FIFTEEN YEARS EARLIER
Hadarthas, the shaman, opened his mouth to the sound of beating drums and throat singing.
To Alan’s ears, what he said sounded like gibberish.
The shaman's eyes were wide open, rolled back, as he jumped to his feet, shivering like a reed in the wind. His voice morphed into that of a woman, high-pitched and shrill, and his words seemed to cut the air like a razor.
“The world... The world... The world will cease to be.”
Alan the Blacksmith shivered. He turned to face Skapasis, the chieftain of his warrior tribe. Skapasis had a wide grin on his face, his red mane partially covering his furrowed brow. His gleaming armor caught the light from the bonfire. A dozen Dragon Knights in plate armor, his elite warriors, stood beside him, encircled by banners and tents, observing the oracle and anticipating a favorable omen before the battle.
"See, you fools?" Skapasis shouted, raising his jeweled sword into the air, a dragon etched into its pommel. “Our armies will destroy this empire, we will reign in fire! Itruscia will fall! We shall sack her and our oppressors shall be our slaves!"
"The world…" Hadarthas’s screams grew louder, piercing into Alan's ears. "Fifteen years, in fifteen years, they shall come again. The world... It is better to die... It's better to die than to see them come back.”
Skapasis' proud expression turned to uncertainty.
Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.
And the shaman continued: “Please die, die, let us die, let the whole world die before their return... They wait, dreaming they wait... Inside the earth... They wait... They will return, in fifteen years, they will return... It is better for the world to die than to see them return."
Skapasis’ generals exchanged glances. The drummer continued beating and the other acolytes remained on their knees.
“Let us die, let us die, it is better to die!” continued the shaman.
"Enough of this farce," Skapasis growled through his teeth.
Hadarthas' screams did not cease. He danced over the embroidered carpet, as if bound to it by an invisible energy, then looked at Alan with rolled eyes, red veins stretching through them. He dropped the prayer wheel, threw himself at Alan's feet and grabbed him by the legs; looking up and opening his mouth in an uncanny grimace.
"Don't let her come near it!" Hadarthas cried like a rabid dog.
“Who?”Alan asked, moving his feet out of the way. Was he talking about his wife, who was miles away, campaigning against the capital of Itruscia?
“Don't... Don't let her... Don't let her!” Hadarthas shrieked.
Alan suddenly blinked in surprise as he saw Skapasis lift his sword and thrust it into the shaman's spine.
“I will not tolerate this!" said Skapasis, pulling his sword from the shaman's dying body. Hadarthas strained his back, and after a couple of spasms of pain, he lay still.
The beating of the drum ceased. The faces of the other generals were pale as hemp paper.
Then, Skapasis wiped the blood from his sword with a woolen handkerchief.
He raised his sword, eyes fixed on the nightsky.
“Goddess of the Hunt, you have betrayed me!” he shrieked. Dozens of banners with his emblem, a red dragon, fluttered violently as if in response. “Your oracle has now been silenced, and so shall you be silent before our tribe! We reject your betraying word! But by Ares, I swear we shall burn the Eternal City to the ground! The dragon will swallow the world!”
“The dragon will swallow the world!” echoed a hundred voices, the Generals of Gadalia, the Dragon Knights. But Alan remained still, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his knees trembling. He turned back and rushed toward his horse. Whatever was about to happen, he had to get to the battlefield. He had to get to his wife.
Chief Skapasis [https://i.ibb.co/x7SFqxx/Chief-skapasis.png]