Tales of the Lorekeepers 01 - Rise of the Red Dragon

lurking madness. His long hair had recently turned gray, much like the beard he had stopped shaving in the past months. His eyes were sunken and shadows persisted on his cheeks, the skin clinging directly to the bones. Even his body, usually strong and powerful, had suffered from the slow decay of anguish and despair.
    Morghan observed him, like a father looking upon one of his children who was hurting. He wished he could do something and make all of his king’s problems go away, but he remained powerless, unable to bring the slightest comfort to his friend.
    At last, Vortigern sat down and grabbed a piece of bread from one of the plates on the table.
    “What am I going to do, old friend?” he asked Morghan, dipping the bread into a cup of tepid chicken broth.
    Morghan waited a few seconds before answering. He knew the king was not directly asking him a question, but was rather expressing a thought out loud. When the moment felt right, he began the conversation.
    “You did the right thing, my king.”
    “How? How have I ever done anything right? Tell me, I implore you!”
    “The outcome may not have been the one you were hoping for, I grant you that, but your actions were guided by noble thoughts. You were trying to help your country and bring peace to our people.”
    “I should have never trusted the Saxons,” whispered Vortigern. He crushed the bread in his fist, cursing the betrayal he had been the victim of.
    “That may be so,” answered Morghan, “but we are not defeated yet, old friend. We will stand up to them and we will prevail, as we have always done. However, you cannot let your anger take control of your mind. You must remain of sound spirit; you must be strong and lead your people to victory.”
    “You’re right, as always, Morghan. Will you sit quietly with me for a moment?”
    “Of course, my king.”
    Both men took their places next to a fire burning in the middle of the tent, the smoke escaping through a hole in the ceiling. Morghan wisely obeyed Vortigern and sat in silence, watching the flames dancing on the logs and listening to the crackles of the burning wood, allowing the fragrance of the fire to comfort his spirit. He never doubted that Vortigern’s heart was in the right place, but it seemed that every decision the king took always backfired on him.
    Vortigern was also looking toward the fire, but his thoughts took a different tack. It pained him tremendously to do so, but he was going over every detail of the treason that had befallen him. He was trying to evaluate the Saxons’ next move. As king of the Britons, he had to protect his people from old enemies, namely the Picts and the Scots from the Northlands. He had successfully eliminated most of his rivals for the crown, but those two tribes had been the main cause of all his problems. Tirelessly, they had tried to steal his lands and capture villages close to Hadrian’s Wall. Ever since the Romans had left the island to go back to the main land, tribes like these two had been trying to gather power and might eventually overthrow the Britons.
    Since most of the Briton noblemen had grown into pompous weaklings, under the “generous” administration of the Romans, Britain had been left with a minimal defense system as soon as the last regiment of legionaries had left. The few thousand men he had at his disposal at the time had been insufficient to protect the whole island.
    He had needed to ask for help, and the Saxons had seemed like the logical choice—the only choice, in fact. Even though his entire court had showered him with warnings about the Saxons, he had had no other options. But those barbarians were greedy, always asking for more land and more gold, more food and more women. Vortigern had been kind enough to give them a place to stay, in the eastern part of the island. Still, every month, more of their people were coming to the island, crossing over from the continent, all of them looking for a place to settle down and begin a better life.
    “I should have listened, Morghan. I should have known they would ask for additional lands.”
    His advisor did not answer. There was no need to. He knew his king was still mourning the loss of many friends.
    About a year ago, a messenger had arrived at the king’s court, bearing a letter from the Saxons. The message was simple enough. Hengist, the leader of the Saxon tribes, was asking for a meeting with the king and various lords of the region. He had claimed a desire to