Tales of the Lorekeepers 01 - Rise of the Red Dragon

younger leader on the throne. Vortigern was not fit to lead the Britons, and every man who had spent some time by the monarch’s side knew this. However, no one had the courage to defy him, not since he had murdered the eldest son of Constantine II.
    Morghan stood up, walked toward the tent flap and pushed the fabric aside slightly. Peering into the black night, he recalled the precise moment the dark stranger had come forth. It had almost seemed that he had crossed over from some other world beyond this one. Morghan had drawn his sword, but with a swift movement of his hand, the stranger had disarmed him. Then, in a soft but commanding voice, he had uttered a single word:
    “Sit.”
    The memory of that night was enough to send shivers down the old man’s spine. To this day, he still recalled the frightful powerlessness he had felt. It was as if the dark man had seized control of his spirit, draining every ounce of free will the old man possessed.
    Without wasting a single moment, the dark man had explained how he was here to help the Britons. He wanted to ensure a change in the tide of this war. He had indicated to the advisor the need to gather their troops and march westward, toward the mountains blocking access to the sea. Without waiting for any objections from the advisor, clearly assuming he would obey him, the dark stranger had simply taken a map from under his black coat and pointed out a particular spot, calling it Dinas Ffaraon.
    “There,” he had indicated. “This is where you will bring your king and your army. Once you arrive at Dinas Ffaraon, you will build a fortress strong enough to withstand the erosion of time, a place where you will win many victories, for many centuries. Once you accomplish this deed, the Saxons will have no hope of defeating the Britons.”
    Morghan had garnered enough strength of will to ask this man how he knew this would work and why he was helping them. “You will do as I say or your people will suffer by the thousands, either by the Saxons’ hands or mine.”
    Then the man had walked away and vanished into the night, leaving the map on the table, a small dagger planted into the spot he had pointed out to Morghan. It had taken Morghan a full hour to regain complete control of his will and cleanse his spirit of any lingering fear. At that moment, sitting at his desk and studying the stranger’s map, the old advisor had decided it was in their best interests to listen to the dark man. And he had been right. The hill was perfect: an ideal place to take control of this war and win back their lands.
    Morghan resumed his studies. Looking at the layout of the hilltop, he saw a particular mound that would be ideal for an observatory tower. He extended his right hand to take the quill from a black inkwell, but suddenly the feather jerked slightly, dancing away from his fingers. Morghan reached for the feather again, but it jumped out of reach, this time with enough insistence to throw a few droplets of ink onto the wooden desk.
    The old advisor slowly raised his head. For a third time, the quill jumped in the inkwell. However, Morghan now knew that the plume was not the subject of this mystery, for he also saw ripples forming in the glass of wine, next to his hand.
    The advisor remained motionless, his hand poised over the desk. For a moment, everything seemed normal and the night was as quiet as it ever was.
    Then he heard a noise. It was a faint rumbling sound, like a coming storm, distant and almost inaudible at first, but growing steadily louder and more powerful. For a few seconds, the rumble gained in strength, becoming a monstrous growl. Then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.
    Morghan held his breath for a few seconds, listening. Just as he was about to exhale, his desk suddenly jumped a few inches in the air, along with the chair he was sitting in and every other piece of furniture in the tent. Scrolls rolled to the ground, and a jar shattered.
    The cavernous tremor resumed, this time much louder and closer. The old man grabbed the edges of his desk, as the ground shook violently, throwing stools and shelves to the floor.
    Within a few seconds, the interior of the advisor’s tent was in disarray, while the ground continued to shake violently, as if hell itself was about to open under the feet of the Briton army.
    The center pole started cracking and the ropes broke loose of their anchors. The advisor barely had enough time to exit before it collapsed on