The Eaglecrown Legacy (Archival Text)
Part 1: A Brief History
The old man settled down in his favorite chair, a thick tome upon his lap and a crackling fire at his back. With a “cluck” he began sifting through the pages of the book and a smile creased his wrinkled face. To live in those times! he thought idly as he waited for the children to finish clearing the table of the evenings meal.
In time his grandchildren settled in at his feet, curling their legs beneath them as they waited for him to begin his tale. For years now, this had been the way of his family. Following dinner he would read to the children, a pleasant break for them from their chores and an enjoyable evening for him as he watched them giggle, laugh, cry and gasp through his tales. This night was special however, for on this night he would tell the tale of Handmrick Eaglecrown and the rise of the Eaglecrown Empire. This night the children would learn of the man who made everything possible for all those living on Quin-Slon.
A flash of light and a puff of smoke marked the lighting of his pipe and the children, who had been chatting to one another quieted down, for they all knew that when Grandfather lit his pipe the story would begin. From her place in the kitchen their mother stood quietly overseeing the event as usual, a twinkle in her eye and warmth in her heart.
“Ahem,” began Grandfather, “tonight the tale you hear is true, every word at that. Tonight you learn what it means to be a hero, to know pain, sorrow, suffering and loss and then to rise up and achieve that which all thought hopeless. Tonight I tell you of Handmrick Eaglecrown!” With squeals of glee the children shuffled about, getting comfortable for what would prove to be a long story indeed.
"Our story begins in a time long forgotten now by most, when dragons wheeled gracefully in the skies above Quin-Slon and mighty giants roamed the land, devouring any of the ‘little people’ they crossed paths with. Into this era of roiling chaos and danger the boy Handmrick Eaglecrown came.
"His younger days are lost to the annuls of history and when we are first introduced to Handmrick he comes with three companions: Yorr the Compassionate, Xar the Just, and Skaelus the Destroyer. You must understand my children, that Handmrick and his Knights of the Triangle, as his three companions would come to be known, were men of legend.
"Handmrick himself stood a head taller than any man in his empire with golden locks of hair that cascaded down his back. Large, bushy eyebrows stood atop his blue eyes, full of compassion and wisdom. He was known for his sharp, handsome face and large, round eyes. Some said he had the strength of a bull, for his shoulders were wide and muscled beneath the golden armor he wore, the eagle crest emblazoned boldly upon its chest. Upon his back he bore the sword of his father, a mighty blade that could be wielded only by the strongest of men, and then only with both hands.
"Of the Knights of the Triangle Yorr stood forth as the champion of goodness. Dressed in silver armor bearing the triangle crest upon the front and the eagle crest upon the back his silver hair shimmered in the morning light. His long mustache curled down past his chin and tickled the neck of any woman he held close. His black eyes held the knowledge of ages in them and many swore that he could look at a man and know instantly if he spoke the truth or lies. Upon his wrists he wore bonds of silver, refusing ever to be without them for they symbolized both his everlasting service to his lord Handmrick and his never ending pursuit of peace and goodness.
"Skaelus stood as a reflection of opposition. Dressed always in blackened armor that brought fear and dread to any whose eyes fell upon it the evil, twisted Skaelus stood as a master of wickedness. His gray eyes smoldered unhidden anger and hatred seeking only some unfortunate being to cross him and invite his wrath. Black hair fell about his head and shoulders, uncombed and snarled and an angry scar crossed his face, only adding to his fearful appearance. Of all the Knights, Skaelus was the strongest. His arms were as thick as the legs of a bear and the ground seemed to tremble when he walked. No man crossed Skaelus.
"And last there was Xar who stood between Yorr and Skaelus and brought a balance to the Knights of the Triangle. An imposing man he stood as tall as the other knights, dressed in steel armor wrought with intricate runes and sigils. The triangle crest and eagle upon his armor as that of his companions. Brown hair and a brown beard framed his powerful face. His stern gaze warned any, even Skaelus, that he was no one to be trifled with.
"Together these four men journeyed out from their homes to free a world from oppression. They did battle with dragons, giants, undead, devils, demons and legions of other creatures always struggling to bring peace to the lands of Quin-Slon. In their early days they knew hard times, times when Handmrick and his Knights of the Triangle stood with few allies by their sides against indomitable odds. Battle after battle they fought on, seeking victory but day after day hope drained from their hearts. For every piece of Quin-Slon they liberated another fell under a dark shadow. Great armies grew to oppose the Knights of the Triangle, Handmrick and those that had joined his cause.
"For a season these battles raged on, seeming to be fought without end, yet all could see the end, for the forces of good were outnumbered by countless, seemingly endless legions of enemies. Slowly and methodically Handmrick and his allies were pushed back from the victories they had enjoyed, slowly the lands he controlled were once again consumed by evil. When it seemed things could never be worse for Quin-Slon both Handmrick and the Knights disappeared.
"Years passed by and all that Handmrick had fought for was lost. The hero fell to infamy, for all knew he had not fallen in battle but had simply quit the field one day, never to return. So too with his Knights of the Triangle. The scourge of evil found new ways to torment those who had sided with Handmrick and the hearts of the people turned cold and bitter.
"And then the King returned, and his Knights with him. In days Handmrick had pushed back the darkness for now nothing could stand before him, for now he held in his hand the legendary blade Quin-Slon itself. With Quin-Slon no enemy could hope to defeat the king. The hearts of the oppressed found new hope when they seen their king return, and with the power to rid them of evil forever. New allies flocked to Handmrick until his legions numbered greater than even the grains of sand upon a sea-shore. Nothing could hope to overcome him.
“So was the Eaglecrown empire birthed in flames of torment and strife,” the old man finished up, closing the book with a loud, booming sound.
At his feet, the children looked up at him in silence, then the youngest of them spoke, “More Gamps.”
The children’s Grandfather smiled a warm smile and looked down into the face of his 3-year old granddaughter. Cupping her tiny chin in his wrinkled hand he smiled, causing a flurry of wrinkles to form about his eyes, “More little one? Yes, there is much more, much more indeed.” Again he smiled, though this time it was the smile of a man about to cause a bit of mischief, “More such as the tale of the the ascension of Yorr the Compassionate to divinity and the great climactic battle between Handmrick and wicked Dezlock. The losing of Quin-Slon and the appearance of the Riders of Guraand. Yes my child,” he said, lightly patting his granddaughter now on the top of her head, “there is more to tell. But that must wait my dear, for another day.”
Part 2: The Riders of Guraand
Grandfather once again settled down into his chair by the fireplace, his great tome upon his lap, and began to leaf through the old, fragile pages. He was tired, for the day had been long and much work had to be done, but now was the time that he enjoyed the most, the time that he would spend with his grandchildren reading them tales of forgotten days. Just yesterday he had begun the story of Handmrick Eaglecrown and all day long the children had pestered him for more.
“Tell me of Yorr the Compassionate!” his oldest grandson had said to him as they were doing the morning chores. “I hope to be like him one day,” he continued when Grandfather had offered only a smile and a short wiggle of his finger.
“Gamps, what is Kinslon?” the youngest, his little Angel, had asked him just before dinner. He had smiled warmly then and told her than ‘Kinslon’ was a mighty sword. “But we live in Kinslon,” she had persisted. Another warm smile for his Angel and he had explained how the land they lived in had been named something different before Handmrick had brought forth the mighty sword Quin-Slon. He had just settled into what was shaping up to be a truly good tale when his daughter scolded him, telling him to keep his tales for story time. Chuckling, he acquiesced.
A tug at his pant leg brought him out of his reverie and with a bit of a start he realized the children were all arrayed before him in their usual places on the floor. He smiled as he looked out at them and watched with amusement as their faces lit up as he took up his pipe. Opening the book he begun to mumble to himself, trying to decide what tale to tell. At last, with an “Aha!” he opened the book and began.
“Tonight I shall tell you of the Battle of West Ridge. This tale is one of conflict and danger and it is here that we first meet the Riders of Guraand. You must be brave, my little Angel,” he said, tussling her hair, “for the Riders of Guraand are scary.” He finished his sentence by squishing up his face, which only served to make his wrinkles bigger. The children all laughed and his daughter, at her usual place in the kitchen, smiled lovingly.
“The time is late in the War of Shadows and Handmrick Eaglecrown has returned bearing the mighty sword Quin-Slon, his Knights of the Triangle at his side. Legions had flocked to the eagle banner and now victory over the enemy was all but assured. At a small ridge, the West Ridge, the Hawkmoon Battalion had cornered all that remained of the giant armies from the north. For days the Hawkmoon…”
“Gamps,” Angel interrupted, “what’s Hawkoom?”
“Yes,” Grandfather said in his quiet voice, "I get ahead of myself don’t I? Handmrick Eaglecrown, upon his return, began building a legion of warriors to fight with him, under the eagle banner against the many armies that oppressed the people. In his army was a man who would eventually become known as General Elis Hawkmoon, a wise tactician and respected military leader. Never one to turn a blind eye to true leadership Handmrick had given command of one of his finest battalions over to General Hawkmoon. It is this battalion that whose story I now tell you.
“Now then, where was I? Lets see…” he ran his fingers along the text in the book mumbling aloud bits he had already read, “here we are,” he announced at last.
"For days the Hawkmoon Battalion had engaged the armies of giants in skirmishes that ranged all across the western coasts. They drove the giants before them, across the Plains of Arazon and through the Forest of Gileems. At last they had them cornered at the West Ridge, and it is here that our tale begins in earnest.
"General Hawkmoon rode out on the morning of Backtre the 17th, a cold morning better suited to huddling by a fire, but an important morning for at last the giant armies were within his reach. If luck were with him by nightfall the Kingdom of Eaglecrown would be freed of their blight forever. He watched as his men lined up, preparing for an assault. Long lines of pikemen stood at the forefront of his army, lightly armored and trained to strike quickly and then fall back and make way for the swordsmen behind.
"With a grimace he remembered the day he had learned to put his pikemen out in the front when fighting giants, a bloody day indeed. He had sent in his swordsmen only to watch them be hurled about as sacks of grain by the giants with their long arms and massive clubs. Since then the pikemen always led the charge, with long pikes that could reach the giants. Once the distance was closed the heavily armored swordsmen would move in to finish the battle.
"‘Let’s be on with it then,’ he commanded and the man standing to his side blew a long note upon his horn. Like an ancient snake awakening from the cold his armies began their ponderous march forward. General Hawkmoon watched them move forward across the field, soon to close with the giants who now huddled in the shadows created by the hills of the ridge. From his vantage point, high above his armies, the ground itself seemed to be inching forward, so great were the numbers of his men. Thousands of pikemen and a like number of swordsmen followed by companies of archers as numerous as the trees of a forest. Several cavalry units were held in reserve along with as many troops as marched now into the West Ridge.
"Commotion at the front of his army caused him to turn his attention to the area, peering through a spyglass and straining to make out the images. It appeared as if his armies were engaged in battle with a trio of mounted men. They were too far away for him to get a good view, but something in the pit of his stomach told him things were about to take a turn in the wrong direction. Moving quickly he rushed to his horse and leapt into the saddle, his aides at his side. ‘Something is terribly wrong,’ he muttered, and spurred his horse forward.
"Meanwhile, in the ridge a terrible scene played out.
"The armies of General Hawkmoon had awoken that morning as any other. Their numbers greatly outmatched that of their enemy and although some of them would not see the next sunrise they all knew they fought for the cause of goodness. When the horn had blown Captain Jon Anders had ordered his men forward, riding atop his great stallion. From his vantage he had seen the riders as they emerged from the long shadows in the ridge, and what he saw caused the blood in his body to freeze with terror.
"Each of them rode upon a horse blacker than even the darkness of a cavern. The beasts seemed to ride on the air and flame licked upon their hooves as they pounded forward, causing the ground to tremble although never did they actually touch it. Each of the great steeds, which stood half again as tall as any horse the captain had ever seen, had blacked armor fluted with leering, demonic faces. Flame licked out from their fiery red eyes as they came forward and smoke belched from their noses and maws with each breath.
"And yet, for as terrifying as the horses, the men, if they can be called men, that rode upon their backs were all that Captain Anders even perceived. Each man wore armor like that of his steed, blacked and burned as if in a fire and decorated with leering faces that seemed to almost be screaming in agony. Great swords, also black as night, were held in one hand and a massive shield in the other. Helms like unto the face of the unholy gods of evil themselves sat upon the heads of these riders. Yet none of this was what held his attention, it was their skin that he looked upon. Or rather, their lack of skin. The riders had no skin, their muscle tissue was exposed to the elements seeming to mock life itself. A slick bile covered that and a horrible wave of nausea and evil swept over the Captain as they drew near.
"Even as his men were staring aghast they began their work on the front lines of his soldiers. In seconds the skinless men had decimated a dozen of his men and were continuing their charge, seemingly oblivious to the fact that thousands of enemies were arrayed before them. Gathering his wits about him the Captain began barking orders and his dazed men slowly reacted. Pikemen closed on them, dozens of arrows were launched into the skies. But all to no avail. Pikes bit into their flesh but the riders didn’t even flinch in pain. Arrows peppered their bodies and again they ignored the assaults, all the while continuing their deadly destruction of the Hawkmoon Battalion.
"Suddenly Captain Jon Anders heard a hiss and reeled as a wave of heat erupted forth from the riders, swallowing him in a rush of flames. The force of the blast threw him from his horse and the fire burned his flesh and eyes. Blindly he rose to the sound of men screaming on all sides, the screams of the dying. Captain Anders staggered about, helplessly, trying to help his men, but his eyes were gone, his flesh burned and his life all but spent.
"In a terrifying moment all sounds seemed to drift away and Jon Anders knew that before him one of the riders stood. He could not see the thing with his eyes but in his mind it projected images of death and destruction. Images of men dying horribly, clawing at their useless eye sockets and struggling about helplessly. He knew these to be the images of the battle around him. And always, in the midst of the carnage, one of the three riders. Silently the thing before him lifted its sword and began the killing stroke.
"With a deafening crack the sounds of the world around him filled his ears, but above all those the sound of laughter, vile, wicked laughter from the thing before him. And then the world went quiet for Jon again, quiet for all eternity. His limp, headless body fell to the feet of the rider that had killed him. Without looking down the thing moved on to find new prey.
“General Hawkmoon watched in horror as his armies were decimated by the three men. He too went to stand before them, and like every man that had gone out to battle with him that day he went to his grave at their hands. The Battle of West Ridge became legendary among the people of Quin-Slon, for it was there, at West Ridge, that the Riders of Guraand were first seen.”
None of the children moved as Grandfather finished reading the tragic tale of the Battle of West Ridge. Each sat in silent fear, scared to look over their shoulder and out the shuttered windows of their cozy cottage lest they see standing there a rider with no skin.
From her place in the kitchen their mother shook her head at her father, “Must you choose such horrible stories Father? They are after all just children.”
“My dear,” Grandfather began, “every child must at some time learn the truth of his history and the lesson taught mankind through the Riders of Guraand and the Zaron.”
At his mention of the Zaron the children’s eyes grew large and one of the middle boys spoke up, “Are the Zaron skinless riders as well Grandfather?”
With one of his well known chuckles Grandfather looked down at the children, “No my boy, the Zaron are not skinless demons as the Riders of Guraand. They are beautiful, angelic creatures that know only goodness and love. They are… well, I suppose they are a story for another evening.” He finished with a broad smile which only grew broader as the children groaned with impatience.
“Now it is bedtime, and you must wait for another day to hear the tale of the Zaron. Another day my young ones.”
Part 3: The Zaron
It had been bitterly cold that day, what with winter having just set in, and Grandfather was very pleased when he sat down in his large, comfortable chair and pulled open the massive tome with the ancient title, The Eaglecrown Legacy. Winds had come down from the north, off the Lake of Bitterest Cold, and brought with them a freeze that left his old body stiff and pained.
Slowly, with delicate care he flipped through the pages of the ancient book, a longing growing in his heart the whole time. With each illustration his eyes fell upon, the longing grew and at last he found what he had been seeking, the picture of…
“Gamps,” Angel said, sitting at her usual place and once more tugging at his pant leg, “story?” Her voice made Grandfather smile and with a last glance at the picture and a few final, fleeting thoughts he found the page he had marked for the evening tale.
“Yes my children,” he said lovingly, “we shall have a story.”
“Perhaps you could avoid skinless monsters this night Father?” his daughter called to him from her place in the kitchen. “Gerrat could not sleep a wink last night and his father was mighty unhappy when the boy woke him up.”
“I could so sleep!” Gerrat, the youngest, protested, puffing up his chest in a hopeless attempt to hide the fact that he had indeed suffered terrible nightmares about black horses and monsters upon them.
“Sleep is what you called that huh? Seems to me that I heard…” his older brother began, jabbing him with an elbow.
“That is quite enough Jonathon!” Grandfather said sternly as all the children’s eyes turned to him. “It is perhaps a bit of wisdom on Gerrat’s part to fear the Riders of Guraand, for make no mistake they are not just fairy tales! Lessons were learned by man through them, and the Zaron, lessons that you would do well not to forget.”
A bit of his lost pride graciously returned to him, Gerrat sat up again and gave his brother a nasty look; for his part Jonathon did indeed seem abused of the notion of making light at his brother on this topic.
“Now then, I shall begin,” said Grandfather.
"Nothing could be heard in all of the village of Ameenia save the screams of the dying. Hundreds of people lay where the Scourge of Galadoom had left them after sweeping through that morning, and of those only a handful would live to see the arrival of the Eaglecrown Army the next day. Sasha Brel was one of those few, and the tale she would tell would bring both joy and sorrow to the free people of Quin-Slon.
"The Scourge had struck Ameenia at dawn with little warning save the booming of the drums.
"BOOM BOOM
"The drums echoed loudly, waking those who slept, dreaming of pleasant days and green pastures.
"BOOM BOOM
"Men across Ameenia leapt from their beds and donned their armor, snatching up weapons and streaming out into the cobble-stone streets to meet the Scourge.
"BOOM BOOM
"Archers lined the walls of the city, peering into the mist covered fields that surrounded their city, listening to the drums as they beat again and again.
"And then there was only stillness and silence. No more beating of drums, no movement in the mists about the city, nothing but quiet and a eclipsing feeling of doom. The soldiers upon the walls all knew this feeling, this quiet before the storm. With mist forming about their mouths as they spoke the men stood at the ready. Hundreds of archers lined up waiting for the enemy to appear, at their feet scores of arrows ready to be fired upon any invading force.
"The minutes stretched on, and with them, the silence. Dull gray of dawn slowly began to give way to the golden shine of the morning sun and with the sun the fog receded. The moments that followed, though they were but a handful of heartbeats, seemed, for the men of Ameenia, to last a lifetime.
"There, upon the Plains of Algazard were hundreds of thousands of creatures. Orcs, goblins, ogres, trolls, kobolds, giants and others. The Scourge of Galadoom had reached Ameenia. The city was surrounded and hopelessly outnumbered. All who now looked upon the horde knew this without doubt. None could survive such a force, but they would go to their graves having tried.
"‘Archers ready!’ came the command from their general. ‘Fire!’
"Hundreds of arrows leapt into the air, striking the front ranks of the Scourge and claiming the lives of countless members. But for each one that they killed another stepped into the place where it had stood. Again and again the archers unleashed their volleys but still the Scourge did not move. It was as if they were awaiting some dark moment.
"BOOM BOOM
"The drums erupted again and with their eruption the Scourge of Galadoom surged forth. Like a tidal wave of life they struck the walls of the city and a great shockwave seemed to break throughout all of Ameenia. Rather than try to tear down the walls the Scourge simply pressed forward until enough of their own had been slain from the press that a ramp of the dead was formed and then the Scourge was inside Ameenia.
"The warriors fought bravely but were outmatched a thousand to one. Not a single warrior of Ameenia died without claiming three, four, five or even ten members of the Scourge but still it was for naught. By nightfall the Scourge was gone and Ameenia was destroyed.
"Sasha Brel struggled against the bonds that held her fast. Her face was bloodied and her body abused. In the span of only a few hours everything she knew and loved had been destroyed. Her husband had died before her and then her children had been brutally killed, even as she prepared for death herself she found that the Scourge had other… uses for her. So they had abused her and then shackled her to wagons full of the young, and shapely, women of Ameenia. Since their departure from Ameenia she had been forced upon by over a score of the killers.
"She hated life and cursed the Creator that had made her and given her over to such a horrible lot. She cursed the name of Handmrick Eaglecrown for it had been he who stirred up the Scourge, and countless others like it. She cursed herself for not being stronger, for not fighting harder. Now she wanted only to die.
"After setting fire to Ameenia the Scourge turned southward, towards the Weeping Willows of Deshire where they would find more of humanity to destroy. They no longer feared for their lives as they once had, for the Riders of Guraand had changed all that. They had destroyed Handmrick’s Hawkmoon Battalion and indeed, several of his armies since that day. It would seem they were blessed by the gods and would know victory.
"So was the state of the Scourge of Galadoom when the Zaron descended from the skies above them.
"Sasha seen them before many others and felt a very strange sort of peace settle within her. It was almost as if they were looking right at her and promising that everything would be all right. Barely able to tear her gaze from the three angelic creatures she did notice that each of the women in the wagon with her had by now seen them, and each was staring up with the same bit of rapture that she felt within her.
"The beings were three in number and stood over nine feet tall with silvered skin and dark, flowing hair. Their topaz eyes seemed to hold in them the wisdom and compassion of the heavens and in their hands they held great swords that shone with the glory of righteousness. They wore no armor but upon their backs great white, feathered wings reached out as the wings of angels. At their appearance even the Scourge stopped, staring in awe at the beautiful creatures.
"Their stares did not last long however for as the first of the three reached the ground it erupted into action. It moved so fast that Sasha could see little more than the glint on its sword from time to time and the trail of bodies it left in its wake. Before the other two had reached the ground nearly ten thousand members of the Scourge were dead.
"The other two were no less impressive than their companion. The three beings moved through the Scourge as angels of death striking down the enemies of righteousness without compassion until finally, all that drew breath on the field was a handful of women and the three angelic figures.
"The first of them came to stand before the battered women and in an instant everything changed. Sasha was unsure if the angel, for it surely had to be an angel, spoke anything or not but where there had been only death now there was only beauty. No bodies littered the road where the Scourge was destroyed and no signs of the battle remained. Each of the women was in perfect health, even her mind had been healed of the terrible things done. Before the women could move to thank their saviors all three, in perfect unison, leapt into the air and soared quickly out of sight.
“So were the Zaron first seen upon Quin-Slon.”
With a sigh Grandfather closed the large tome and looked out at the faces of the children, seeming to be searching for something in their eyes.
“Grandfather,” Elisha, one of the daughters, asked, “why did the Zaron not come to help the people of Ameenia? Why did they let them all die so horribly?”
It was a sorrowful smile that played now on Grandfather’s face, “My dear girl, you will soon see that the Zaron, and the Riders of Guraand, are much more than what they seem at first appearance. I have now told you only the first tale of each, but have yet to tell you the end of their tale. You will discover, dear girl, that these six creatures, three dark and evil, three angelic and good, held as much responsibility for the Eaglecrown Empire as did Handmrick Eaglecrown himself.”
“But,” she continued, “how can the Riders of Guraand be responsible for anything good such as that?”
With a brighter smile Grandfather looked down at Elisha and patted her on her shoulder, “That my dear is a story for another time.”
Part 4: The Quest Begins
Grandfather exhaled heavily, settling his old body down into his chair and massaging his stiff fingers. He was tired, and his old body full of pains. The cold of the previous day had only grown worse and his time beside his son-in-law in the fields had been difficult. The biting wind cut through to his bones and made him feel another ten years older.
Now, sitting before the fire he listened quietly as his grandchildren and their parents cleared away the remnants from dinner. Plates, bowls and cups clanked together as Gerrat and Jonathon moved them to the sink where the girls waited to do the washing. Angel sat, as she often did, atop the barrel that the family used for storing flour, her little feet kicking out as the others bustled about her. The children’s father was inside tonight, having finished his chores outdoors early and promised to join them in hearing the tales woven by their grandfather.
The sputtering of his pipe caught Father’s attention and the younger man came to join his father-in-law in the small living room. Sitting across from Grandfather he lit his own pipe and began to talk of things that concerned farmers. The cold weather had come upon them too soon, and a whole season of crops would be spoiled if they could not get them out of the fields soon enough; his heifer had recently taken sick, she came down with a blood disease and he was concerned less he lose her. The family was anything but wealthy, and either of these could cause them real problems.
The two sat for a time talking of important matters until finally the children came forth and began taking up their places around Grandfather. Angel curled up in her father’s lap tonight, rather than her usual place at Grandfather’s feet. As soon as the children were gathered, and Mother finished in the kitchen, Grandfather opened the mighty tome and began thumbing through it, seeking a suitable tale.
“Well now,” Grandfather muttered, as much to himself as anyone, “what shall we have tonight? Perhaps more of the Riders of Guraand?” he finished with a smile and an uplifted eyebrow to his daughter who stood at her place in the kitchen scowling at him.
“No then? No more for now of the Riders, and so, no more of the Zaron. Perhaps it is time we backed up a bit then? Perhaps you would hear more of Handmrick and his Knights of the Triangle?”
“Yes!” Jonathon, the eldest boy, proclaimed, “tell us more of Yorr the Compassionate!”
“So be it then, we shall have a tale of Handmrick and his knights.” Grandfather proclaimed, clearly quite happy with the choice. He began the tale with a smile.
The throne upon which the king sat was marvelous in make. Forged of solid gold the back of the throne was shaped to look as an eagle rising in the skies. Rubies, as large as a man’s eyes, served the eagle for eyes and silver had been used to provide accents to the majestic bird. The throne itself was worth more than all of the wealth of smaller kingdoms, and it was but a fraction of the wealth in Handmrick’s hall.
Over three hundred feet long the hall was lined with columns, each set about 5 feet from the next and leading from the massive double-doors at the end to the base of the dais where the throne rested. Each column was made of solid silver, embossed with scenes of Handmrick and his armies as they battled the legions of enemies that had come before the Eaglecrown kingdom. A long, wide red carpet ran the length of this approach, inlaid with the eagle crest every few feet, sewn of threads of platinum.
Fifteen massive chandeliers hung from the ceiling above shedding their light through the entire chamber. Upon the walls draperies, crests, swords, shields and other trophies were hung, telling a tale of the rise of King Eaglecrown.
At the end of the chamber, in the throne, Handmrick Eaglecrown himself sat staring into a chalice filled of red wine, his thoughts lost to the world around him. How long had it been since he knew peace? How long since he could spend more than a few, fleeting, moments with his queen? How much more death before the world itself was sundered and destroyed? Handmrick was tired; the wars dragged on and every time it looked as if they would know victory yet another legion of enemies would arise. How he longed for the days of old when he traveled the lands with Marc Thunderbird as nothing more than two men. The days before the forging of his kingdom and before the weight of the world itself had been thrown on his shoulders.
Suddenly the doors to his throne room burst open and before he could even lift his eyes to see who had broken his reverie the silence was shattered. “My King,” Yorr’s deep voice echoed through the large chamber, “we have discovered its location.”
Handmrick was on his feet in moments running towards the knight, excitement building within his chest. “Ready my horse, and prepare the Knights of the Triangle for tonight we ride!”
“It has already been done milord,” Yorr said, offering a short bow to his king. “Xar and Skaelus await us outside.” Without another word he spun on his heels and left, leaving Handmrick to consider the news.
At last, he thought, it has been found! Only moments later a page entered, bearing his sword and golden Eaglecrown armor and before an hour had passed Handmrick Eaglecrown led the Knights of the Triangle from Eaglecrown Castle, heading for Burgonne Pass.
Grandfather stopped reading and looked down at the children, who sat staring at him in rapt attention. “You will remember children, that I told you three nights ago that just when things were at their worst Handmrick and his knights disappeared, this is that moment, the time when the King and his Knights of the Triangle rode away, never to be seen again for years.”
Turning back to the book he continued his tale.
The ride from Eaglecrown Castle to Burgonne Pass was long and hard and the King and his three knights pressed on day and night for 90 days. At last Xar called them to a halt. “We have arrived and the Green Mountain lies just beyond this pass. We should leave the horses here, for if the legends be true they will perish.”
“We must not awaken the dragon,” Yorr said, “or more than just the horses are likely to perish.”
In the damp light of evening the four men began to dismount and secure their horses, checking their armor and weapons and stretching legs that had known a saddle for far too long. And then the world turned to chaos.
Suddenly a fear so great was upon them that each man stopped where he was, unable to move. A fear so powerful that even the demons of the Netherworld cower before, a fear so overwhelming that it seemed to press down upon them as if the air itself were that fear taken form and shape. The four men knew instantly what brought such blackness to their heart. Yet this knowledge could not protect them from what happened next.
Only moments after the dread feeling gripped them their eyes began to burn. There was no sound, no warning, only a horrible pain as everything around them burned. Each man in turn screamed out and clutched at the flesh of his face, seeming to be trying to pull the pain itself from them. And then it was within their bodies. Their thoughts and lungs burned, as they had never imagined possible. It was as if liquid fire had been poured down their throats.
Handmrick staggered back from his mount as the beast reared up, kicking its hooves and whinnying in pain. The Knights’ horses too began to scream and pulled free of their masters, running about trying to escape the fire that was not fire. Handmrick sat upon his knees now, his face clutched helplessly in his hands and his entire body filled with the pain of the burning.
Suddenly, momentarily, the pain was lost as the fear bubbled up within him again, only this time it brought with it a sensation of pure dread. Something was coming! He longed to open his eyes, to see death approaching but could not, for the fire that was not fire still burned his body. A great gust of wind struck him, sending him sprawling to the ground and then a feeling as something massive brushed by overhead. With a bone-wrenching crack he heard his horse cry out again, one last time, before the world went black for the king.
It was sometime later that Handmrick opened his eyes to see the trusted eyes of his friend Yorr peering down at him. For a moment it seemed that things were all right, but then his vision cleared some and he got a good look at Yorr. His friend did not look down at him through the bright blue eyes Yorr’s wife was so fond of, but rather through oceans of red. Trails of dried blood ran down from the knight’s eyes, nose, mouth and ears and his skin was reddened and blotchy. Only then did Handmrick realize that the pain in his own chest was so great he could barely breathe.
Glancing about he noticed that strange green haze hung low in the air about them. Xar and Skaelus were alive, though in no better shape than Yorr or himself, and the corpses of their horses lay not far from the men, their flesh burned from their bodies by the attack. Several yards away Handmrick saw what remained of his mount, a bloody mess that looked as if some great beast had scooped it up in its mouth, taken a massive bite and dropped it.
Skaelus stood up on wobbly legs and steadied himself with his sword. “Well,” he growled, “I suppose the dragon is awake.” He finished with a fit of coughing that left fresh blood upon his hands and face. Shaking his head he set about cleaning up his armor and sword.
“We have a decision to make,” Handmrick proclaimed. “We came here in hopes that we could steal in and be off with the prize without the dragon being any the wiser. It would appear that is no longer an option, we must decide…”
“Milord,” Xar interrupted, “you need not even ask. We are your men and if that means we must walk into the lair of a roaring dragon, so mote it be.” Both Yorr and Skaelus added their nodding approval to Xar’s statement.
“Then it’s settled.” Handmrick said, “we go for the hilt of Quin-Slon this night and woe unto even the dragon who stands in our way!”
With a thud Grandfather closed the book and once again looked at the children. “Alas my little ones,” he said lovingly, “that is where we must stop for the eve. The hour grows late and we,” winking at their father, “must rise early.”
Groans filled the small room as the children protested but their mother quickly moved in, shooing them off to bed.
“Well then,” Father said to Grandfather, “what about the rest of the tale eh?”
With a smile Grandfather opened the book again, “Well my son, that is a story for another day.”