Ashfall: Prince of Prophecy

Streaks of the crimson night sky, starless and dreadful, break through the dense canopy as your eyes track the passing trees. Cloth swaddles and binds your movements, yet you still jostle back and forth, swaying in the confines of your woven basket. The heat of panting breath warms your cheeks and fills your nose. A long red and white furred muzzle has its jaws clamped tightly around the handle of your basket. Glacial eyes dart frantically as quick, decisive decisions are made to navigate the undergrowth. Its pointed ears are on alert. Only a brief pause before you move again. The sound of hooves follows everywhere the wolf goes - heavy, thunderous hooves -and everywhere they go, shouts accompany them. Whistling projectiles shoot past you, missing their target. A wince and a whimper pass through the wolf’s gritted teeth. Louder and louder, the shouts grow. For a moment, your eyes meet the gaze of the wolf. Pain, worry, and sorrow linger there. Your world rips from you and turns upside down.

The crack of a lance, trample of hooves, and a cry of a wolf deafen you as the world spins. You are thrown from the basket as it crashes into the forest floor—leaves crunch under you, and dirt soils the white cloth swaddling you. Shouts and commands come from the dark, answered by a snarl, a growl, screams, and then silence. Looking at the canopy, you listen. You hope for the wolf to return. For the wolf to pick you back up and carry you away. The faint clank of chain on metal rings in your ears, followed by the heavy thud of approaching footsteps.

“There you are.” A heavy, rough, gravel voice of a weathered man with a white and grey beard speaks above you.

Another voice calls from further away, “Sir Gavin! Damon is gravely injured, and Sasha is…well, she didn’t make it.”

“Did you kill the beast?”

“No. It managed to escape into the dark, but not without Damon sticking it good.”

“Gods damn familiars," curses the man under his breath, “Gather the others; it won't live long with the witch dead."

More footsteps gather around you. Unfamiliar faces stare down at you, some scarred with old wounds, and others still have fresh dark blood splattered over their faces. A woman speaks first, "All of this trouble for a child. How many did we lose? How many friends, brothers, and sisters did this threat take from us?"

"Too many.." a man with a fresh bandage over his left eye replies. " The witch fought like hell. Never have I seen such.."

Gavin interrupts, "Their sacrifice will not be forgotten."

“This doesn’t feel right. Are you sure we have to do this?” questions a soft-featured man—the youngest amongst them.

“We have gone too far to turn back now. The witch is dead. If we don’t end this now, the storm we soon face will be for nothing,” replies Gavin.

“But he is just a child,” retorts the young man.

“You KNOW what he becomes! You saw it the same as I did. We are Sentinels. This is what must be done!" Snarls Gavin as a steel gauntlet clashes against the youngest's breastplate.

“I..I can’t.”

“Then stand aside; I will end it now.” the others fall back while Gavin draws his sword, angling it above you. Instincts not fully developed urge you to flee, crawl, and survive, but your body does not move more than a wiggle. Your heart races, pounding in your chest. A strange pressure swells in your core, seeking to answer the threat above you. Is this your end?

"One death to prevent thousands. May the gods forgive us," his shoulders rise to deliver the blow. You draw in a breath, perhaps your last; however, something strange, something ancient, lingers in the air.

"DRAGON!" Cries one of the Sentinels. The blade descends.

…..

Valyn shot up from his bedroll. Cold sweat dripped from his hair and face. This dream, no, this memory, robbed him of another night's rest. His hands, resting in his lap, twitched and clenched into fists as his breaths were ragged.

“Bad dream Prince?” purred a voice from the shadows of the tent. Valyn pushed his dark shoulder-length hair from his face, spying Syndra sitting in a chair. Her long black hair is a stark contrast to her fair skin. Emerald eyes pierced the shadows like two gems gleaming in the dark. An elegant flowing ebony dress split to the hip reveals her slender yet muscled legs. A touch of concern crossed her face, softening her sharp features for a moment.

Kira rests at her feet. Her red and white fur rose and fell with her deep slumbering breaths undisturbed by the two in the tent.

“How long have you been there?” he asked, rising from his bed and allowing the sheets to fall from his unclothed body.

“Long enough, " mused Syndra, "What troubles you?” she questioned, holding his gaze for a moment before he reached for his clothes. Her inquisitive eyes searched him, probing for insight.

“A memory," Valyn paused. His hand gripped his trousers as a low exhale escaped his lips. "…of the day we met,” he replied, stepping into his pants.

“And what of it?” Syndra stalked closer, admiring his sculpted form as he covered it with clothing.

“I remember the chill of that night, the smell of blood, the fear… I still see their faces,” he said with his back to her as he pulled his tunic over his powerful arms and shoulders. His neck stiffened from her breath as her arms reached around him to tie the last knots on his tunic.

“Need not worry yourself. Those men perished long ago; their order is ash and ruins.” Syndra retrieved his armor from its stand, sliding it over his chest. It was an ornate leather armor that Valyn spent hours tooling and crafting after tanning the hide of Barbedtooth, the great beast of the boiling flatlands. An outstanding achievement for the Prince. As she helped him buckle it in place, she continued, “Look what you have accomplished. Through your power alone have the wasteland tribes been united under one banner.” Her eyes lingered on the warrior tattoo peeking out of his tunic on his neck, which she knew followed the groove of his spine and across his shoulders as she laid his shoulder piece in place. It, and the scars on his chest and torso, are beautiful symbols of his great strength and power. A body toned and hardened by a life in the wastelands. “Put it from your mind, my Prince.”

“If it were only that easy. ” His face sullen as he picked up his sword and fastened it to his belt.

“Shall I fetch the Mirewart Sisters? Perhaps they can brew a concoction to soothe your mind.” Syndra withdrew a few steps allowing the Prince to be in full view.

“That will not be necessary.” A whistle from Valyn perked Kira's ears as she rose from her resting place to sit at his side.

“As you wish, my Prince," with a slight bow, Syndra ceased her inquiry.

“Enough with the formalities already; you are my oldest friend,” the thick fur of Kira's wolf coat ran through Valyn's fingers as his attention returned to Syndra.

“While this may be true, you never know who may be listening, " Syndra motioned beyond the tent, where the sounds of many conversations and marching footsteps could be heard.

“Why are you here?” questioned Valyn. It seemed to be his turn for inquiry. Reaching for a piece of fruit from the bowl on the table, Valyn propped himself against the edge. His arm draped across his waist, resting his hand upon the pommel of his sword.

Syndra brought a finger to her dark lips as she pondered, forgetting why she'd wandered into his tent. The ebony dress twirled with her as she whirled toward the tent entrance. With a coy smile, she looked over her shoulder just as she stepped outside. “Oh, that’s right. Your council gathers in the command tent. They wait for you."

“It is time then.” Valyn strode from his tent into the expanse of his war camp, Kira at his heels.

Hide and leather canvas tents cluster together as far as Valyn could see. The sounds of war beasts bellowed over the camp while soldiers managed supplies and preparations. It had been a long time since the tribes of the wastelands gathered in one place. The Dragor, Blades of the Red Sand, and the Flatland Beast Herders united under one banner never ceased to amaze Valyn. As he approached the command tent in the center of the war camp, Valyn heard the voices of his council arguing over the final preparations. Leaning near the entrance flap, Syndra awaited the Prince’s arrival.

“Well, they are riled up this morning,” smirked Syndra as she fell in line behind Valyn.

“The anticipation can boil the blood,” a smile parted the Prince’s lips as he swept open the flap to the command tent and entered inside. His three council members were gathered around a large table in the center of the room. Their arguing ceased as Valyn stood before them. Valyn surveyed them. These three are the leaders or representatives of their tribes. Torrin, chief of the Dragor, towered over the other two. Even Valyn had to lift his chin to hold the chief’s gaze. Two broad horns protruded from his forehead and curled skyward, nearly touching the top canvas of the war tent. Black tendrils swept back like hair were adorned with many gold trinkets, trophies of his many conquests. His bronze skin was dotted with small patches of scales on his brow and strong jawline. Proud brown eyes held the stare of a veteran warrior. Torrin’s bulky body wore the traditional armor of the Dragor, a breastplate crafted from the carapace of a Flamespewer Scarab. Standing next to Torrin was Nys, daughter of the Queen of Blades and heir to the Red Sands. Black coverings dressed her lithe form from head to toe leaving only a tiny gap for her alluring eyes to be seen. The sliver of skin shimmered in the light.

To her side, considerably shorter than the other two was Morghul Gargoth-tamer. A beast herder who tamed Gargoth, the terror of the flatlands. Valyn did not know what to think of the beast herder tribe. Their appearance resembled more creature than man—the blood curse tainting their bloodline far greater than the other tribes. Pale green scales covered much of the exposed skin. His facial features were less pronounced, smooth, and rounded, much like a lizard. Small rows of spikes started on his brow and rolled down the back of his head, disappearing below the leather collar of his ragged armor. One scaled hand, with fingers ending in tiny talons, rested on a jagged blade while the other played with the ties holding a bullwhip to his belt. This was his war council, his tribe leaders, and, if things went according to plan, the first members of his court.

“Torrin, how are preparations?” Valyn commanded as he strode through the tent stopping at the head of the table. A large map was laid across its surface with several markers already in place.

“As you can see, our host has moved into position along the southern flank. We have their forces pinned between us and the sea.” Torrin indicated with a sweep of his arm towards the lower end of the map.

Valyn’s gaze traced over the markers as he visualized the terrain, the soldiers, the upcoming battle, and any possible flaws in their strategy. “And Nys, are your Blades in place?”

“They are my Prince,” Nys nodded in confirmation. “The starless night provided the opportunity needed for the Blades to enter the city. They await your order to strike.” If it came to a siege, they would need the Blades to open the gates and strike at vital weak points within the city walls. It would spare countless lives. Lives Valyn required for a greater foe.

“Morghul, how are the beasts?” Valyn looked to the Beast Herder, who barely stood tall enough to see over the table's edge.

“Well fed and restlessss," Morghul answered, flicking his forked tongue. Valyn had questioned Syndra’s advice regarding the Beast Herders; however, seeing the gargantuan Doatuar removed his doubt. The Doatuar were larger than siege towers and could hurl boulders as far as any catapult. How the Beast Herders managed to tame such creatures was still a mystery to Valyn.

The preparations had gone smoothly, and all the pieces were in place. Valyn straightened, “Good, we move forward then. What do we know about the Tisall and the force that defends it?”

“The walls are built strong and sturdy with no obvious weak points. Entrances are here at the main gate and here at the harbor. If they retreat behind their walls, they can last several weeks if not months of siege.” Torrin answered, pointing to each location as he described it.

“Our scouts report that the Sea Dragon's force is led by Braxxon, son of Dragagil,” Nys adds.

“Hmm, Braxxon is known to be a skilled swordsman and an even better sailor,” Torrin folded his arms across his chest, letting his gaze linger on Valyn. With the weight of that gaze, Valyn knew that Torrin had more to say about his plan. That would have to wait.

“And what of the Sea Dragon?” Valyn picked up the wooden dragon token from the map, letting it roll between his fingers.

“More like a Serpent.” Syndra scoffed.

“You have history?” He raised an eyebrow.

“We’ve met,” she replied, crossing her arms. He would have to ask about that later.

“The Sea Dragon has not been seen. It is likely she still sails with her armada,” Nys motioned to map. If they could claim the city before the Sea Dragon and her ships could arrive, they could leverage the city against them to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. Changing the topic, Valyn turned to Morghul, “Was the challenge delivered?”

“Yes. The rider was dispatched this morning,” confirmed Morghul.

“Then I leave the rest to all of you.” Valyn moved to leave, but was stopped abruptly as Torin slammed his fist on the table.

“My Prince! There is no need for you to put yourself in such great danger. Any of us would gladly take your place in this challenge,” erupted Torrin’s booming voice. The proud warrior had always sought a way to prove himself in battle. After joining banners, Torrin swore to be Valyn’s sword. To defeat any opponent for the Prince’s cause.

“Yes, Prince, we could end this. Just give the command,” Nys added. The night prior, Nys had met with Valyn. She spoke of a way to destabilize the awaiting army. She had asked Valyn to use her Blades for what they had trained their entire lives for. One bloody night. Eliminate the Commanders. Kill them in their sleep. Valyn had dismissed her then, and he would not change his mind now.

Stopping at the tent entrance, Valyn exhaled. “No. I have issued the challenge as I did for each of your tribes. We move forward as we have planned.”

A guttural growl in protest rumbled through the clenched teeth of Torrin. Valyn’s eyes flashed in Torrin’s direction, a predatory stare held in them. “That is my command,” his voice not that of a prince, but a king. Valyn exited the tent with Syndra and Kira at his back.

Once they were out of the tent, Valyn let his shoulders relax as Syndra stopped at his side. “You do know that Torrin is right,” her emerald eyes were bright in the rising sunlight. “Why risk so much when you have others willing to fight in your place.”

“It is like you said,” Valyn’s eyes met hers, a wicked smile on his face, “my power alone has united the wasteland tribes. Now, take me to the frontlines.” With a huff, Syndra turned to leave. Reaching toward the ground, her arms shifted into powerful jade-scaled legs ending in sword-like talons. Her flowing gown split and stretched, dissipating the illusion and forming enormous wings. Like giant scythes, curved claws grew out of the end of each wing, digging into the barren land. With a shake of her head and a mighty roar, Syndra returned to her proper form. The jade scales covered her colossal body and faded to obsidian along her spine. Those emerald eyes sat elegantly in her fearsome angular skull. A row of sharp horns ran along the lower side of each jaw. A black fan trailed from her brow down the long neck to her spine, parting at the wings and continuing to the end of her tail. Valyn took a breath admiring the magnificent dragon. She looked the same as the first time they met on that fateful day. He was only a child sentenced to death, to be forgotten in a forest far from here. Kira ran as far and fast as she could, bringing Valyn and his pursuers into the territory of Syndra. Syndra saved him that day. The sound of cheers and shouts drew Valyn back as he gripped the fan and mounted the dragon. He glanced at Kira giving the unspoken command for her to stay in the camp. Syndra looked at him, confirming he was secure, and with a few robust flaps of her wings, they were air bound.

They soared above the combined host of the tribes. A few thousand Dragor held the front with several hundred Blades flanked behind them. The Beast Herders took up the rear with their giant beasts bellowing over the battlefield. Syndra swooped down, landing in front of the center rank of the Dragor. Thundering clash of spear against shield greeted them. Valyn slid from Syndra’s back as the dragon reduced in size, taking her human form once more. Together they stood on the frontlines staring out at the opposing force that gathered just beyond the gates.

“Valyn, once you have united all the wasteland tribes, do your plans remain the same?” Syndra question.

“Yes,” his voice was calm and cold. Valyn had begun preparing himself. Drums sounded above the Sea Dragon’s forces as they parted. Their champion approached.

“Do you not think it might be wiser to direct our forces to search for the fragments? Why declare war on the Queen of Lagrasse?” Syndra watched Vayln tighten the straps on his bracers and adjust his cuirass. She felt it. The power swelling within that calm demeanor. His focus was on the army before him and the challenger that emerged from their lines.

“She shattered my life; I will shatter her world,” Valyn walked onto the killing field.