Tales of the Lorekeepers 01 - Rise of the Red Dragon

that none of them was actually interested in the answers; they just seemed to shout one question after another.
    It was then that Samuel noticed a couple of larger tents at the back, surrounded by guards. Probably the sleeping quarters of Ambrosius and someone else, he thought.
    When he passed by the last wooden shed, where a large family lived, he saw the stables where the horses were kept and next to it, the abbey itself.
    The building looked more like a stronghold than a church. The thick, towering walls were made mostly of stone, with oak beams supporting the corners. Small windows high in the walls prevented anyone from seeing into the abbey. A red wooden roof completed the structure, with pennants flapping here and there, making it look a little more welcoming. Moving a little closer, Samuel saw that it was also built at the top of a vertiginous cliff, offering a breathtaking view of the whole region, including the spot where the Saxons had ambushed them.
    Surely the Britons had seen the group coming and the trap being set for them, even before it had all happened. Samuel thanked God that someone had been standing right here earlier, seeing the events about to unfold.
    Other than this cliff, the small village was surrounded by dense, dark woods. Samuel could not help but wonder if they would have ever found this place had Ambrosius and his soldiers not intervened to save them. Then again, maybe it was all part of the story. Maybe the ambush had been scripted, so they could find the monastery and the precious boy without a father.
    It made him wonder how much of his own life was already scripted in advance. Was he in any real danger and, if so, was there anything he could do to prevent it? The voice of Ambrosius pulled him back to reality.
    “My friends, consider yourselves most welcome to our humble hideout,” said the charismatic leader. “Please do not hesitate to visit the many workshops, or even the abbey, where you can warm your heart with a delicious meal. Our kitchen is always open for hungry heroes such as yourselves.”
    Ambrosius then requested that Kaleb and Myrddin follow him, while the rest of them settled down and enjoyed the monks’ hospitality.
    “Come on,” said Malloy to Samuel. “Let’s see that kitchen of theirs and if we can find anything to eat. I’m starving.”
    Samuel followed Malloy past the stables, followed by the archer and the two injured brothers.
    “I bid you all a hearty welcome,” said a monk standing behind a wooden counter, as they stepped into the abbey’s small, dark vestibule. “If you may be so kind as to leave all your weapons with me, I shall let you through.”
    The man had a ghostly look, accentuated by the candles behind him, which were the only real source of light in the room.
    “You heard the man,” whispered Malloy to the others. He dropped his bow on the wooden counter and quietly unfastened his belt, on which was attached his sword.
    Samuel imitated him and left his sword and dagger in the care of the eerie cenobite. Freston did the same, stacking several small daggers on top of each other, while the old man observed him attentively.
    Darroch and Atwood, though, were a little more reluctant to leave their weapons behind.
    “Who’s to say you’re going to give them back to me when we leave this place?” asked Darroch, raising his eyebrows.
    “What is it that you think he’s going to do exactly?” replied Freston. “Steal them?”
    “He might!”
    “Darroch,” countered Malloy. “He’s a monk! He’s not going to steal your things. Now leave your weapons and let’s get something to eat.”
    “You never know,” complained the bulky warrior. “Maybe he’s just disguised as a man of faith.”
    Atwood finally put his shield, sword and small axe on the counter, pressing his sibling to do the same. The monk slowly took the items and stored them behind the counter. Then he pointed at Darroch’s waist.
    “I will also need the knife, good sir.”
    The warrior feigned surprise and outrage. He took from his belt a gigantic knife, which had a blade more than fifteen inches long.
    “What, this thing? It’s my buttering knife. You couldn’t harm a mouse with this thing.”
    “For God’s sake, Darroch,” said Freston. “Just give the man your damn knife and let’s get out of here!”
    Darroch mumbled something under his thick beard and dropped his last weapon on the counter. Satisfied, the monk gestured for the group to go in, pulling