djellibeybi
Member
- Joined
- Feb 27, 2008
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Hello everyone, I'm new here, stumbled upon this site when I was researching tips on how to write epic fantasy. I'm trying to write my very first epic fantasy novel and hopefully get it published. This story was originally written as a fanfic for a war game, but I've re-written, edited it to fit into my own world of Everlorn. It's full of cliches like dragons, elves, dwarves and magic (I wrote this several years ago before I discovered George RR Martin) so those of you who do not like such stuff feel free to ignore this 
.
Any critique is welcome, coz I need to polish this till it shines, if I ever want to get it published! The following are the initial four chapters.
Chapter 1
I stood in a place
Where the darkness converged
And light was swallowed
I stood in a place
Where night ruled.
Dragonar Song of the Night
The figure stood, gazing out of the tower’s only window, the astrological device gripped in his powerful hands. Icy winds tore around the tower’s parapet. The landscape was harsh and wintry, as it always was in the Northern Wastes. Craggy, impenetrable mountains reared their ancient peaks, surrounding the fortress of rough hewn, ancient stone. The man was clad in a dark blue velvet robe that almost blended with the deep night sky. The room, spartan in decoration and comfort, was littered with arcane tomes and paraphernalia. Scrolls and star charts were spread across the broad oak table in the middle of the chamber.
The man rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tension away from his knotted muscles. Muttering to himself, the mage put the astrolabe down for a moment, and uttered a word of power.
Immediately the air around him shimmered, like a desert mirage. Fine boned fingers stretched into wicked talons capable of ripping through armor. Magnificent, leathery wings unfurled behind the man’s back, slipping out of cleverly hidden slits in his tunic, powerful sinews creaking with disuse. The handsome bearded human face was momentarily distorted, as another facade warred to replace it. One that was distinctively dragon-like, noble, yet fearsome in every aspect. Though ancient, the sorcerer was still lean and fit, his body covered with a fine layer of supple emerald scales. A long, thickly muscled tail coiled around the being’s clawed feet, under the robes.
“Much better,” Decarex stretched, luxuriating in the power and strength his own true-form allowed him. It was a form at once feared and respected throughout the Land. For he was of the Dragonar, a race of beings the other peoples of the Land termed dragonmen.
According to legend and lore it was purported that the dragonar were descendants of the ancient Dragons who ruled the world eons ago. They were the continents foremost warriors and mercernaries, the most powerful mages and learned mystics. Warlords and kings sought them for their armies and paid ridiculous sums for their aid in battles, whether arcane or martial. Where the dragonar strode, battle-tides turned. Only the elven civilization pre-dated theirs, but even the elves knew little about these dragonkin.
That they were feared for their might and knowledge was a given. The petty kingdoms and city-states lived in terror that the dragonmen would some day sweep down from their lofty halls in the Northern Wastes and create an Empire of their own. They were certainly capable of it.
Decarex chuckled as hes scanned the latest missives from the Ravenite Empire, from the pompous upstart Emperor Maxian of Ravennah. It was written in the Emperor’s own spidery handwriting, which meant it had bypassed the Senate vote. Maxian has usurped the Ravenite throne only a few years ago, bringing his House into power and effectively ending the previous dynasty from House Banocles. In fact, mused Decarex, Maxian had the whole of House Banocles mudered. This man bears watching. The situation in the Empire must still be shaky indeed, for the Emperor to go behind his advisors in such military dealings.
My dearest Lord Archmage Decarex,
I hope to find you in good health.
As we have agreed, the payment of 50,000 Ravens is enroute, for the services of your dragonmen. They will rendezvous with my forces at Barrenfort, where they will proceed to lead the assault on the rebel stronghold and level it to the ground.
Another 50,000 will be paid to your war-chest once the deed is done.
Maxian XII
Business as usual…mused the Archmage of Veleran, God of Magic. I’m sure Zaxamor has already dispatched the companies. As the Archmage of Veleran, Decarex held power over the magic-using cadres of the dragonmen, thaumurturgic corps who could throw bolts of destructive mageforce, cast great battle-spells and control the very elements of nature. Together with Lord Marshal Zaxamor, who controlled the martial portion of the Dragonar Host, they were the titular rulers of the dragonar race. With the other Grandmasters of the Dragon Cults of Mithran, Aran, and Donaran they formed the Dragonar High Council. The council convened once a decade to deliberate matters that concerned their entire race, to adjudicate clan conflicts and resolve matters of security. The last one had been particularly nasty, resulting in the exile of an entire clan into the Blighted East, the broken lands east of Moradin’s Chain.
The Seven Thunders Clan, led by Entarex, one of my best Adepts. Decarex sighed. Internecine clan warfare, though bloody, is necessary. Only the most able will remain. Because we must strive to be the epitome of martial perfection, separate the weak from the strong. Because we must be ready…for the Enemy…Decarex brooded, his thoughts wandering.
A movement in the night skies caught his keen eyes. The sorcerer raised the astrological instrument to his eyes again, checking the location where he had caught the movement.
The sight that greeted him almost drove the breath from his chest.
Up in the galaxies, where the stars wheeled in their eternal orbits, something had gone deadly wrong.
An entire constellation had... shifted.
Decarex’s hands shook as he tore his eyes away from his astrolabe. It cannot be! The dragonar breathed. He felt bitter bile rise to his throat, as panic sought a grip on the powerful Archmage. The constellations have aligned! Yet it was not possible, that an event prophesied to take place in a thousand years, would force a convergence at this moment! The dragonar wizard sought his astrolabe again, to reassure himself he had not been hallucinating.
He was not. Feverishly, he discarded the instrument and ripped an ancient tome from the shelf closest to him. Flipping through the pages, his taloned finger traced the archaic script.
The Warrior and the Dragon
Shall battle across the skies
And in their bloody wake
A Black Moon shall arise
The Black Moon! Decarex almost screamed in despair. It meant the time had come! The prophecy was being fulfilled ahead of its time! With the moon’s rise, a portal between worlds, a rent in the fabric of reality, would open on this world! And our nightmares will begin anew. The wizard’s talons scrabbled across his table, seeking more ancient scrolls, tomes and parchments. He had to be sure. This concerned the survival of his entire race. This entire land!
We are not prepared! His mind reeled.
His search brought him to another ancient tome. The Remembrance. It recorded all that his race had gone through, their trials and tribulations, from five thousand years ago, when they had fled their homeworld. With trembling hands the dragonar sorcerer opened the leather bound volume. One word leapt out at him almost immediately, causing the Archmage to catch his breath.
The Seraphanim!
Chapter 2
~From the collections, journals and observations of Marennicus~
For as long as the Empire has kept records, there have been Dragonar. But still we know little of these magnificent dragonkin. Are they native to our world? If so, how are they evolved, what species did they evolve from? Dragons? These questions have plagued Imperial scholars for centuries, and yet we are no closer to an answer. No dragonman has ever volunteered useful information on anything regarding their culture, society or their unique physical metamorphosis. I fear I will go to my grave without ever knowing.
~Marennicus, former Imperial Historian
Kal stirred and thrashed in his sleep. His taloned hands clenched and unclenched, and his massive jaws ground unceasingly. Run! Run child! Escape! The young dragonar thrashed wildly in the fur-strewn bedding. Muffled groans escaped his clenched jaws. His breath was quick and shallow.
Firestorms raged across the blood red skies. Bolts of pure energy struck the land without warning, rending chunks of blackened earth. The People were fleeing in their thousands. Some ran, some flew, some crawled. The land was littered with thousands of dead and dying, their charred bodies unidentifiable from the shattered landscape. He could see them, clear as day, females, and younglings. Slaughtered like animals. On a broken hillside, a shattered army made a desperate last stand, weapons raised, roaring in defiance while the refugees fled. A powerful aura of magic pervaded the hilltop. An ancient dragonkin chanted and gestured, drawing upon immense arcane energies. Eldritch sigils flared in the air, connecting, converging, and taking on a ghostly outline in the empty air. Behind him, the Black Moon rose majestically, a darker stain on a dark sky. His chanting was approaching a fever pitch…
Kal’s body tensed, massive muscles rigid with strain. His mind’s eye focused. The defiant roaring challenges of the males had ceased. A talon pointed upwards, towards the fiery skies. They were terrifying yet almost too beautiful to behold, filled with lethal grace, snow-white wings gliding on thermals. Thousands of them, swooping down from the heavens. Death on wings. Blasts of incandescent energy hit the remnants of the once proud Dragonhost, tearing apart brave warriors. Flame and lightning raged among the dragonkin, searing and killing. The army was shattered beyond aid, and mind-numbing fear consumed them. Only one warrior stood firm, a magnificent specimen. Rallying the dragonkin with a tattered banner of Mithran Battlelord, the warrior commanded a counter-attack. Jagged arrows and serrated spears leapt into the air, while blasts of blue-tinted energy were hurled into the skies towards their soaring foe. But it was futile, too few, too late.
Kal felt his hackles rise as he found the face of the champion. That is my face! His mind reeled from the shock. The nightmare pulled him back in, like a helpless babe. It was a war of annihilation, a genocide. His entire race was being eradicated, like so much vermin. He saw a figure of unearthly beauty, its features radiant with light. With its magnificent, feathered wings unfurled, it landed amidst the shattered Dragonhost. It held, in one hand, a javelin of pure energy. The figure cast its weapon at him. The weapon disappeared into the dragon warrior’s massive chest. Kal screamed in agony. The pain was ripping him apart. The magical energies building up had reached their climax. With an earth-shattering boom, the air was ripped asunder. A gap, darker than the night around them, had opened up in thin air. The ancient wizard bellowed hoarsely, urging the refugees onwards. They streamed through the unnatural rent in the air, pulling their younglings, carrying the wounded.
The Dragonhost was almost annihilated. Kal, with his dying breath, launched a final attack on his tormentor, dragging it down to the ground. With his massively muscled arms, the dragon warrior encircled his opponent’s body. Despite its best efforts, the winged warrior could not remove the dying dragonman’s death grip. The other dragonkin, seeing their leader’s heroic death, launched themselves in a frenzied attack on their foes, forcing them back by sheer fury. It bought them time, desperately needed by the refugees streaming through the gate. But it could not be enough. With a scream of frustration, the ancient dragonkin uttered a final word of power. Pent up magical energy, unstable and deadly, was suddenly released. A screeching shockwave tore through both Dragonhost and their foes, throwing figures into the air like chaff in the wind. With a final, resounding clap, the portal was no more. Trapping the rest of the dragonkin. The ancient wizard turned to face his enemies. And awaited death.
Kal sat up with a stifled howl. He was drenched with his own perspiration. Breathing heavily, the dragonar youth tried to remember the dream before it scattered with the coming dawn. It was futile. The young warrior shook his tousled head ruefully and stood up, stretching his lean, muscled frame. The hide curtains of his cabin parted, and a wiry youngling entered.
“Wake up Kal, we’ve got chores to do,” urged Grinner, Kal’s closest comrade. The youth carried a bow and also had a sheaf of hunting spears bundled uncomfortably behind his back. “Calidor wants more meat for the Feast.”
Kal replied with a grunt. He stared out of his cabin, into the false dawn. Something was happening. He could feel it in his bones. It did not feel good.
The dream had faded from his mind, but the youth could not shake that eerie feeling. It was a feeling dragonar’s seldom felt, even in the thick of battle.
Dread.
Chapter 3
Everlorn is in need of a firm hand to guide it, a strong man to lead it. A ruler that is both decisive and ruthless. An Emperor. In other words…me.
~Emperor Maxian XII – private musings
The huge beast sniffed the air. It could smell prey…and something else. There was an acrid stench. The creature recognized it. Foul sorcery of some sort cast a bitter tinge in the air. It shook its massive, shaggy head from side to side and growled, saliva dripping from its huge canines. It felt…fear. The dire wolf snarled in fury. It was master of its domain. It would challenge any predator.
There was a sudden ripping sound. A disembodied hand appeared in mid-air. A throaty growl escaped the throat of the werewolf. It crouched low, prepared to defend itself. The dark forest had suddenly gone deathly silent. Even the insects had stopped their incessant chirping. The air rippled, as if it were water. A fantastical figure stepped seemingly out of the still night air. It was tall, almost seven feet, and clad in blinding white armor. A dazzling weapon of some sort was sheathed at his waist.
The dire wolf howled and leapt in attack, fangs ready to rip and tear. The figure whirled around with inhuman speed. It caught the dire wolf’s throat with one muscled arm. The other formed a spade-like shape and plunged into the vulnerable underbelly of the poor beast. The wolf howled with agony as the hand in its belly ripped upwards and tore its innards. It gurgled its last breath. Blood spurted forth like a geyser, drenching the alien being. With almost arrogant nonchalance, the white armored figure tore the writhing creature in half, flinging the mutilated carcass aside.
It looked up, getting its bearings. Magnificent wings unfurled, and the figure leapt into the night sky.
They had arrived.
The Vigil was a marvel of architecture and engineering ingenuity. The tower’s white marble reflected every ray of the sun, causing an unearthly shimmering beauty that was a wonder to behold. Its multiple spires caressed the clouds, higher than any other building in the Empire’s capital of Ravennah. It was said, that on a clear day, one could see the whole of the Land as it lay sprawled below. It certainly did not dissuade any megalomaniac who stood at its balconies, that he could indeed hold the world in the palm of his hand.
One such figure stood, gazing towards the north, arms resting on the balustrade. The man was tall and spare, his hair thin and grey. A circlet of gold, shaped with intertwining ravens with ruby eyes rested on head. His face was patrician, even scholarly. It was his eyes that gave away the man’s nature. They were cold, totally devoid of emotion, and always calculating.
Emperor Maxian XII, Ruler of Ravennah was lost in thought, paying scant attention to officer by his side, a General named Mycal.
“Warlord Marc has had Barrenfort heavily fortified your Imperial Majesty. I fear the 7th and 12th Guards are not sufficient to take it. I suggest we send in another regiment of artillery, as support,” advised the aide.
“There is no need. I have already arranged for sufficient…support at Barrenfort. In fact, the fort should have fallen by now. The rebels will offer little resistance,” mused the Emperor. He turned his gaze back towards the north.
“As they say…when in doubt, send in the Dragonmen.”
========================================================
The siege of Barrenfort was going badly. In fact, it had stalled.
“This is…outrageous! We paid them! Three companies for 50,000 gold! How dare they just…LEAVE?” Moabus sputtered. The General’s eyes flared with frustration. A sheen of perspiration covered his wide, gleaming forehead. The Imperial Legate paced about the cramped, stifling command tent. “Why didn’t you stop them, commander?” he demanded.
The captain standing before him stood at rigid attention, his full-face helm held under his arm. The burnished gold of his armour glinted in the sunlight.
“With all due respect, lord, we tried. Forty of my men are in the infirmary. You can’t argue with a drac, sir.”
“Did they at least tell you why they were leaving?” hissed the angry Legate.
“No lord, the dracs gave no reasons for their desertion. They just…packed up and left,” answered the guardsman officer, his eyes looking straight ahead.
Moabus stopped his pacing and faced the commander. “Order the troops to break siege. We are returning to Ravennah. Without those traitorous lizards, we have no hope of taking Barrenfort. The Emperor shall hear of this betrayal!”
The officer saluted and turned smartly on his heel. Within minutes the Imperial Warhost had left the besieged rebel fort, leaving baffled rebel defenders wondering.
=========================================================
Throughout the Land, dragonar were moving. Entire companies had deserted and reneged on their contracts, much to their employers chagrin. That in itself was an unprecedented occurrence. Then the dragonmen had all moved inexorably north, back to their homeland in the Northern Wastes. The news of this dragonar marshalling spread fast and wide, causing fear and panic among the Free Cities. One dragonar by itself was a formidable fighter, a unit of them could crush most war parties. An army of dragonmen?
Riken Marc shuddered at that thought as he gazed over the parapets of Barrenfort. He had witnessed the departure of three companies of dragonar warriors. At that time he had thought it hilarious. That must have caused Maxian a pretty penny, the Warlord had mused. But the dragonmen’s betrayal heralded something much more serious, gauging from the information that he had received from his informants. It had sobered him up quickly.
Are they finally preparing for an invasion? If so, we are in serious trouble. I doubt even the combined might of the Free Cities and the Empire could deal with such a force! Not to mention Keylinar is first in their line of march.
The dragonar were undeniably the most powerful warriors in the Land. I need more information. Fast. The Protector Warlord of Keylinar summoned five of his best scouts.
“Follow the dragonmen. Find out as much as you can,” he told the elves. The rangers nodded and loped off northwards. Turning to his second-in-command, Marz said, “Diadre, get me an audience with the League. We need to share information.”
The wizardress Diadre nodded, turned and left. The Warlord was left alone to brood. Marc slowly kneaded his aching head.
Who in the gods’ names has stirred up this hornets’ nest?
Chapter 4
The Seraphanim are not evil. They are what happen when the belief in one’s Righteousness is complete and utterly uncompromisable.
~Decarex, Archmage of Veleran
The circle, she sighed, is finally closing. Scintillating colours swirled as she gazed into the orb. They have been found. After four millennia. Wayward gusts of wind chased the ochre curtains, letting errant rays of golden sunlight dapple the starkness of the chamber. She let her fingers hover over the orb once more, seeking, searching, and travelling the multiple paths of the past, present and future. The visions were misted, unclear. A powerful spell wrought many thousand years ago blocked all attempts to pierce the veil.
A bell-like chime echoed in the anteroom. A tall, blonde warrior entered, armoured in resplendent white chainmail. The warrior’s wings were respectfully furled, his energy blade sheathed. At the alcove, he knelt, head bowed.
“My Lady, our agents report the spells binding the portal are crumbling. Lord Asriel has managed to weaken it enough so that a few of our…brethren have slipped in. These have confirmed Lord Asriel’s suspicions. The dragonar have been found,” reported the warrior.
“So I have seen, my faithful Rafael. We cannot hope to stop Asriel. He has the full support of the Celestial Council,” she said, her melodious voice filled with sorrow and regret. “We will try our best to slow their advance, and pray that the dragonar have become strong enough to resist Asriel.”
The Lady turned her gaze back to the crystal orb, letting her sight carry her spirit into the bright skies. The land was beautiful once. Rolling hills, majestic mountains and verdant forests. But it was a barren wasteland now, especially where the portal shimmered over the site of the dragonar exodus. Thousands of slaves, from a multitude of conquered worlds, toiled unceasingly, in gigantic forges that belched black poison into the once pristine air, forging weapons, armour and engines of destruction. It was not always thus, her soul cried. We were once pure and good. We brought order to chaos.
Once the portal is opened, the invasion will begin. Crystalline tears trailed down her cheeks. An army numbering millions will swarm into the refuge the dragonar have found, bringing order. It was a word that brought bitterness now. Seraphanim order, accept it or die. Another world will fall to our ceaseless hunger for justice.
=======================================================
Kal sat pondering on the giant bough of a redwood, taking a break from his duties. His basic training in the enclave was coming to an end and he was heartily glad of that. Drilling with blunted weapons and long route marches was hardly glorious. One day he would be a true warrior.
It was the day for the Trial of Blades. If he could prove himself worthy, and was blessed by Mithran, God of Battles, he would be chosen and trained as a true Dragonar warrior. Like his sire before him, he would advance as an elite Draktai, what the humans termed the Unleashed. In the ranks of the Dragonar heavy infantry, he would further hone his skills and bring glory to his clan. Who knows? Maybe one day he could become an officer, mayhaps a Lord Captain like his sire. The females would flock to him then! Kal chuckled at that daydream. Especially Rialla! Thoughts of the beautiful dragonar female always made him giddy with excitement. I hope she will be there today to watch!
A horn sounded from the village. It was time. The young Dragonar leapt gracefully off the massive branch, his wings open for a quick glide to the forest floor. He made his way quickly to the village center, his heart thumping with excitement. The other aspirants were already gathered. Kal saw the hulking brute Bruner and his lickspittle lackey Kraij. Ever since his days as a green recruit, those two had been constantly on his case, tormenting him. Bruner’s sire was a Draktai warrior of great renown, and Bruner never let Kal, or any of the other trainees forget that. A dozen of them had chosen the Warrior’s Path, though many of their peers had taken the Mystic or Arcane Paths. Bruner had laughed at Kal’s choice then. “You’d never last as a warrior, runt, better choose to be a monk!” Those words often rang in Kal’s mind. Well, he was prepared to show Bruner. He had trained hard, harder than any of the other warrior trainees. His scrawny size had matured through rigorous weapons training and conditioning. Though physically not as powerful as the massive bully, Kal was confident of his ability to best any of the other warrior aspirants in bladeskills or tactics. A face in the crowd caught his attention. Rialla! Kal smiled shyly at the dragonar maid, who smiled back tentatively. How could such a beautiful female be the sibling of that brute Bruner! The young dragonar wondered.
Bruner sneered wolfishly at Kal as he entered the circle with the other young dragonar. In the center, standing on a raised platform, was a Dragonar warrior of immense size. It was Calidor, the enclave’s Warleader, also a Hyliodracon, ranking warrior-priest of the Dragon Cult of Mithran. And Bruner’s sire…the thought came unbidden into Kal’s mind. The hubbub around him died as he raised his massive arm in the air.
“Young warriors! By the grace of Mithran BattleLord, today you stand on a threshold! A step closer to your dreams to join the elite! Today, you take the Trial of Blades,” he announced, his booming voice echoing in the chill, silent morning air. “The task is simple, but it will test all you have learnt, tactics, weaponry, physical endurance and wit! You have been paired with a partner. The course will take you through the forest, and into the mountains. Find the marker at the end of the course. The team to return with the marker first will pass the Trial, and be welcome to our ranks as a Draktai and be inducted into the Cult of Mithran,” the commandant paused for breath, then continued. “Each of you will be given a survival pack, and a training sword. There will be some…obstacles along the way, prepared by some of my warriors. I am told they can sometimes be…overenthusiastic,” the crowd laughed, “but the path to glory is never easy. Well, enough said. Let the Trials BEGIN!”
Kal had paired with his best friend Grinner. The wiry young dragonar was small, but extremely tough and resourceful. He looked up at his burly friend and winked.
“Ready to be a Draktai my friend?”
Kal found his friend’s enthusiasm infectious. Slapping the smaller dragonar on his back, he said, “Let’s show Bruner and his bullies who the real warriors are!” Shouldering his backpack and training sword, the two young warriors loped off to join the others at the starting line.
.Any critique is welcome, coz I need to polish this till it shines, if I ever want to get it published! The following are the initial four chapters.
Chapter 1
I stood in a place
Where the darkness converged
And light was swallowed
I stood in a place
Where night ruled.
Dragonar Song of the Night
The figure stood, gazing out of the tower’s only window, the astrological device gripped in his powerful hands. Icy winds tore around the tower’s parapet. The landscape was harsh and wintry, as it always was in the Northern Wastes. Craggy, impenetrable mountains reared their ancient peaks, surrounding the fortress of rough hewn, ancient stone. The man was clad in a dark blue velvet robe that almost blended with the deep night sky. The room, spartan in decoration and comfort, was littered with arcane tomes and paraphernalia. Scrolls and star charts were spread across the broad oak table in the middle of the chamber.
The man rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tension away from his knotted muscles. Muttering to himself, the mage put the astrolabe down for a moment, and uttered a word of power.
Immediately the air around him shimmered, like a desert mirage. Fine boned fingers stretched into wicked talons capable of ripping through armor. Magnificent, leathery wings unfurled behind the man’s back, slipping out of cleverly hidden slits in his tunic, powerful sinews creaking with disuse. The handsome bearded human face was momentarily distorted, as another facade warred to replace it. One that was distinctively dragon-like, noble, yet fearsome in every aspect. Though ancient, the sorcerer was still lean and fit, his body covered with a fine layer of supple emerald scales. A long, thickly muscled tail coiled around the being’s clawed feet, under the robes.
“Much better,” Decarex stretched, luxuriating in the power and strength his own true-form allowed him. It was a form at once feared and respected throughout the Land. For he was of the Dragonar, a race of beings the other peoples of the Land termed dragonmen.
According to legend and lore it was purported that the dragonar were descendants of the ancient Dragons who ruled the world eons ago. They were the continents foremost warriors and mercernaries, the most powerful mages and learned mystics. Warlords and kings sought them for their armies and paid ridiculous sums for their aid in battles, whether arcane or martial. Where the dragonar strode, battle-tides turned. Only the elven civilization pre-dated theirs, but even the elves knew little about these dragonkin.
That they were feared for their might and knowledge was a given. The petty kingdoms and city-states lived in terror that the dragonmen would some day sweep down from their lofty halls in the Northern Wastes and create an Empire of their own. They were certainly capable of it.
Decarex chuckled as hes scanned the latest missives from the Ravenite Empire, from the pompous upstart Emperor Maxian of Ravennah. It was written in the Emperor’s own spidery handwriting, which meant it had bypassed the Senate vote. Maxian has usurped the Ravenite throne only a few years ago, bringing his House into power and effectively ending the previous dynasty from House Banocles. In fact, mused Decarex, Maxian had the whole of House Banocles mudered. This man bears watching. The situation in the Empire must still be shaky indeed, for the Emperor to go behind his advisors in such military dealings.
My dearest Lord Archmage Decarex,
I hope to find you in good health.
As we have agreed, the payment of 50,000 Ravens is enroute, for the services of your dragonmen. They will rendezvous with my forces at Barrenfort, where they will proceed to lead the assault on the rebel stronghold and level it to the ground.
Another 50,000 will be paid to your war-chest once the deed is done.
Maxian XII
Business as usual…mused the Archmage of Veleran, God of Magic. I’m sure Zaxamor has already dispatched the companies. As the Archmage of Veleran, Decarex held power over the magic-using cadres of the dragonmen, thaumurturgic corps who could throw bolts of destructive mageforce, cast great battle-spells and control the very elements of nature. Together with Lord Marshal Zaxamor, who controlled the martial portion of the Dragonar Host, they were the titular rulers of the dragonar race. With the other Grandmasters of the Dragon Cults of Mithran, Aran, and Donaran they formed the Dragonar High Council. The council convened once a decade to deliberate matters that concerned their entire race, to adjudicate clan conflicts and resolve matters of security. The last one had been particularly nasty, resulting in the exile of an entire clan into the Blighted East, the broken lands east of Moradin’s Chain.
The Seven Thunders Clan, led by Entarex, one of my best Adepts. Decarex sighed. Internecine clan warfare, though bloody, is necessary. Only the most able will remain. Because we must strive to be the epitome of martial perfection, separate the weak from the strong. Because we must be ready…for the Enemy…Decarex brooded, his thoughts wandering.
A movement in the night skies caught his keen eyes. The sorcerer raised the astrological instrument to his eyes again, checking the location where he had caught the movement.
The sight that greeted him almost drove the breath from his chest.
Up in the galaxies, where the stars wheeled in their eternal orbits, something had gone deadly wrong.
An entire constellation had... shifted.
Decarex’s hands shook as he tore his eyes away from his astrolabe. It cannot be! The dragonar breathed. He felt bitter bile rise to his throat, as panic sought a grip on the powerful Archmage. The constellations have aligned! Yet it was not possible, that an event prophesied to take place in a thousand years, would force a convergence at this moment! The dragonar wizard sought his astrolabe again, to reassure himself he had not been hallucinating.
He was not. Feverishly, he discarded the instrument and ripped an ancient tome from the shelf closest to him. Flipping through the pages, his taloned finger traced the archaic script.
The Warrior and the Dragon
Shall battle across the skies
And in their bloody wake
A Black Moon shall arise
The Black Moon! Decarex almost screamed in despair. It meant the time had come! The prophecy was being fulfilled ahead of its time! With the moon’s rise, a portal between worlds, a rent in the fabric of reality, would open on this world! And our nightmares will begin anew. The wizard’s talons scrabbled across his table, seeking more ancient scrolls, tomes and parchments. He had to be sure. This concerned the survival of his entire race. This entire land!
We are not prepared! His mind reeled.
His search brought him to another ancient tome. The Remembrance. It recorded all that his race had gone through, their trials and tribulations, from five thousand years ago, when they had fled their homeworld. With trembling hands the dragonar sorcerer opened the leather bound volume. One word leapt out at him almost immediately, causing the Archmage to catch his breath.
The Seraphanim!
Chapter 2
~From the collections, journals and observations of Marennicus~
For as long as the Empire has kept records, there have been Dragonar. But still we know little of these magnificent dragonkin. Are they native to our world? If so, how are they evolved, what species did they evolve from? Dragons? These questions have plagued Imperial scholars for centuries, and yet we are no closer to an answer. No dragonman has ever volunteered useful information on anything regarding their culture, society or their unique physical metamorphosis. I fear I will go to my grave without ever knowing.
~Marennicus, former Imperial Historian
Kal stirred and thrashed in his sleep. His taloned hands clenched and unclenched, and his massive jaws ground unceasingly. Run! Run child! Escape! The young dragonar thrashed wildly in the fur-strewn bedding. Muffled groans escaped his clenched jaws. His breath was quick and shallow.
Firestorms raged across the blood red skies. Bolts of pure energy struck the land without warning, rending chunks of blackened earth. The People were fleeing in their thousands. Some ran, some flew, some crawled. The land was littered with thousands of dead and dying, their charred bodies unidentifiable from the shattered landscape. He could see them, clear as day, females, and younglings. Slaughtered like animals. On a broken hillside, a shattered army made a desperate last stand, weapons raised, roaring in defiance while the refugees fled. A powerful aura of magic pervaded the hilltop. An ancient dragonkin chanted and gestured, drawing upon immense arcane energies. Eldritch sigils flared in the air, connecting, converging, and taking on a ghostly outline in the empty air. Behind him, the Black Moon rose majestically, a darker stain on a dark sky. His chanting was approaching a fever pitch…
Kal’s body tensed, massive muscles rigid with strain. His mind’s eye focused. The defiant roaring challenges of the males had ceased. A talon pointed upwards, towards the fiery skies. They were terrifying yet almost too beautiful to behold, filled with lethal grace, snow-white wings gliding on thermals. Thousands of them, swooping down from the heavens. Death on wings. Blasts of incandescent energy hit the remnants of the once proud Dragonhost, tearing apart brave warriors. Flame and lightning raged among the dragonkin, searing and killing. The army was shattered beyond aid, and mind-numbing fear consumed them. Only one warrior stood firm, a magnificent specimen. Rallying the dragonkin with a tattered banner of Mithran Battlelord, the warrior commanded a counter-attack. Jagged arrows and serrated spears leapt into the air, while blasts of blue-tinted energy were hurled into the skies towards their soaring foe. But it was futile, too few, too late.
Kal felt his hackles rise as he found the face of the champion. That is my face! His mind reeled from the shock. The nightmare pulled him back in, like a helpless babe. It was a war of annihilation, a genocide. His entire race was being eradicated, like so much vermin. He saw a figure of unearthly beauty, its features radiant with light. With its magnificent, feathered wings unfurled, it landed amidst the shattered Dragonhost. It held, in one hand, a javelin of pure energy. The figure cast its weapon at him. The weapon disappeared into the dragon warrior’s massive chest. Kal screamed in agony. The pain was ripping him apart. The magical energies building up had reached their climax. With an earth-shattering boom, the air was ripped asunder. A gap, darker than the night around them, had opened up in thin air. The ancient wizard bellowed hoarsely, urging the refugees onwards. They streamed through the unnatural rent in the air, pulling their younglings, carrying the wounded.
The Dragonhost was almost annihilated. Kal, with his dying breath, launched a final attack on his tormentor, dragging it down to the ground. With his massively muscled arms, the dragon warrior encircled his opponent’s body. Despite its best efforts, the winged warrior could not remove the dying dragonman’s death grip. The other dragonkin, seeing their leader’s heroic death, launched themselves in a frenzied attack on their foes, forcing them back by sheer fury. It bought them time, desperately needed by the refugees streaming through the gate. But it could not be enough. With a scream of frustration, the ancient dragonkin uttered a final word of power. Pent up magical energy, unstable and deadly, was suddenly released. A screeching shockwave tore through both Dragonhost and their foes, throwing figures into the air like chaff in the wind. With a final, resounding clap, the portal was no more. Trapping the rest of the dragonkin. The ancient wizard turned to face his enemies. And awaited death.
Kal sat up with a stifled howl. He was drenched with his own perspiration. Breathing heavily, the dragonar youth tried to remember the dream before it scattered with the coming dawn. It was futile. The young warrior shook his tousled head ruefully and stood up, stretching his lean, muscled frame. The hide curtains of his cabin parted, and a wiry youngling entered.
“Wake up Kal, we’ve got chores to do,” urged Grinner, Kal’s closest comrade. The youth carried a bow and also had a sheaf of hunting spears bundled uncomfortably behind his back. “Calidor wants more meat for the Feast.”
Kal replied with a grunt. He stared out of his cabin, into the false dawn. Something was happening. He could feel it in his bones. It did not feel good.
The dream had faded from his mind, but the youth could not shake that eerie feeling. It was a feeling dragonar’s seldom felt, even in the thick of battle.
Dread.
Chapter 3
Everlorn is in need of a firm hand to guide it, a strong man to lead it. A ruler that is both decisive and ruthless. An Emperor. In other words…me.
~Emperor Maxian XII – private musings
The huge beast sniffed the air. It could smell prey…and something else. There was an acrid stench. The creature recognized it. Foul sorcery of some sort cast a bitter tinge in the air. It shook its massive, shaggy head from side to side and growled, saliva dripping from its huge canines. It felt…fear. The dire wolf snarled in fury. It was master of its domain. It would challenge any predator.
There was a sudden ripping sound. A disembodied hand appeared in mid-air. A throaty growl escaped the throat of the werewolf. It crouched low, prepared to defend itself. The dark forest had suddenly gone deathly silent. Even the insects had stopped their incessant chirping. The air rippled, as if it were water. A fantastical figure stepped seemingly out of the still night air. It was tall, almost seven feet, and clad in blinding white armor. A dazzling weapon of some sort was sheathed at his waist.
The dire wolf howled and leapt in attack, fangs ready to rip and tear. The figure whirled around with inhuman speed. It caught the dire wolf’s throat with one muscled arm. The other formed a spade-like shape and plunged into the vulnerable underbelly of the poor beast. The wolf howled with agony as the hand in its belly ripped upwards and tore its innards. It gurgled its last breath. Blood spurted forth like a geyser, drenching the alien being. With almost arrogant nonchalance, the white armored figure tore the writhing creature in half, flinging the mutilated carcass aside.
It looked up, getting its bearings. Magnificent wings unfurled, and the figure leapt into the night sky.
They had arrived.
The Vigil was a marvel of architecture and engineering ingenuity. The tower’s white marble reflected every ray of the sun, causing an unearthly shimmering beauty that was a wonder to behold. Its multiple spires caressed the clouds, higher than any other building in the Empire’s capital of Ravennah. It was said, that on a clear day, one could see the whole of the Land as it lay sprawled below. It certainly did not dissuade any megalomaniac who stood at its balconies, that he could indeed hold the world in the palm of his hand.
One such figure stood, gazing towards the north, arms resting on the balustrade. The man was tall and spare, his hair thin and grey. A circlet of gold, shaped with intertwining ravens with ruby eyes rested on head. His face was patrician, even scholarly. It was his eyes that gave away the man’s nature. They were cold, totally devoid of emotion, and always calculating.
Emperor Maxian XII, Ruler of Ravennah was lost in thought, paying scant attention to officer by his side, a General named Mycal.
“Warlord Marc has had Barrenfort heavily fortified your Imperial Majesty. I fear the 7th and 12th Guards are not sufficient to take it. I suggest we send in another regiment of artillery, as support,” advised the aide.
“There is no need. I have already arranged for sufficient…support at Barrenfort. In fact, the fort should have fallen by now. The rebels will offer little resistance,” mused the Emperor. He turned his gaze back towards the north.
“As they say…when in doubt, send in the Dragonmen.”
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The siege of Barrenfort was going badly. In fact, it had stalled.
“This is…outrageous! We paid them! Three companies for 50,000 gold! How dare they just…LEAVE?” Moabus sputtered. The General’s eyes flared with frustration. A sheen of perspiration covered his wide, gleaming forehead. The Imperial Legate paced about the cramped, stifling command tent. “Why didn’t you stop them, commander?” he demanded.
The captain standing before him stood at rigid attention, his full-face helm held under his arm. The burnished gold of his armour glinted in the sunlight.
“With all due respect, lord, we tried. Forty of my men are in the infirmary. You can’t argue with a drac, sir.”
“Did they at least tell you why they were leaving?” hissed the angry Legate.
“No lord, the dracs gave no reasons for their desertion. They just…packed up and left,” answered the guardsman officer, his eyes looking straight ahead.
Moabus stopped his pacing and faced the commander. “Order the troops to break siege. We are returning to Ravennah. Without those traitorous lizards, we have no hope of taking Barrenfort. The Emperor shall hear of this betrayal!”
The officer saluted and turned smartly on his heel. Within minutes the Imperial Warhost had left the besieged rebel fort, leaving baffled rebel defenders wondering.
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Throughout the Land, dragonar were moving. Entire companies had deserted and reneged on their contracts, much to their employers chagrin. That in itself was an unprecedented occurrence. Then the dragonmen had all moved inexorably north, back to their homeland in the Northern Wastes. The news of this dragonar marshalling spread fast and wide, causing fear and panic among the Free Cities. One dragonar by itself was a formidable fighter, a unit of them could crush most war parties. An army of dragonmen?
Riken Marc shuddered at that thought as he gazed over the parapets of Barrenfort. He had witnessed the departure of three companies of dragonar warriors. At that time he had thought it hilarious. That must have caused Maxian a pretty penny, the Warlord had mused. But the dragonmen’s betrayal heralded something much more serious, gauging from the information that he had received from his informants. It had sobered him up quickly.
Are they finally preparing for an invasion? If so, we are in serious trouble. I doubt even the combined might of the Free Cities and the Empire could deal with such a force! Not to mention Keylinar is first in their line of march.
The dragonar were undeniably the most powerful warriors in the Land. I need more information. Fast. The Protector Warlord of Keylinar summoned five of his best scouts.
“Follow the dragonmen. Find out as much as you can,” he told the elves. The rangers nodded and loped off northwards. Turning to his second-in-command, Marz said, “Diadre, get me an audience with the League. We need to share information.”
The wizardress Diadre nodded, turned and left. The Warlord was left alone to brood. Marc slowly kneaded his aching head.
Who in the gods’ names has stirred up this hornets’ nest?
Chapter 4
The Seraphanim are not evil. They are what happen when the belief in one’s Righteousness is complete and utterly uncompromisable.
~Decarex, Archmage of Veleran
The circle, she sighed, is finally closing. Scintillating colours swirled as she gazed into the orb. They have been found. After four millennia. Wayward gusts of wind chased the ochre curtains, letting errant rays of golden sunlight dapple the starkness of the chamber. She let her fingers hover over the orb once more, seeking, searching, and travelling the multiple paths of the past, present and future. The visions were misted, unclear. A powerful spell wrought many thousand years ago blocked all attempts to pierce the veil.
A bell-like chime echoed in the anteroom. A tall, blonde warrior entered, armoured in resplendent white chainmail. The warrior’s wings were respectfully furled, his energy blade sheathed. At the alcove, he knelt, head bowed.
“My Lady, our agents report the spells binding the portal are crumbling. Lord Asriel has managed to weaken it enough so that a few of our…brethren have slipped in. These have confirmed Lord Asriel’s suspicions. The dragonar have been found,” reported the warrior.
“So I have seen, my faithful Rafael. We cannot hope to stop Asriel. He has the full support of the Celestial Council,” she said, her melodious voice filled with sorrow and regret. “We will try our best to slow their advance, and pray that the dragonar have become strong enough to resist Asriel.”
The Lady turned her gaze back to the crystal orb, letting her sight carry her spirit into the bright skies. The land was beautiful once. Rolling hills, majestic mountains and verdant forests. But it was a barren wasteland now, especially where the portal shimmered over the site of the dragonar exodus. Thousands of slaves, from a multitude of conquered worlds, toiled unceasingly, in gigantic forges that belched black poison into the once pristine air, forging weapons, armour and engines of destruction. It was not always thus, her soul cried. We were once pure and good. We brought order to chaos.
Once the portal is opened, the invasion will begin. Crystalline tears trailed down her cheeks. An army numbering millions will swarm into the refuge the dragonar have found, bringing order. It was a word that brought bitterness now. Seraphanim order, accept it or die. Another world will fall to our ceaseless hunger for justice.
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Kal sat pondering on the giant bough of a redwood, taking a break from his duties. His basic training in the enclave was coming to an end and he was heartily glad of that. Drilling with blunted weapons and long route marches was hardly glorious. One day he would be a true warrior.
It was the day for the Trial of Blades. If he could prove himself worthy, and was blessed by Mithran, God of Battles, he would be chosen and trained as a true Dragonar warrior. Like his sire before him, he would advance as an elite Draktai, what the humans termed the Unleashed. In the ranks of the Dragonar heavy infantry, he would further hone his skills and bring glory to his clan. Who knows? Maybe one day he could become an officer, mayhaps a Lord Captain like his sire. The females would flock to him then! Kal chuckled at that daydream. Especially Rialla! Thoughts of the beautiful dragonar female always made him giddy with excitement. I hope she will be there today to watch!
A horn sounded from the village. It was time. The young Dragonar leapt gracefully off the massive branch, his wings open for a quick glide to the forest floor. He made his way quickly to the village center, his heart thumping with excitement. The other aspirants were already gathered. Kal saw the hulking brute Bruner and his lickspittle lackey Kraij. Ever since his days as a green recruit, those two had been constantly on his case, tormenting him. Bruner’s sire was a Draktai warrior of great renown, and Bruner never let Kal, or any of the other trainees forget that. A dozen of them had chosen the Warrior’s Path, though many of their peers had taken the Mystic or Arcane Paths. Bruner had laughed at Kal’s choice then. “You’d never last as a warrior, runt, better choose to be a monk!” Those words often rang in Kal’s mind. Well, he was prepared to show Bruner. He had trained hard, harder than any of the other warrior trainees. His scrawny size had matured through rigorous weapons training and conditioning. Though physically not as powerful as the massive bully, Kal was confident of his ability to best any of the other warrior aspirants in bladeskills or tactics. A face in the crowd caught his attention. Rialla! Kal smiled shyly at the dragonar maid, who smiled back tentatively. How could such a beautiful female be the sibling of that brute Bruner! The young dragonar wondered.
Bruner sneered wolfishly at Kal as he entered the circle with the other young dragonar. In the center, standing on a raised platform, was a Dragonar warrior of immense size. It was Calidor, the enclave’s Warleader, also a Hyliodracon, ranking warrior-priest of the Dragon Cult of Mithran. And Bruner’s sire…the thought came unbidden into Kal’s mind. The hubbub around him died as he raised his massive arm in the air.
“Young warriors! By the grace of Mithran BattleLord, today you stand on a threshold! A step closer to your dreams to join the elite! Today, you take the Trial of Blades,” he announced, his booming voice echoing in the chill, silent morning air. “The task is simple, but it will test all you have learnt, tactics, weaponry, physical endurance and wit! You have been paired with a partner. The course will take you through the forest, and into the mountains. Find the marker at the end of the course. The team to return with the marker first will pass the Trial, and be welcome to our ranks as a Draktai and be inducted into the Cult of Mithran,” the commandant paused for breath, then continued. “Each of you will be given a survival pack, and a training sword. There will be some…obstacles along the way, prepared by some of my warriors. I am told they can sometimes be…overenthusiastic,” the crowd laughed, “but the path to glory is never easy. Well, enough said. Let the Trials BEGIN!”
Kal had paired with his best friend Grinner. The wiry young dragonar was small, but extremely tough and resourceful. He looked up at his burly friend and winked.
“Ready to be a Draktai my friend?”
Kal found his friend’s enthusiasm infectious. Slapping the smaller dragonar on his back, he said, “Let’s show Bruner and his bullies who the real warriors are!” Shouldering his backpack and training sword, the two young warriors loped off to join the others at the starting line.
