Tales of the Lorekeepers 01 - Rise of the Red Dragon

island. Any Briton who would be unfortunate enough to fall within their grasp, even the mighty Ambrosius, would be beheaded swiftly.”
    “Don’t underestimate Ambrosius and his brother. They are tricky and clever.”
    “In that case, we’ll make a stand and stop the Saxon invasion. If we can fight them back, it will strengthen your authority over your men and make you a hero for having saved the island and their lands. If you can deal the Saxons a lethal blow, the two brothers won’t have any hopes of turning your people against you. It would be impossible for them to recruit anyone to their cause. The plan we have set forth to reach Dinas Ffaraon and build a fortress there will give us this victory we so desperately seek, my lord. Have faith and, I promise you, we will win this war.”
    Vortigern looked at his advisor. He could be right. If he could win at least one battle—an impressive one—he could turn the tide of this war and change the outcome. His position as king would then be untouchable.
    “Morghan,” he said, putting a hand on the shoulder of his friend. “As usual, your words are like a veil of peace over this troubled mind. You have always been a loyal subject and a good friend. I thank you from the bottom of my heart, and pray you will be at my side for many more years. If you believe that we can succeed with your plan, then so do I.”
    “I do, Vortigern, with all my heart.”
    Morghan stood up and went to the table.
    “My king, as I explained to you before, it is practically impossible to guarantee a win, but there are ways to tip the balance in our favor. For the moment, the Saxons are dictating the pace of this war, as well as its course. We are the ones fleeing and reacting to their every move. We must stop running, and should rather stand up before our enemies. If we use our wits and take advantage of the tools at our disposal, I firmly believe we can crush our foes.”
    “Indeed,” answered the king.
    Morghan took a large scroll from a shelf underneath the wooden table. He unrolled it to reveal a map of Britain.
    “To make an effective stand,” he said, “we need the perfect location to set up our defenses. It should be elevated and easily defendable, with a natural funnel, so the enemy’s army will be forced to a specific spot, exactly where we would want them. There, we can proceed to systematically slaughter them all, leaving only a few survivors, so they can run back to the others and tell the story of what happened.”
    The king joined his advisor at the table.
    “We will reach the hill of Dinas Ffaraon tomorrow, my lord,” continued Morghan.
    “Tomorrow we start fighting back,” replied the king.

    Later that evening, Morghan was back in his own tent, smaller than the king’s, but still quite large and richly decorated. He was going over the different reports and accounts of the location called Dinas Ffaraon, trying to figure out the best way to use the natural strengths of the area. At this late hour, the entire army was probably asleep, every man snoring away in his tent, but the old advisor had never been much of a sleeper himself. He often stayed up until late in the night to study different problems and ponder their possible solutions, enjoying the silence and solitude to gather his thoughts. These were the hours that Morghan looked forward to for most of the day.
    Lately, however, he had come to dread this time of the night.
    As he was reading the tale of a soldier, Morghan suddenly felt a cold shiver run up his spine. The temperature in the tent also seemed to drop abruptly and the fire, burning in the middle of the room, flickered wildly.
    The councilman raised his head and saw a dark figure standing a few feet away, looking back at him. Shaped like a tall man, the being wore a black, hooded robe that covered his entire body, like an infernal disciple of black wizardry. His face was shadowed within the hood, his eyes invisible. Likewise, his hands were concealed inside the robe’s sleeves and his feet were hidden from view, giving the impression that the figure was hovering, rather than walking.
    “Is the king still in agreement with your plan?” asked the man, his voice seemingly coming from the darkest pit of hell, like a growing tremor emerging from deep under the surface.
    “Yes, he is. You were right to point me to Dinas Ffaraon. It is a perfect location to make our final stand against the Saxons.”
    The hooded man moved a little closer to Morghan,