forth bows and lances, and spears and swords, and attacked what dragons they could. The great creatures smashed through the trees when wounded or killed, felling trees and destroying buildings as they hit the ground rolling in showers of dirt, branches, leaves and other debris. Finally the black dragons, not ready for the whites, gave up the fight and retreated toward the Stormblade Mountains.

And so the first battle in the coming war between the dragons of different loyalties came to pass.

©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010

Chapter 11: Dreams And Darkness In Foul Weather

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Awright, Mommy."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mommy!" Kieran cried aloud in her sleep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course," the priest replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you," Drogan said.

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

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

©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010

Chapter 10: A Bleeding Blade

Chapter 10 of the story continues below

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

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

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

Thank you,

Anthony David Rosenthal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He was," the elf answered.

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

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

"Prince Ardena'athurin?" Faldrek asked.

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

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

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

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

"It appears that way," Drogan agreed.

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

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

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

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

"Lead the way," Drogan replied.

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

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

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

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

"What happened?" he asked.

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

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

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

"I remember that it hurt—a lot."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Open it," he ordered the priest.

"My lord?"

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

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

©Anthony David Rosenthal/To The Valley Of Dragons 2010