The Fall of Arnon

Chapter 29

The wind blew in a bitingly cold morning. Grass shivered beneath the frosty, dark clouds looming overhead. The sun had risen, but a frigid coldness now enveloped its once bright face. The world waited in open anticipation. Across the frozen land, a small dot could be seen moving across the plains. It moved slowly, with quiet precision across the windswept terrain. It moved toward the campsite of the Antinians, a white blot on the wide open space of farmland.

The newly appointed King Storen led the small envoy across the plains. Sir Farfel rode to his right on a grey stallion and Sir Mythlanius rode to his left on a small red and white speckled mare. Proud and unyielding they looked in the cold light of morning, the Dragon of Arnon was burned upon each of the knight's chests daring those around to even think about attacking the Arnonians. But, the Antinians had dared, and now they would pay for their foolishness.

Across the prairie, the Antinians rode out to meet them. As they advanced closer, Sir Storen saw with little surprise, the face of his old king. He rode to the right of the King of Antin, a tall, regal looking man. To the king's left was a man, long and thin. His face looked as if it had been stretched over bone and at the slightest movement, would simply rip open. Neither of the two wore the red lion upon their chests. The old king wore the gold and purple only befitting a true king, and the suspect-looking man wore nothing but a long grey robe around his body.

Riding behind, came a stream of knights, retainers, and soldiers carrying the insignia upon flying flags. Their chests were puffed out in pride, the lion of Antin roaring over their gleaming armor. Sir Storen halted, raising his hand to prevent his escort from continuing on. The Antinian horses walked in quiet dignity until they stood face to face with their enemies. 

Not a word was spoken as they looked each other up and down. Sir Storen met his late king's eyes for only a moment, but he could feel his own betrayal emanating from the steely gaze thrust upon him. 

"Now down to business, Sir Knight," the king of Antin began. His voice was a rich, deep bass that slid over his ears like smooth butter. Sir Storen immediately recognized the lack of his kingly title, but he allowed it to pass, knowing he would soon have his revenge. 

"Yes, as you say, down to business," he uttered.

"If you do not want to subject your city to pain and destruction, I suggest that you surrender before you lose more than you're willing."

"Oh, but I won't be losing anything. We are Arnon!" He cried out earning a cheer from his entourage. "There will be no deals, no pacts, no bargains. We will meet you on the field of battle, and by the Dragon of Arnon, we will win!" He threw one last look at his predecessor and turned. The king of Arnon and his knights turned and rode off into the distance. A thousand good soldiers stood behind them and the city of Arnon waited before him. 

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Father Thomas looked up and down the street, his eyes darting over the dirt and grime that seemed to have covered the city overnight. It was silent, a strange happening in the middle of that dreary day. But, there was nothing usual about the events that had led up to this day. The dethroning of a long line of kings in only one day, the revolution of a city against one man, and the almost beheading of his young son. 

It had been centuries since such an uprising had occurred, and Father Thomas could tell only too well why that was. The pain and upheaval seemed to wretch from the very heart of his once-beloved city. 

Into the town square, they traversed, but they remained the only four standing alone beneath the fiery head of the Dragon. 

"Where is everyone?" Televtale whispered. It was the question on every one of their minds, but none of them dared know the answer.