Prolog
147 Years in the Past
“Forward! Forward men!” shouted the commander as he sat atop his horse, his bloody sword clutched tightly in his wounded hand.
The day had begun with two forces of nigh three-hundred thousand strong staring each other down, whilst hundreds of dragons clashed amidst the thick clouds hanging over the mountains. As the sun descended towards the horizon, only five remained aloft.
Horns sounded to signal the charge. What remained of the Rebellion charged forth towards a steady, though severely weakened, enemy line. Horses whined, and men screamed as arrows rained down upon them, cutting down hundreds in their path. Thrice the rebels had thrown themselves at their enemy, and thrice they had failed. With no other course of action at hand, they charged forth once again.
“Where is Ardax? Loose signal arrows!” the commander ordered.
“Ardax has been slain! Swallowed by the waves!” one of his men replied, moments before being cut down by an arrow.
The commander’s heart sank as he realized his mistake in a premature charge. Panicked, he sounded the retreat and quickly turned his men back. Hundreds more were slain as the rebellion retreated, until they were again beyond the reach of even the best archer. Exhausted and drenched in sweat, the soldiers watched as arrows continued striking the ground just beyond them, killing their disabled comrades who had fallen behind.
“Sir?” one of the men began, “it’s futile. The war is lost. We’ve exhausted our resources. Our dragons have nearly all been slain. Ardax was ripped apart by Galclon and his son’s mounts. We stand no chance.”
The commander shook his head, hanging it in defeat.
“We cannot allow this war to end this way. Wemustpress on,” he asserted.
One of his men jumped from his horse and stormed over.
“We have lost everything as it is! Any more suicide charges like that and the last of us will surely be slain. Many lines have already ended, and I’ll not see mine join them.”
The commander inhaled to speak, but was cut off by screeching from overhead. Thousands of men from the opposing sides gazed skyward as the clouds above were illuminated—first one roar, then another, and then another. The orange flashes grew larger and brighter until they finally broke through the heavy clouds.
“May the God’s help us,” muttered the commander.
Five dragons tore through the cloud cover, three of which were giving chase to the other two, much smaller dragons attempting to flee.
“They don’t stand a chance. The day is lost,” one of the soldiers muttered.
The battlefield fell all but silent as the remaining soldiers on both sides watched the five beasts dance. One sank its teeth into the wing of another, nearly ripping it off. Wounded, the dragon fell from the sky, rolling over as it struck the ground and killing its rider. The largest of the four, though still small, turned its attention to the rebels. The dragon was wounded, blood pouring like a waterfall from the massive gash in its throat.
“Archers! Make ready and loose at will! screamed the commander.
Arrows flew into the sky, striking the rider from his crippled mount. The dragon managed a brief blast of flame before being struck down, though much of the fire spilled through the wound itself. A heartbeat later, the beast hit the ground, its wings snapping as its weight crushed the bone. Then, from behind, a third dragon descended upon the rebellion, dousing hundreds of men in flames before being pounced on from above.
By the day’s end, only one dragon remained in the sky, and fewer than ten thousand men dotted the battlefield. As the sun fully vanished, the night saw the lone survivor flapping her wings only seldom, soaring on the winds stirred by the flames below, before she, too, would vanish into the darkness.
