Tales of the Lorekeepers 01 - Rise of the Red Dragon

drowned out his voice. As the room spun faster and faster, he heard voices of men shouting randomly, along with the clashing of swords and the whistling of arrows.
    Every shape was now indistinguishable, all the colors merged in a surreal kaleidoscope. The sounds of battle and the voices of the soldiers were getting louder and louder, until they reached a deafening point. The smell of his room had been replaced by the fragrance of wet grass and damp leaves.
    Before he could ask himself if this was a lucid dream, everything suddenly went dark and Samuel fainted.
    The room returned to its regular state in a second, every object finding its usual place, undisturbed and unchanged. The goblets, the backpack and the figurines, like everything else, were back to their original position, as if nothing had happened.
    Everything except for the pair of dice, which were now gone.
    And so was Samuel.

CHAPTER 3

    “Damned be those backstabbing weasels!”
    Lord Vortigern, self-proclaimed king of the Britons, was furious. The day of riding through the countryside at the head of his army had only angered the sovereign. He had hoped the fresh air would appease his troubled mind, but it only gave him time to reflect on the decisions he had made, and the mistakes he had inadvertently committed. As a result, Vortigern’s mind was still fighting to regain its calmness, even after the sun had set and fires had been lit in the camp.
    “My king, it is common knowledge that one cannot trust the Saxons with anything. You must have known that they would eventually betray our people. Their word is like a steaming pile of boar dung, vile and worthless.”
    The man who spoke was an advisor to the king, sitting among his comrades in the royal tent, while the ruler paced back and forth among them. Vortigern did not recall inviting these people into his tent, but it was customary that his council discussed war strategies and defense schemes at the end of each day. Now they sat at his table, gorging themselves on a sumptuous feast, while the army suffered outside and their people starved under the heel of the barbarians. However, they were still on the run, fleeing from a terrible enemy, and their words of wisdom usually found a receptive ear from the king.
    “We did warn you,” pressed the advisor, selecting an apple from a bowl of fruit.
    This last comment sent King Vortigern over the edge. He turned to face the councilman. The king took a few steps forward, unsheathed the large sword he kept at his side and, before anyone could react, plunged the blade into the man’s chest. The thrust had such force that the tip of the blade pierced the back of the wooden chair. With a swift kick at the man’s body, the king sent him flying on his back, with the sword still firmly planted in his heart, now pointing up to the stars.
    “Would anyone else like to state the obvious?” asked Vortigern.
    No one dared to move.
    “You’re all dismissed. Get out of my sight. Except for you, Morghan. Please stay a while.”
    The advisors and other nobles who were lounging in the king’s tent hastily stood up and left the royal shelter. In a few minutes, the large tent was silent, and empty except for the king and his oldest, most trusted advisor.
    Morghan had been by Vortigern’s side long before he declared himself the king of Britain. In his early days, the advisor had been a fierce warrior, one who could best the toughest of enemies, using his natural strength, his quick reflexes and, most important, his wisdom. He had quickly acquired a reputation as a man it was better to follow than confront. Now he was an old man and had exchanged his heavy armor for a cotton tunic, but his eyes still reflected the relentless warrior that lingered inside his broken body. Should the need ever arise, everyone expected Morghan to exhibit the same impeccable skills that had made him famous more than forty years ago.
    For the next hour, neither man said a word. Vortigern knew his friend did not need the king to tell him what to do or think. Morghan was perfectly capable of occupying his mind by himself, without anyone’s permission. As for Morghan, he was well aware that Vortigern was not in any mood to talk, and needed to walk off the rage that consumed his heart.
    Vortigern had aged considerably in the past year. His features were those of a much older man than his forty-two years. His dark eyes had grown more obscure, more intense and sometimes seemed lost in some