“But up from you, there shall rise,
a keep from this fear and demise.
Features pale with dark blood hair,
eyes of red beyond compare.”
The scene changed and Quinlan watched the hazy image of a woman as she picked up a young girl from a crib. He breathed in sharply when he saw the little girl’s red hair and eyes.
“Guide this girl, whether to or fro,
she must come to the Stone Plateau.
Raise her up, to love not hate,
never straying from her fate.
And to this girl, marked with my hand,
a helper too, both fierce and grand.
Beware her helper, though young and wise,
will need be steered from lust of prize.”
The image of a handsome, black-haired, middle-aged man stood before the scholar apprentice as the man held a handful of gold coins, greed shinning in his eyes.
It only just now occurred to the Quinlan that he was seeing the future. He was being given a prophecy. His heart nearly stopped within him as he began to realize who this Being must be.
“Soon hard years, from death you cannot run,
for a traitor from your ranks will come.
A young boy, Quinlan’s own dear son,
will bend to evil and then be won.”
“Good gods.” Quinlan’s breath caught in his throat. He was staring at a very indistinct image of what looked much like a small family of four—two boys, a mother, and a father—a man who looked eerily like Quinlan himself. “No, no, no.” Dread welled up inside of the boy. The Being couldn’t possibly have meant him, could it have?
“Listen, riders, that all may know,
all this could be avoided so.
Turn back, my children, back to me.
I’ll set you from the Dark Lord free.
But if my voice, you do not heed,
my urgent warning, I now plead.
Then know that I will then set forth,
destruction, terrible, from the North.
And if you turn away from me,
know this quite for certainty:
No rider will retell your lives,
no help for you shall then arise.”
Swirling all around Quinlan was nothing but war; pictures of magic clashing against twisted creatures of evil, the rivers ran with blood, and mangled Duvarharian bodies littered the ground like a carpet.
Tears trickled then poured down Quinlan’s face as he watched the carnage stretch out before him. The Dragon Palace lay in ruins. Fire burned down the beautiful buildings. Magic tore through the land and destroyed the bodies of all who came against the traitor. The magnificent Stone Plateau, on which the entire city of the Dragon Palace had once stood, was now only a bare, stone table; its ancient markings, which had been hidden by the city for so long, were exposed to the air and charred by fire. In the current Dragon Palace, only a small part of the Stone Plateau had been exposed, and that small bit had been used as a landing pad for the Dragons. Though his beloved home lay in ruin before his eyes, Quinlan couldn’t help but feel awe at seeing the entirety of the Stone Plateau as it had been when originally built. However, the sight was grim, as if the bare stone lay as a monument to the destruction of Duvarharia.
Anger, hate, and horror flooded the young teen, and he so desperately wanted to destroy this Being who was foretelling all of this. However, dread quickly washed all other emotion away. He knew he couldn’t, especially if this Being was who he thought it was—the Great Lord Himself.
“Lord, please do not do this. What must I do?” His hands shook and his voice faltered. Curiously, though, Quinlan could almost feel the sadness of the Lord. He doesn’t want this to happen, the boy realized. He wants something else.
“So, Quinlan, stand near the Stone Plateau,
for in five years the moon will throw
the fate for all, written in stone,
knowledge to learn and skills to hone.
Follow its riddles, follow to know,
what the future then may show.
Go to your leaders, speak of this hope,
to fight the evil and to cope.
Remind the people to seek me out,
with a whisper or a shout.
For I, your Lord, am never far,
and know each one for who they are.”
The images faded, and Quinlan gasped, trying to process all that was happening. He quickly found that even if he tried, he wasn’t able to forget anything that the Being had spoken to him. The images and words that the Being had shown and spoken to him burned into his mind and obsessively repeated themselves.
The powerful magic now wasn’t as bright as it had been, though it still snapped and swirled around the young man.
“You, you’re the Great Lord.” Trembling, he fell to his knees.
A figure stepped out of the magic in front of the boy. It was dressed in a long, simple cloak, which covered all his body and most of his face.
“Yes, I am the Great Lord, though not the one most think.”
Quinlan frowned, his head swimming with questions.
The magic began to fade and the light became less bright, the darkness less dark.
“Wait! Then, who are you?”
“I am the Son of the Great Emperor.”
Soon, only the figure’s silhouette was left in the strange, gray void.
Quinlan had never heard of a Great Emperor, but he was struck with reverence before this Man. He could feel in his soul that whoever this Man was, He was truly who He claimed He was.
On his knees reverently before this Being, and not quite able to grasp everything that had just happened and still was happening to him, Quinlan couldn’t stop the question that jumped out of his mouth.
“Lord, am I the Quinlan in the prophecy? Will it be,” he choked on his words, “my son?”
The man bowed his head, and Quinlan watched as a golden tear rolled down the man’s face.
“Surely, while cursed, you have been blessed too. Stay strong, Quinlan. I am never far from you.”
A bright flash of warm light left Quinlan lying on the Dragon Palace observatory patio. The suns and moons were just coming out of their union. The sky was brightening back up, and the Moon-Shone, Sun-Flash, and Comet dragons were once again soaring through the sky.
“Quinlan!” A man grabbed the boy, and Quinlan screamed, flailing against the man. “Calm down, boy! It’s me! Tabor! By the gods, what happened to you?”
When Quinlan caught sight of his mentor, he shamelessly threw his arms around the man, unable to hold back his relief at being back at the Dragon Palace and even more so at being back in his own time. He gasped with joy through his tears. The Dragon Palace was still here and not destroyed. His relief quickly turned to dismay as he remembered all he had seen. He swallowed hard, a knot forming in his stomach. “They’re all going to die. We’re all going to die. My son. My son. Oh gods, what happened? What’s going to happen?” Words poured meaninglessly out of Quinlan’s mouth.
Tabor wrestled the young man off him. “Quinlan!” The confused older man slapped the young man and shook him. “Pull yourself together! This is no way for a sixteen-year-old rider to be acting.” His words fell on deaf ears.
“‘Go to your leaders.’ My leaders. My leaders.” Quinlan repeated what the Great Lord had told him in the prophecy, continuing to rant meaninglessly.
Krystallos nudged his young rider, the Crystal dragon’s mind filled with worry.
Quinlan, are you okay? The dragon’s voice was finally able to find its way into his soul mate’s mind, but Quinlan didn’t pay much attention to him either.
“Go to my leaders.” Wide-eyed, his skin pale and clammy, a cold sweat on his brow, Quinlan shoved Tabor away from himself, dizziness and shock temporarily paralyzing him from the sudden movement.
His legs trembled, threatening to buckle under him as he struggled to his feet and tried to stem the tears which poured down his cheeks. Gaspin
g for breath, he attempted to mount his dragon, but Tabor quickly stopped the teen and restrained him.
“Where do you think you’re going? You’re in no condition to fly, and you have to tell us what happened to you. We’ve been looking all over for you.”
Quinlan shook his head, trying to rid himself of the images of a solemn, red-haired girl, a laughing boy with purple eyes, and the scenes of death and destruction from his mind. The words of the prophecy pounded in his mind over and over again, echoing horribly.
“You’ve been looking for me?” he mumbled.
Tabor laughed incredulously. “Gods of all, kid. You’ve been gone for a whole hour!”
Quinlan’s mouth hung open. He had been gone for an hour. He had really been missing. Where did I go? What happened?
“Come on, Quinlan. I think you need to rest, and then you can tell me and the Council everything that happened to you. The Lord himself is even very worried, and I’m sure your parents are not going to be very happy with me.”
Nodding, Quinlan stumbled along, mumbling, “Yes. The Council. The Lord. The leaders. They must know.”
With Krystallos right behind them, Tabor led the dazed and fragile young man from the observatory’s balcony and into the Dragon Palace.
He was quickly wrapped in a blanket and given a warm drink to sip on as the Council pestered him with questions. Little did he know, everyone and everything around him would one day fade into myth and the only rider who was alive on this day and would live to see the prophecy fulfilled would be himself.
Part- One
Farloon
Chapter 1
Trans-Falls, Centaur Territory
One Day after the Battle of the Prophecy
Aeron, for the gods’ sake, stand still!” Jargon, medical chief of the Trans-Falls Centaur tribe scowled at his patient. “Honestly. You act like this is killing you.”
“Maybe it is.” Aeron shifted his weight uncomfortably.
Jargon was doctoring a large gash which ran across Aeron’s back, shoulder to hip.
Jargon rubbed the healing salve particularly harshly on the wound, a good-natured sneer spreading across his rugged face. He wasn’t the most handsome Centaur, but something about the strange twinkle in his eyes and the mysterious way he conducted himself was overall attractive. “I would have thought a big, tough warrior like you would be able to stand up to such a small bit of pain.”
Aeron winced at the needles of pain that shot up his back, a slight smile almost crossing his face. “It was just a little scratch before you started wrenching on it, Jargon. I think you’ve only made it worse.”
Jargon gasped and stamped his hooves, pretending to be offended. “With an insult like that, I think I’ll just leave and take my practice to those who will appreciate what I do, thank you very much.” He quickly stuffed the jar of healing salve into his medical bag and made to walk away before Aeron humorously grabbed his arm.
“Jargon, I would never dream of you leaving. What would my tribe do without you?”
Amused, Jargon narrowed his eyes and turned up his nose at the leader. “Fine then, if you are sure. Now let me finish.”
After just a few more painful moments spent in silence, Aeron’s wound was liberally covered in the sweet-smelling salve and properly dressed.
The dappled gray Centaur flexed his gray-skinned shoulders and nodded approvingly.
The salve, a special mixture of herbs and medicinal flowers along with a few spells, was specifically designed to rid a wound of Eta poison.
Aeron sighed in relief, the pain slowly subsided.
“Thank you, Jargon. I will always be in debt to you.” He reached out his hand and Jargon grasped it.
“And don’t you forget it, fom.”
Aeron watched the medic trot off to his next patient before himself moving into the woods to look for Artigal.
He hadn’t seen the old Centaur since the battle started, and he was worried for the Igentis’ well-being.
It was often that Artigal would have a secret agenda other than what he had ordered the troops or led Aeron to believe.
The Battle of the Prophecy had proved to be one of those times, and Aeron was desperate to find out if Artigal had been successful or was even still alive.
As he threaded his way through the forest, complimenting his people on their performance in battle or sharing in their sorrow of a lost loved one, he happened to overhear a very heated conversation between two young warriors. One was a palomino color and the other a bay.
“We shouldn't have retreated. The dragon men and their dragons had just arrived. The battle would have been won, and we would have been rid of Thaddeus once and for all. Sometimes I wonder if Artigal is just getting too old to be our leader. Besides, why would we even march out here in the first place? The Etas don’t bother us in Trans-Falls and we have no concern with the rest of the Kinds of Ventronovia.”
“I sometimes wonder that myself as well.” The second Centaur spit disrespectfully and stamped his hoof, an ugly sneer on his face.
In fury at these brash Centaurs, Aeron stepped out from behind the brush and was just about to land a punch on one of their faces and lecture them harshly when a disapproving, milky voice rang out from behind him.
“I’m afraid what exactly we were doing out here is above your ranking, kodaazh.” Artigal’s cold voice froze the young soldiers to the spot, their eyes wide in horror and their mouths hanging open.
Artigal limped past Aeron, who did a double take.
Cuts and burns lined Artigal’s body, and he was trying to hide the fact that one of his arms seemed to be hanging lifelessly beside him. His pure white hair was marred with dirt and grass stains, and, most disturbingly, blood. His usually stern, emotionless face was ridden with pain, confusion, and exhaustion.
Though Aeron was disturbed and concerned for his leader and mentor, this rugged sight of the Igentis only struck more fear into the young Centaurs, who had only ever seen Artigal at a distance.
After a few moments of silence and Artigal staring viciously at the shocked soldiers, they bowed low. Their eyes stayed trained on the ground before them while they stuttered over each other.
“Please forgive us, Igentis! We were only upset about our untimely retreat. Gubelœwur leñi rok!”
Artigal didn't respond for a moment, and his countenance only grew darker and fiercer.
The young Centaurs’ foreheads beaded with sweat, their chests heaving.
His eyes wide, Aeron himself began to worry. This kind of slander toward the Igentis was considered a high form of treason. For this, Artigal could banish them; they would be marked by magic and shunned by all tribes of Centaurs, forever outcasts of their own kind.
“Perhaps so.” Artigal’s voice was chilling and merciless. “And only because we need every warrior in this time of need, I shall forgive you for it this one time.”
The Centaurs panted in relief, but Artigal wasn’t finished with them.
“Just remember, lowly warriors. I do not forget anything, and I have more eyes and ears than the Fayum itself. If this should happen again, I will not hesitate to banish you from all the Centaur tribes and Ventronovia itself. Understand?”
Both Centaurs, who had been laid low by their leader, were nodding voilently and muttering their thanks.
Artigal ignored them, waving his hand in dismissal.
“Get out of my sight.”
In only a few seconds, the two Centaurs were nowhere to be seen.
So many questions were suddenly running through Aeron’s mind as his eyes ran up and down the length of Artigal’s abused body, but Artigal merely glanced at the leader and motioned for him to follow.
Now was not the time for questions.
They passed many other warriors on their way to the center of Trans-Falls, the capital of all the Centaur tribes. Each Centaur, male or female, young or old, wounded or not, bowed respectfully. Aeron was the High Chief of Trans-Falls and Artigal’s right-hand warrior.
Only Artigal, as Igentis, held a rank higher than Aeron. To be in the presence of both great leaders was an honor only some had chanced upon.
Many individual tribes like Trans-Falls were scattered around Ventronovia, but they were all united under one leader—the Igentis. He oversaw the rulings of all the individual tribes and made the highest decisions.
Because of this high status, Artigal was free to live in any one of the individual tribes, but he had chosen to live in Trans-Falls. Rumor had it that Artigal was born here. Others believed a stronger spiritual power resided here in Trans-Falls. No one knew for sure though, seeing as no one really knew anything about Artigal.
It wasn’t long before they found Jargon faithfully treating the wounded and the dying.
Artigal waited patiently for the black Centaur to finish whispering instructions about a cure to his patient.
“Artigal, I think—” The expression on Jargon’s face melted into shock, and whatever he had been trying to say was lost in the wind. “Oh stars, what happened to you? Zuru.”
Artigal sighed heavily, as if he had been more defeated in the recent battle than he had let on.
As trusted as Aeron was by Artigal, Jargon often got to hear more about Artigal’s struggles because of his medical status. He was also the only Centaur who had the authority to give Artigal an order, as long as it was medically based.
“Jargon, I need you to heal me.”
Jargon’s eyebrows rose in shock and even Aeron couldn’t help but stare at the Igentis in amazement. Artigal had always healed himself. He possessed the magic to do so and the knowledge of hundreds of years of being alive. He had even been able to heal his own nearly severed arm once. It was a rare occasion that Jargon knew something that Artigal didn’t already.
“Me heal you? And might I ask why?”
Artigal hung his head, his eyes dark.
Panic gripped Aeron like an icy claw. Artigal had always been their rock, and to see him so defeated shook the High Chief more than he would have liked.
Child of the Dragon Prophecy Page 2
