Treacherous Brethren

Chapter 1-2

Words, spoken long ago by a man I so admired played across my conscience as I sat on my hunches beside a towering oak in the depths of the Goram Hill Forest country. Below me, perhaps no more than two or three miles away, in a narrow valley between towering, forested hills, I gazed upon the encampment of a Dragon army. I felt myself frowning. My heart felt like lead. The valley the Dragon occupied was long but narrow and as straight as the path of an arrow. Virgin forests, thick and dark, filled most of the valley floor. Here and there were large patches of open spaces where local farmers had hacked out fields to plant their crops. Running through the middle of the valley, twisting and turning in a dark brown ribbon of constant use, a wide and deeply rutted road made its way from the north to the south. In the north it finally faded into the vast sprawling grasslands of the Northern Steppes. Its opposite point ended in front of the massive wooden gates of a walled city called Malagna. The first of two large Dragon enclaves possessed by a small Dragon clan called the Malawei.

A part of my mind wished to dismiss the sight below me as some kind of fever-induced dream. The First Clan so far north in the hill country? Here, and apparently ensconced in their fortified camps, unbeknown by any human or dragon opponent?

Impossible.

Yet there they were. A vast fortified camp setting behind a double set of wooden palisades made from felled trees. Within the walls the Dragon created a perfect city. Rows upon rows of tents formed perfectly aligned communities and wide streets allowed for easy access to any part of the camp. Just on the outer side of the wooden walls a deep and wide trench had been dug encircling the entire fortification. Sharpened stakes driven at angles into the back slopes of the trench provided an extra barrier for any foe who might attack the dragon encampment.

This was not a temporary resting place where an invading army momentarily paused to rest itself. This was the beginnings of a permanent establishment. The rough canvas tents would soon be replaced with stout log cabins. A third wall, stronger in its construction than the first two, would be thrown up upon the opposite side of the trench. With the addition of that third wall the Dragon would be rooted into the land itself. It would take an army four times the size of the enemy before me to dislodge them from this valley.

Yet, by Springtime more of the First Clan would arrive. Thousands more.

In this part of the Goram Hills neither the Malawei, nor the warriors from the two small human kingdoms nearby, would be strong enough to remove the Clan Hartooth from the valley. With winter setting in no force could be hammered together to do the bloody work needed before the spring thaws arrived. The Clan Hartooth had arrived in the North Country. The First Clan of Dragonkind. The clan who reveled at making war on all of humankind. The prophecy said they would unite all of Dragonkind and lead the combined clans into the Final Battle against humanity. They were here. In this valley. Threatening the very existence of humanity itself. And I, a Bretan warrior-monk, and one of the few surviving Bretan wizards left, sworn by my religious vows to confront Evil in all its forms, saw Evil resting in the valley below.

I knew my duty. I knew what must be done.

Evil had to be confronted.

Coming to my feet I turned away from the sight below me. My heart was heavy. Guilt and shame flooded through my veins. I would mount my powerful war bird, a magnificent black and red plumed Great Wing and ride away. I would shirk my duty and flee from this conflict.

A more powerful threat compelled me to act like a coward.