Tales of the Lorekeepers 01 - Rise of the Red Dragon

on rocks or on the fuming grass, waiting for the barbarians to attack and put an end to their sufferings.
    “My God,” whispered Ambrosius. “It’s as if the Saxons had just attacked these men and left them for dead.”
    “I can only imagine how they feel, tired and weak as they are after so many restless nights,” said Kaleb. “They were desperate and longing for a sign, anything to show them Vortigern will either take his army away from this dreaded place or lift the curse that plagues it. But it never came. Truth be told, I’m sure most of them are not expecting it anymore.”
    “On the bright side,” said Darroch, “They are ripe for a mutiny, my king. At the first sign from you, they will surely join your cause. Vortigern’s reign is over.”
    “All in due time, my friend. All in due time,” Ambrosius told him.
    When they reached the first slope of the hill, where the officer’s barracks once stood, the desolation and carnage was absolute. Here, almost every building was charred. The few men who had stayed at the bottom of the hill were packing belongings they had salvaged, ready to move to the outskirts of this place.
    “Tell me, where is Vortigern?” Kaleb asked an officer who was sitting on a flat boulder, staring at the sky. His eyes were ghoulish and his skin was pale, like a ghost awaiting tribute from these travelers in order to allow them through. He lowered his eyes and gazed upon the group of riders. Samuel could have sworn that this man was possessed by some uncanny spirit, his irises devoid of color and his mouth dried up, barely moving and probably unaware of his surroundings.
    “The coward is hiding from us,” answered the man. “He’s still up there, holed up at the top of this cursed hill. He claims he has a solution for this malediction, but no one believes his lies anymore. He will probably cut your head off on sight, but if you must see the mad king, simply follow the path around the hill.”
    Without another word, the man resumed his strange trance, as if he was meditating. The group passed him by, then dismounted and continued their ascension on foot, along the path.
    “Why does Vortigern still have his tent right at the epicenter of the tremors?” asked Freston.
    “Because he doesn’t want to show weakness in front of his men,” answered Ambrosius. “He wants them to believe everything is under control.”
    “It might be a little too late for that!” exclaimed Darroch. “If his idea of an army under control is a bunch of lunatics wandering around without any purpose, then he’s doing a terrific job of it!”
    For little more than an hour, they climbed the path to the top of the hill. Dragging any material to build a fortress here must have been a nightmare, thought Samuel.
    Once they reached the top, they found themselves on a plateau, barren except for a few trees and large boulders. Here, the grass had all but vanished, leaving rocks and black soil. Several mounds of stones disrupted the flatness of the hilltop, as well as small bushes attempting to find fertile ground, but for the most part, desolation and coldness characterized this place.
    Like the army camp, any structure that had been built here was now a pile of rubble. Still, some tents remained upright, notably a large black one in the middle of the plateau, about two hundred yards from where they stood. Around it, smaller but still sizeable tents were fighting the wind that had now picked up quite a bit, another sign of a coming storm.
    Looking at the tents, Samuel noticed many guards, officers and common soldiers, all running around and yelling at each other, apparently in a hurry to do something. Their distress made him uneasy. “What do we do now?” asked Malloy.
    “I don’t know. Go forth, I guess,” answered Kaleb.
    Before any of them could move, Myrddin walked forward, stepping in the direction of the main tent. Quickly, the others followed, hands on their sword hilts. Over their heads, the sky was getting more agitated, the heavy, dark clouds now moving closer from the mountains, charged with freezing rain and powerful thunders.
    Up ahead, a figure suddenly emerged from between two tents. Samuel immediately recognized the advisor Morghan, someone he would have preferred not to see immediately. He was sure this old man had something to do with the Yfel, although he did not know in what capacity. One thing was certain, however: Morghan did not intend to offer young Myrddin a glass of milk