Tales of the Lorekeepers 01 - Rise of the Red Dragon

on a wooden lever to open the door, which creaked loudly.
    “May God be with you,” he said, as they passed by.
    “I’d rather have my sword,” Atwood told him.
    Although the building had appeared to be quite large from the outside, Samuel was surprised at the vast interior. In front of him, an alley stretched through several rows of wooden benches, all the way to the front of the nave, where a large crucifix was displayed. Unlike the church Samuel and his family attended on Sundays, this one did not have large choir from which priests preached to the congregation. Instead, a simple altar was placed behind a metal fence, with two candles burning on either side.
    The interior was dark and silent, a place imbued with respect for God and Christian traditions. Even the sun, coming in through the stained-glass windows and projecting colorful patterns across the room, could not adequately light the room. Likewise, the chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling, projecting dancing shadows on the stone walls, barely provided enough light for visibility.
    In a violent world like Metverold, full of danger and uncertainties, it was probably easy to find faith and pray for protection from evil, thought Samuel.
    “Come,” said Malloy. “Let’s find that kitchen.”
    The dining room at the back of the church reminded them of a small inn, with a few tables and wooden seats scattered all around. As soon as they sat down, a stout woman entered through another door and listed the available dishes. She set a few pitchers of water on their tables, along with a bottle of wine and several metal cups. After having noted the selection of each man, she disappeared through the same door she had come from earlier.
    “Finally, something to thank God for,” exclaimed Atwood as he grabbed two of the mugs, without offering the second one to any of his companions.
    “Careful,” replied Freston, with a glance at Darroch. “It might be poisoned. After all, this abbey is filled with evil monks, out to get our rusty swords.”
    Samuel cautiously tasted the wine that Malloy poured him, but immediately spat it out. The taste was so awful and so bitter that he thought his breakfast would knock at the back of his throat. He opted for the water, even though it was slightly brown and smelled funny.
    Soon after, they were all feasting on hot bread, juicy meat and mashed turnip. As he was happily gorging on roast mutton, Samuel wondered if the monks treated all their guests in the same way, but his thoughts quickly drifted to other matters. Since Myrddin and his protectors had rescued them, Samuel could not help but feel as if he should have known the name of their leader, Ambrosius. He remembered hearing it before, but could not recall where and under what conditions. In the end, he decided that the best thing to do was probably to ask his companions.
    “So, who’s Ambrosius Aralius?” he asked casually.
    The whole room fell silent. All his companions stopped what they were doing. Small chunks of meat and gravy dribbled down Darroch’s thick beard. Even the corpulent lady, who had just brought back some more wine, froze dead in her tracks, before scurrying back to the kitchen.
    “Am I saying it right?” asked the young boy, his voice suddenly sounding a little worried.
    Darroch put down the piece of meat he was holding and looked at his brother Atwood. The latter looked back at him with an inquiring look. Both men tried to refrain themselves from bursting into hysteria, but could not do so for very long. Freston went back to eating his bread, balancing his chair in the corner of the room. Malloy, however, did not take his eyes off the strange boy he had met only a few days ago.
    “It’s Ambrosius Aurelianus,” he said. “And he’s the rightful heir to the throne of Britain.”
    Samuel tried to act casually, unsure of what was going through Malloy’s mind.
    “I thought Vortigern was the king of the Britons.”
    “That bastard isn’t the king of shit, if you ask me,” replied Darroch.
    “Enough of that,” warned Freston.
    “What? It’s true,” agreed Atwood. “For God’s sake, the man even married a pagan woman. He was not only content to give our lands to the barbarians, he also had to let them into his own house.”
    Samuel looked at his plate, dipping a piece of bread in the sweet brown gravy. He could still feel Malloy’s eyes on him.
    “I’m sorry,” he mumbled to defend himself. “I just did not know, that’s all.