0Prologue to Chapter
(The black waves curled upon themselves as the midnight…)
The black waters raged below as a crescent moon hung from a silent curtain of stars above. The waves, like the great thundering of hooves, rolled in and waged war upon the feet of the cliffs that separated the land from sea. The night was heavy and the darkness thick, yet, the moon’s faint light was still useful to the distant traveler who scaled the cliff’s ridge high above.
Clothed in a dark, worn robe and with a large leather sack on his side he climbed over underbrush and fallen trees, for there was no trail. He wore no cap and his gray hair whipped back and forth against his weathered face. His pace was steady, but not hurried, though he knew that he was being followed. He wore a white signaling horn at his side with a creature etched into it
Hand over rock, foot over root, the figure continued to climb the steep side of the mountainous terrain. When he reached the pinnacle of the summit he moved surprisingly close to the edge of the cliff. The ocean hundreds of feet below could not be heard over the screaming sound of the wind. The man looked down and breathed in for a moment, then he turned and gazed in the direction that he had just come. He stood silent as a statue with the faint moonlight glimmering in his eyes.
A dark figure emerged from around the face of a large boulder. The figure stopped, and a few moments passed before the silence was broken.
“Felsawn,” the dark figure spoke, his voice deep and harsh. “Your intent is already well known. Why run? Why hide?” He paused and stretched out his hands.
“Do you think you will not be found?” He too wore a horn at his side, but it was black. The man stretched his hand out and retrieved a dead tree branch. He held it in front of him, waved his hand over the staff which instantly burst into brilliant red flames. The man thrust the burning torch toward Felsawn which landed on the dirt halfway between the two figures.
Felsawn and the man were instantly illuminated and there was no hiding their presence now. All who had a view of the cliff could make out two figures in close proximity.
Felsawn’s eyes remained fixed on the man as he remained still. He said nothing.
“My brother,” the man continued as he began to slowly creep towards Felsawn, “there is…”
“You are no brother of mine, Womlon.”
Womlon squinted. “There is no power, no wizardry strong enough now that can waylay my efforts to obtain victory over your feeble attempts.” He chuckled, “You are a fool. You always have been, Felsawn.” He paused, then added, “We will find it!”
At that moment Felsawn began to slowly inch backwards keeping distance between him and the man, though closer to the cliff’s edge which was a few feet behind him.
“The power that you call great,” Felsawn spoke, his voice calm like the ocean’s waters had been the day before, “will abandon you in that very hour when you need it most.” Felsawn was at the edge of the cliff now, heals over the edge, he leaned slightly forward.
Womlon waved both hands from his side up through the air. The flame of the torch grew rapidly and burst high into the sky. It rushed upon the bush and grass beside it. Then the flames began to encircle Felsawn. Womlon stepped closer.
“Where will you go?” Womlon’s lips curled into a wry smile. “What hope is there?”
Felsawn never let his gaze off of his foe. His blue eyes were glowing. “Farewell,” he spoke. “We will meet again.” Then Felsawn pulled his horn to his lips, blew, then paused, only for a moment. He leaned backwards, his feet left the edge of the cliff side and his body fell out of sight.
Womlon sprang to the edge of the cliff and called out.
“Felsawn. This…” The wind took his breath away and he watched as Felsawn’s figure faded. Almost out of nowhere appeared a massive, white figure heading straight for Felsawn. It swerved, flapped its wings to slow in speed, paused, then turned in the direction opposite the cliff.
Womlon watched as the great white dragon, Sedrak, carried Felsawn away to safety, over the curling, black waves below. The white dragon became smaller and smaller and finally disappeared into the horizon.
Womlon, still laying on the ground over the cliff looked up at the sky for a moment, then looked at his own horn at his side. He pulled it to his lips then blew four slow times. He waited, then far in the distance, four horn calls returned.
The flame of the torch was still burning high. Womlon waved his hands from left to right, and with a deafening crack, the stick exploded and shrouded the surrounding area in flame. The wind quickly carried the fire down the side of the mountain.
Other torches could be seen across the mountain side and on the shores below. More horn calls were heard.
Womlon reached the shore and approached one of the men standing apart from the soldiers along the sand.
“My Lord,” a man spoke and bowed as Womlon approached him.
Womlon clasped his arm then turned his gaze to the burning cliff, squinting to catch a glimpse of where he had just been. He turned back to the man.
“Melgor, it’s time to take my father’s city. We will make it burn.” Womlon looked over the throng of men that were watching him.
“But we tried and…” Melgor winced as Womlon’s grip tightened. “S…s…sure, yes. Into the flames we will go.”
“Yes, yes. The flames will burn.” He muttered to himself.
Womlon released Melgor who followed as he grabbed the torch of a neighboring soldier.
“My men!” Womlon said raising the torch into the air. “Let us go, and we will have our burning.”
A resounding roar from the soldiers erupted.
“My men! My father’s kingdom will fall today. And mine, ours, will rise from his ashes.”
Womlon pulled the torch to his chest.
“This is your day!” He raised the torch and the soldiers cheered.
“This is our day!” He raised the torch into the air once more.
“This will be the end.” Womlon raised the flaming torch a third time into the air. “Ride on!” he roared as he led the mass of soldiers along the shore like a great flood of turbulent waters towering castle in the distance under the crescent moon.*