Prologue

Prologue

 

 

 

              A cold dawn broke over the ridge, weak sunlight trying in vain to chase away the mist and fog.  A pause in the battle allowed cries and moans to be heard along with the new days birdsong, leaving him feeling disoriented and anxious.  Everything was tinted red and he swiped his hand across his face smearing the blood from his vision.  Between the smoke and the fog visibility was near impossible.  He slowly circled, checking his flank, straining to see through the haze.  He realized he was the last one standing here on this small knoll.  At his feet were what was left of twelve warriors.  Their lives lost in this final push to take the patch of grass he stood on.  With a warriors cry of victory he roared to Hal’lu’ah, the sound echoing through the quiet dawn.

            Ragnor lunged upright, gasping from the visions in the dream.  The space was shadowed with filtered light coming from the archway and sneaking past the drapery hanging from the ceiling around the pelts that comprised his bedding.  Below the rock floor was hard and cold, leaving no comfort for aging bones.  Disorientation had him struggling to his feet, claws raked the drapery out of his way, spinning in a circle and swiping his eight foot long tail, checking for adversaries. As he caught his breath he realized the noise he heard was the echo of his battle cry from a dream.  It reverberated throughout the room and he could still feel the blood smeared on his face.  He wiped his face as in the dream, expecting to find blood but only feeling the gaunt ridges of his bones sticking out from his wide triangular skull. Ragnor breathed slowly and the wheezing of his lungs brought reality back to his brain. 

            “AAAAARRRRRGGGGG!”   Ragnor bellowed with fury and disgust.  He slumped over catching his balance before he fell back to the uncomfortable floor. 

            “Will you PLEASE quiet down in there?  I’m coming as fast as I can!”  Was heard from the outer area. Ragnor settled on his dark rusty orange haunches, his head drooping in resignation of his age and disabilities. 

            “I’M FINE! … I’m fine.”  Ragnor’s voice was deep and strong.  It carried just as it had in his youth.  Rumbling from a broad chest no longer thick with muscles but rather sagging and thinly scaled.  The disgust could be heard in his voice, no pity, just raw anger.  Then remarkably, Ragnor smiled.  His muzzle split wide showing the double row of fangs common to Cave Dwellers and his small wizened eyes sparkled.

            “You missed me again, Death.  One more night and it will be my birthing day.  I will beat you yet!”  He chortled.  It’s almost time, Ragnor feels it every morning when he wakes. It’s become a surprise to wake each day.  The dreams carry him to a time when waking up didn’t seem such a big deal.  Youth was hand in hand with invincibility then.  Old age was not even a thought and given the life he’d led, just achieving old age was a miracle in itself.  He coughs and wheezes, cursing his weaknesses.

            Ragnor’s smile spread across his face as his life-mate, Darna, entered the sleeping quarters.  After five hundred years she was still as pleasing to the eye as when he took her as his own.  Her grass green scales and sunny yellow breastplate brightened up any space she entered.  With her proud bearing and knowing green eyes she still remained every bit as regal as she was born to be.  She was getting on in years, having just reached her second millennium, but Ragnor could be no prouder than a young buck with his first crush.  Darna was a two-legged dragon and walked upright carrying his morning meal on a tray in her arms.  At almost fifteen feet from tip of tail to hook of snout she had the beginnings of a stoop to her shoulders and her years showed in the wrinkles around her eyes.  Those eyes filled with affection and teasing was in her tone  when she chastised Ragnor.

            “Silly old fool, probably dreaming again and I’ll have to hear all about your victories and conquests for the thousandth time.  Don’t you know it takes time to put your tray of food together?”  Darna sighed softly knowing as she grumbled she wouldn’t be doing this for very much longer.  As she puttered and settled Ragnor with his tray she wiped a tear from her eye.

            “Fish again…”  He mumbles to himself as he begins to eat. 

            An hour later Ragnor is ready to face the day.  His belly still grumbling with hunger as he prepares for the long climb down the mountainside.  It occurs to him that he is running out of time and the burdens of his life weigh heavily on his shoulders.  He needs to tell someone.

             “But who?  There is no one suitable for the memories I must pass on.” He mumbles quietly.   He needs someone to keep the secrets, yet make sure they aren’t crossed.  Bloodlines, family, society, truth and deceit.  There is so much to tell after five thousand years, that he isn’t really sure how much needs to be passed on.  It would take a lifetime to record it all.  Then he remembers the scribes, they are already keeping record of most of it.  Ragnor sighs and stretches as he gains his feet. 

            “The secrets, no scribe has ever been told the secrets.  Who to tell?  It’s almost too late, I need time…”, then he barks out a laugh.  The Gods have given him five thousand years, and here he is asking for time at the very end.  Well, he smirks and shrugs, it’s typical of his nature and after five thousand years the Gods should expect that.

            Darna looks at Ragnor as he moves about the room, and he realizes he’s muttering to himself again.         

            “Who is she to judge?  I’d like to see her make the five thousand-year mark.  Nope, no one in dragon history, except me, has ever made it this far.”  He swaggers a little.  Getting old sucks, but after the first few millenniums or so, he had gotten used to it. As Ragnor looks back through the ages he knows he's been no houseboy either.  A warrior, a soldier, a killer, in every war there’s been in the last five thousand years, except this one.  Sighing, he admits to himself his body just gave out.  His mind is still sharp as a tack, but his body is racked with old age.              “Who to tell?  Who to trust?”  The muttering returns as he leaves the lair.  Darna shakes her head with concern and returns the tray of half eaten fish, bread and wine to the service area in the back of the lair.

            Ragnor slowly makes his way down the mountain from the lair, stepping cautiously on loose rocks and soil and drinks deeply from the river at the valley floor.  Across the river the forest beckoned filled with easily caught small game.  He had to stop hunting last year after a tumble down a steep, jagged crest caused a broken hind leg.  He laid in a crevice for two weeks, surviving off of the ram he took with him down the mountain.  The searchers finally found him and he was confined to his lair for a month while he healed.   His leg mended, although the tears in his twelve foot wingspan were another matter leaving him with limited flight ability ever since.

            Torch took over the hunting for the family after that, and their food supply changed dramatically.  They went from stags, rams, moose and the occasional wild boar, to large fish and fowl, with a cow every now and then.  Contact with humans is strictly forbidden and raiding villages stopped thousands of years ago, but occasionally, a cow will grow too old to produce milk for the dairy farmers of the Duck-Bill Clan and can be had for dinner. 

            It was hard for Ragnor not to be disappointed in his son, but it wasn’t Torch's fault and Ragnor knew the blame landed with himself.  Torch was not a strong dragon, nor was he the sharpest fang in the mouth.  Soft and weak, without the muscle structure of a warrior dragon like Ragnor, Torch’s physical appearance was more what was expected of his mother’s royal blood.  Although even there, Torch was not what a warrior like Ragnor had wanted for a son.  He had waited too long to have an heir.  Torch is a perfect example of why dragons don’t breed after one thousand years old.  Ragnor and Darna had mated too late and Torch was the product of elderly parents.  Darna, Ragnor’s life-mate for these past five hundred years, was happy finally being a mother, and that was all Ragnor cared about.  He regretted nothing in his long lifetime, but every now and then he worried about when he was gone, who would protect his family.  He had to make plans, talk to Darna, and set things in motion.  Today is the day, he decided, as he wandered the forest in search of an easy meal.

           

             Dragons are a violent and war faring species.  The thirteen founding species of dragons on L’Arne live within their individual territories granted by the Crown two thousand years ago.  Essentially the clans are only holding the land for the royal family and must pay tribute during The Season’s, a time of gathering of heads of state at the castle each year.  This however does not keep the clans from raiding and warring against their neighbors.  In fact, the mortality rate of hatchlings are so high that raiding other territories is almost a necessity for some clan’s survival.  Due to the frequent wars, alpha males are actually very short lived.  Their average life span depends on their fighting skills. The more territory and females an alpha claims for his clan, the more powerful he is in the Realm.

            When an alpha male dies without a strong heir, it causes a frenzy among other males in the clan.  Many clans have any number of strong males and with the death of a Clan Leader, it is the prime opportunity for a new alpha to be recognized.  Fighting for position and property can go on for days.  When it’s over, the smoke clears and a new alpha is in charge.  Contenders that fought for the position of alpha that have survived the carnage are not exiled because all clans need as many strong warriors as they can claim fealty from.  Their simple survival marks these males as being worthy of the positions of captains and advisors to the new alpha.  Of course as you can imagine this causes a complete restructuring of the clan.  Life-mated females of dragons that perished are taken by the surviving male dragons, increasing each individual family unit.  It is not unusual for male dragons to have multiple females within their family structure, however the law of the land recognizes only one life-mate and it is that female’s hatchlings which are the heirs to a males property. 

            This leaves a large section of dragon society without property ownership and is how the crafts, laboring and serving classes of dragons came to be.  If there are surviving heirs of the previous alpha, no matter their age or sex, they are then fostered out to other clans, their property confiscated, never to return.  If the new alpha is an honorable dragon or if the female in question is no longer of breeding age, the previous alpha’s life-mate is exiled with her hatchlings.  All other females, servants and various family members of the previous alpha are then divided amongst the new captains and advisors with the new alpha taking his pick first.  These are very common traditions within most clans throughout the realm and rarely does the royalty show notice, unless royal property or hatchlings are involved. 

            Occasionally, back when breeding wasn’t so rare and dragons flourished, royal hatchlings were fostered out to various clans for specific reasons, usually to gain a different education or to secure alliances.  With these fostered hatchlings it was common that the fostering Clan Leader, or alpha male, would serve as governor over the hatchlings property until such time as they reach their majority at two years old.  Then it was expected that the hatchling would swear fealty to their fostered clan but retain their responsibilities to the Crown.  This ancient tradition goes all the way back to the old country, however it has not been implemented since the dragon clans came to L’Arne over two thousand years ago.

            This is why the Crown follows a queen, why there is no king.  Royal lineage is the only remaining matriarchal lineage in the realm. Dragon law requires the queen to mate to produce an heir, however, she is forbidden to life-mate.  The crown follows the daughters of the queen or granddaughters if necessary.  Queen Dana and her sister Darna had two different fathers but their mother was queen.   When it is Dana’s time to pass the crown it will go to a granddaughter, not her son, Saber.  If Saber has no daughters, then to Darna's granddaughters… and so on.  If there ever would have been a king, it would have been Ragnor.  Darna, the queens’ older sister, abdicated the throne to become Ragnor's life-mate.  Dana became queen and has ruled for five hundred years. 

 

             Later that afternoon, at the castle, Darna and Dana sit quietly gossiping and laughing as they play cards.  Dana’s slender, two-legged stance and ice blue coloring made her one of the beauties of the realm. Her midnight blue eyes could sparkle with wit one moment and snap in irritation the next.  She stood tall for a female at seven and a half feet with another six foot through the tail. She had the classic forward facing horns and the ancient royal snout horn as well, which she had passed on to her son, Saber. As the younger of the two sisters, Dana had been spoiled as a hatchling and unaware of royal obligations and necessities.  Growing up and living in the castle without the weight of the crown had been a free spirited time for her.  For the first half of her life Dana lived the privileged life of the aristocracy without the hardships of duty or protocol.  Five hundred years ago that all changed and Dana became the queen she needed to be.  Her reign has been tempered with dignity and fairness.  Her sweet disposition giving a grace to the crown that had been lacking in both her mother and Darna.  Now she looks into her beloved sisters eyes and sees sorrow.

            “How is he?” Dana asks.

            “Quarrelsome, fidgety, rarely sleeps, eats even less and is generally…fading away.” Darna says with tears in her eyes.  “I’m not sure how much longer he has and I’m beginning to get concerned over legal matters.  I know we shouldn’t have let it go so long, but I still remain hopeful that Torch will be strong enough to keep the vultures at bay.”

            Darna’s worries are real.  There has never been a dragon with more property or position than Ragnor.  Ragnor’s lair sits along the castle’s northern lands, adding to each defensively.  Ragnor’s holdings are second only to royal holdings in size and value and his treasury, some say is greater than the royal treasury.  Ragnor has no central clan but has always been allied with the crown.  This much property and wealth could attract alphas from far and wide, all trying to lay claim to Ragnor’s riches.  Ragnor has one hatchling, easily disposed of and just like that, a new alpha male is recognized.  Yes, Darna is royalty, but technically Ragnor is not.  As long as Darna and Torch are treated reasonably, the crown could not interfere.......after Ragnor passes on.

            Saber has been silent beside his mother and aunt, here in his mother’s drawing room, as they discuss and worry over the situation.  A warm fire was crackling and the occasional servant would enter or leave, going about their duties.  The late winters suns weak rays shimmered across the tile floor through an open window.  The females quiet whispers were heard by no one but him as he stood at the window gazing upon the courtyard below and the gardens stretching out between the temple and castle.  The clang of steel can be heard above the general bustling of the courtyard and he realizes the guards are training.  Saber thinks about joining them as he stretches his eight foot height and tries to hide a yawn.  His deep blue and green coloring is accented by a dark purple along his arms and tail.  He has a strong warrior class body and keeps it tuned by regular sparing with Ryan, the head of the guards. The ritualistic carvings on his skull horns represent his royal lineage and his tattoos along his arms and ten foot tail represent his warrior status, even if his massive musculature didn’t.  He’s been thinking about the exact same issues concerning Ragnor and his aunt for weeks now.  Five hundred years of castle gossip, intrigue and rumors has given Saber a unique outlook on life. You could say he was jaded, but Saber just considered himself bored. 

            So, when he stepped forward and interrupted…“Mother, what if I…?”  He almost surprised himself…but there it was, already out there, too late to take it back… crap

Reviews

[NAyersman]

I like these descriptions and the overall world that you're creating. A few things struck me as odd, though. The middle section describing the selection of clan leaders doesn't seem connected to the rest of it, even though it is the driving force setting up the conflict of the entire story. It would seem to work better to me if it came in parts during the scenes where Torch is being described with regards to Ragnor and where Saber is being presented as the physical antithesis of Torch. I feel it would flow a little better, but that is just my opinion and it is your story.
Grammatically, the first eight paragraphs are in past tense and then it suddenly switches to present tense. Also, there are a few places I noticed that need commas to set off different phrases and compound sentences.

[Kari]

Thanks for your review, I DO switch between past tense and present tense ALOT, although I've tried to find most of them thru editing. The selection of clan leaders is important and I will try to connect it better. I really appreciate you taking the time to read and review!