Return of the Stormcriers

PROLOGUE - A DARK DEED

  Deep within the darkest reaches of the Schwärzwald Forest, a tall, powerfully built man tread slowly along an unseen trail under the unending canopy of needles and branches of the evergreen trees. No moonlight penetrated the thick cover overhead, leaving the path wholly in darkness with not even a sliver of moonlight to serve as a guide, but the man strode on unperturbed. Mist curled around his ankles as he walked with strong purposeful strides, evidently not needing the polished, wooden staff that he clutched tightly in his right hand. His blood-red cloak billowed around his shadowy figure, rendering him invisible to all but the most trained eye, but on this night not a soul would be looking for him. Even during times of relative peace, this forest was regarded with a certain amount of fear and superstition by the people of Verden; but now, after ten long years of history-rewriting conflict, even the bravest might balk at the idea of entering its murky depths.

  His heartbeat quickening almost imperceptibly as he neared his destination, the man stepped out from under the shadow of the trees into the immense clearing that he had traveled days to reach. He took a moment, at the edge of it all, to silently observe his new surroundings. Against the intense darkness of a moonless sky, the gruesome scene that played out before him was lit only by the harsh, flickering light of a dozen torches. The metallic stench of blood assaulted his nose as he took in the sight before him; five enormous dragons lay in the dirt and leaves that covered the floor of the clearing. While usually the sight of a dragon was renowned to be one of the most awe-inspiring sights one could behold, creatures whose very presence would be enough to fill even the most hardened warrior with dread; these dragons lay crumpled in awkward, unnatural positions with thick streams of dark blood oozing from a myriad of wounds on their colorfully-scaled bodies. The massive beasts' ragged breaths filled the clearing with rasps and sighs as they clung desperately to their fading lives. A great sadness filled his heart as he contemplated the noble beings. He had worked his entire life in their service, obeying every order, sacrificing for them, and now fighting in a losing war for them, and now these five dragons represented all they could save of a once proud lineage. Here they lay dying, betrayed and broken by those who had been born to serve. His lips stretched as they pressed into a thin, determined line. He would not let this be their end.

  Stepping past the battered and bloody dragons, he strode into the center of the circle that their bodies formed and turned his attention to the humans in the clearing. The low and flickering light that lit his vision emanated from more than a dozen robed and hooded men who held their torches in silent ceremony as they completed the shape of the ring. The crackling of the flames and the sound of the dragons' labored breathing were the only disturbances in an otherwise unnaturally still night. In the interior of the living loop, ten prisoners had been forced to their knees in front of the dragons, two for each dying creature, with their hands shackled firmly behind their backs by iron manacles that pinched into their skin, leaving their wrists raw, red, and trickling with blood.

"Everything has been prepared, Lord Cyrus," a hooded figure broke ranks from his brethren to kneel before him, head bowed. From the inside of his robes, the prostrated man produced a finely-crafted, uniquely iridescent blue dagger that seemed to shimmer and move in the firelight, almost as if the metal itself were still molten. He held the blade flat across his upturned palms as if making a grand offering to a superior being. Lord Cyrus slowly and gently took the blade from his man's hands, inspecting the marvel of craftsmanship closely, turning it reverently in his hands, enjoying the feeling of power that ran through his body and the familiar whispers that curled around the back of his mind at the touch. His role fulfilled, the kneeling man stood and swiftly backed away from the center of the circle to rejoin his compatriots.

"What do you want with us?" A young woman, noticeably the youngest of the prisoners, with tangled auburn hair broke the silence of the ceremony. Cyrus, in no rush to answer his prisoner, took an extended amount of time to look over the blade thoroughly from every angle, examining his stern reflection in its perfectly smooth surface.