The Fallen Prophet (The Dark Prophecy Book 1)

by Cody Loewen

  The elves can have the forest. I prefer wide open land.

  The faint sound of unfamiliar noises begins to filter through the trees as we continue forward. Ambrosius raises his hand, signaling a halt. The message that comes back through the ranks, each row of initiates repeating the message to the next in line, hits me harder than the jungle cat.

  Quiet. Trolls ahead

  As word travels back, the group falls into complete silence, and the cacophony of sounds in front of us becomes clearer. Axes ring against wood. Fires crackle. And calls in a low, guttural language that I had tried to erase from my memory ring out in the distance. The train of whispers continues to relay Ambrosius’ orders.

  Small scouting party.

  No more than 25 trolls.

  Unit 1 break off from the column. The rest stay here.

  Leave the Wagon, travel through the trees.

  Catch them by surprise.

  As the last command filters back through the group, excitement courses through me. Rayfe and I are part of Unit 1. Kromm may not be part of this group, but I am about to get the chance for a little payback. This small raiding party must have been sent into the forest to scout for small groups of humans and elves to kill. Or they are gathering supplies for their war effort, like they were doing in my village. Either way, they will not make it back to where they came from.

  As quietly as we can, our group slips into the trees off the path, fading into the underbrush. Ambrosius leads us noiselessly through the trees in the direction of the troll camp. I take great care to walk as silently as possible. My eyes almost never leave the ground, watching out for fallen sticks or other hazards. After a painfully slow journey through the trees, Ambrosius stops us, gesturing in the direction of the noise, letting us know that the troll camp is right in front of us. He brings us all in close so that he can talk to us.

  “The trolls are less than 25 paces that direction,” he whispers to us. “We are going to spread out around them as much as possible. There might be sentries outside of the camp, so be vigilant. Anyone with a bow will strike first.”

  I look over at Rayfe, who is already taking his bow off his back and notching an arrow. Scanning our group, there are ten other archers among us, including Ambrosius. This should be a slaughter.

  “Once we are in position, all archers will line up their shots on the nearest troll. I will fire the first shot, immediately followed by everyone else. Do not fire early. But do not hesitate once the first shot is away.”

  Ambrosius lays out the rest of the plan, and we begin to take our positions around the camp. I stay beside Rayfe, and we move forward until the troll encampment comes into view. As expected, I see about twenty trolls around the fire. I still hear chopping wood, so there is at least one troll out of the camp. I silently draw my longsword. This is the moment I have dreamed off. The start of the revenge that has fueled me every day since I first encountered their evil. Rayfe draws his bow, and targets a troll sitting on a fallen log on our side of the fire. He holds the position patiently.

  A moment later, a whistle is the only warning before a troll topples off of the log with an arrow buried up to its shaft in its chest. For what seems like an eternity, but is really only a split second, the trolls seem frozen. But then the entire camp erupts, trolls everywhere drawing weapons and bellowing in rage. Immediately, twenty more arrows fly into the camp, finding their targets and wreaking deadly havoc. Grunts of pain fill the air, but only a handful of trolls fall in the volley. Before I can think too much, I charge into the camp, letting loose my own battle cry that is lost in the sound of our charge. We have the element of surprise, but if the huge beasts are scared, they don’t show it. Each one lets out his own yell and meets the charge. I target a particularly ugly troll who is holding a club in one meaty hand and a chunk of whatever he was eating in the other.

  Deep, sunken eyes meet mine, and the hairy gray beast throws his food on the ground and grips his club in both of his giant hands. With a roar, he charges and swings at my head. Instinctively I duck under the high blow, slicing at his knee before coming back to full height on his other side. As I turn back toward my enemy, I notice that every troll in view is similarly engaged, and I turn my focus fully back to my target. By this time, Rayfe has joined me, wielding his two swords. That cocky grin lights his face, and when we make eye contact, he winks at me. I can’t help but smile back. The troll swings his club at me again, and when I side-step to avoid the hit, Rayfe steps in, swings both his blades, slicing through the troll’s hamstrings, sending him crashing to the ground with a scream. As Rayfe continues his spinning motion, I surge forward once more, filling the space Rayfe has vacated. I stab my longsword deep into the troll’s chest, and his scream turns to a bloody choking sound before ending completely. And just like that, the fight is over.

  I glance around and see that the other skirmishes around the camp are also finished, or almost finished. The slaughter is complete. Rayfe is wiping down his blades, so do the same before sheathing my sword. As I watch Horace dispatch his troll with a massive swing of his battleax, a guttural cry rings out from behind me. I turn in time to see another troll fly out of the woods with an axe in his hands, heading straight for the back of one of the elves. I cry out in warning, but the troll has already reached him by the time he reacts, and the axe descends, almost cutting him clean in half. I can only watch in horror as he falls to the ground, already dead, and the troll takes another mighty swing at another soldier nearby. The human ducks under the swing, falling to the ground. The troll follows the movement and raises his axe for another killing blow. Suddenly, an arrow flies into the troll’s back, and he jerks, lowering his axe as he turns around. Rayfe is already notching another arrow. The troll lets loose a growl and charges in our direction. Rayfe’s second arrow strikes true, but the troll still doesn’t go down. Two more arrows, fired in such rapid succession that I don’t even register the motion, slam into the troll’s chest, finally stopping him in his tracks. He sinks to his knees before dropping face first to the ground, dead.

  I scan the clearing for any more signs of trolls, but all I see are my allies. After collecting arrows and other supplies from the dead trolls, we gather in the center of the camp. The human fighter Rayfe saved from the troll attack stands off to the side, apart from the rest of our group. The slain elf was his partner, and the shock of not being able to save him in their first battle has defeated his spirit.

  Do fighters who lose their partners get paired with someone else?

  I am just relieved that I don’t have to worry about it. I can’t imagine having anyone but Rayfe beside me on the battlefield.

  Our unit moves back to join the rest of the group after the battlefield has been looted and the elf has been buried. Shortly after, we are moving along the path again, through the troll’s camp, toward our main army. We break through the trees and look out over a huge open field. Down below, thousands of tents stretch across the ground in an endless sea of grey, green and brown fabric. Cooking fires dot the landscape, and the movement of a massive military swarms around the valley. As we exit the trees, we group around Ambrosius, who stands at the front.

  “Welcome to the front lines,” he announces. “Let’s go make camp.”

  As we walk down the slope to the camp below, I can’t help but feel like training has officially ended, and the time for vengeance has finally arrived.

  Chapter 11

  The camp is the largest gathering of people I have ever seen. Willowdale pales in comparison to the sheer number of soldiers milling around in the endless expanse of tents. Humans and elves of every shape and size occupy the camp, wielding every kind of weapon I can imagine, and some that I couldn’t. They move about in pairs, just like our company, even in their own camp. Ambrosius leads us through the crowd toward the middle of the camp. In the sea of identical tents dotted with cooking fires, I take in the vastly varying faces of the soldiers we pass.

  A burly man with a huge trident strapped diagonall
y to his back sits next to a lithe elf with a longbow. A human boy who can’t be much older than I am is deep in conversation with an old elf whose face is covered in scars from a hundred battles. We pass pairs of humans wielding the same weapons and human/elf pairs sitting together. While there are so many differences around me, there are also similarities. Every face and conversation in the camp seems tense, and I realize that even these seasoned soldiers must be nervous about the coming battle. It makes me wonder just how ominous the troll force is that we are about to face.

  Will they outnumber us?

  I think back just a couple of hours to our fight with the small troll group. My mind fixates on the image of the troll that kept fighting after Rayfe had put two arrows into its chest, and shudder at the thought of an army of the monsters larger than our own. I hope their force is smaller, or we may not stand a chance.

  After what feels like a mile of walking through the tents, Ambrosius stops in front of a large tent mottled in grey, green and brown material. There is no cooking fire near this one, and no soldiers mill about outside. Ambrosius turns back toward us, his face expressionless.

  “This is the central war tent,” he explains, his eyes passing over our group. He stands easily, as if he is finally back where he belongs. I wonder how much of his time he spends here on the battlefield, versus the training grounds with new recruits. “This is where our general, Octavian, sleeps. It is also where the battle plans and tactics are drawn up. Wait here. He will want to meet you.”

  Ambrosius turns and ducks into the large tent. I look over at Rayfe, who’s eyes meet mine. He grins at me, like he always does, that smirk easing a little of my anxiety.

  “Time to meet the famous Octavian,” he quips, his hands resting lightly on the hilts of his swords.

  “I’ve never heard of him before,” I admit, embarrassed. I am beginning to realize just how small and sheltered my life really was in my village. There is so much I don’t know.

  “General Octavian has led the human and elf army for over 100 years,” Rayfe explains to me, no judgement on his face or in his voice.

  100 years?

  I remember hearing stories about the lifespan of the elves when I was younger. Elves age like humans until they reach adulthood. After that, their lifespan stretches far longer than humans, lasting several hundred years or more. Rayfe is still talking about Octavian, and I turn my attention outward, back to his words.

  “He has defended our lands from trolls and many other enemies in his time as the general. Our army has pushed back everything from enemy elven kingdoms, to savage human barbarian armies and all forms of evil creatures, like the trolls. With him as our general, we have never lost a war.”

  Just as I am about to ask him about these other kingdoms of humans and elves, I hear the rustle of fabric and see Ambrosius exit the tent. Behind him comes another elf, who is undoubtably the general. Even though general Octavian is of average height for an elf—between five and six feet tall—he exudes a confidence and power that leaves no doubt of his capabilities on the battlefield. Dressed similarly to the other soldiers I saw as we walked through the camp, he is outfitted from his neck to his boots in a hardened green leather, perfectly fitted to his frame. As he moves, I can hear the rustle of chain mail underneath his leather shirt. Even his hands are covered in green leather gloves, thin enough to provide full range of motion in battle. As my eyes take in the nondescript armor, they move to the weapons at his hips, which are anything but ordinary.

  Like Rayfe, he wields two swords, one on each hip. But each of his swords sits in a single ring on his belt, leaving the blades visible. I see the layers upon layers of metal in the blades, pressed and folded to add strength, while keeping the weight impossibly low. Sergio, the blacksmith from my village would talk of the folding technique being used to create exceptionally strong steel blades. Octavian’s swords, however, shine the unmistakable pale green of forged adamantium, the strongest metal in the world. The hilts of the swords, the same green color, are formed into the figures of snarling wolves.

  Tearing my eyes from the beautiful weapons, I see his face. He looks no older than 40 years, but I know he has lived for over two centuries. A slender face with prominent cheek bones boasts a few battle scars but still hold the smooth planes of youth. Hair so blonde it appears white in the sun, flows down past his shoulders behind him. Piercing green eyes pass over our group, settling on each of us for a few moments before moving on. His expression is serious, but not unkind, and when he begins to speak, his deep voice carries over us easily.

  “Welcome to the front lines, Reavers,” He announces. “We are glad to have you in these troubled times. We need every one of you if we hope to stop the evil marching across our lands, destroying our homes. My troops are busy preparing the battlefield for the arrival of the enemy. We will begin integrating you into our war strategy immediately. I look forward to seeing you all in combat.”

  With that, he nods to Ambrosius, spins around, and strides back into the command tent. Ambrosius leads us past the mottle green tent to the far edge of the camp where the unoccupied tents are set up.

  “You have one hour to get settled,” Ambrosius orders. “Then meet back at the command tent to be briefed on the battlefield, war tactics, and where we will all fit into the fight. After that, our training with the army will begin. The troll army will be here in two days, and we must be ready by then.”

  Rayfe and I quickly claim a tent and move the few possessions we carry with us inside. Inside the tent, life feels the same as it had at the training grounds. The way the light shines through the fabric, the sounds that travel through the camp, the smell of sweat and dirt and fire all around us. It is only when I crouch to pass through the flap, that the reality of where we are hits me again.

  “We made it,” Rayfe remarks, as if reading my mind. I look over at him as he straightens and rolls his neck. “Are you ready?”

  Thinking about the reality of what is going on around us, I have to take a second to calm my nerves. We are standing in the middle of an army. In two days, we will be in the epicenter of a war. I push down the fear, and like I’ve done so many times before, I put the image of Kromm with my sword in his heart at the front of my brain. I finally make eye contact with Rayfe again and give him a firm nod, smiling grimly. My emotions must be written all over my face because he reaches out a hand and squeezes my shoulder before turning and leading the way back to the command tent.

  Octavian stands at the entrance to the tent when we arrive, with Ambrosius at his side. About half of our group is already gathered around the two of them, and more of the group filters in. After the last of us joins the gathering, Octavian gestures for us to follow him and disappears inside the large tent. As I pass through the entrance and take in the interior, the first thing I notice is the simplicity. Other than the size, the command tent looks much like the rest of the tents in the camp. I assumed that the legendary general would be surrounded by luxury in his sleeping quarters, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  At the back of the tent, a simple cot sits on the ground, with a blanket neatly folded on top. A small weapon rack sits beside the bed. The only other item in Octavian’s private area of the tent is a small wooden chest, barely large enough for a child to fit inside. Looking up, I see a cord running the length of the tent connected to a thin curtain that could be pulled to offer privacy if the general needs.

  The majority of the space inside the tent is dominated by a huge circular table placed directly in the center. It looks to be made from a disc of wood taken from the trunk of a massive tree. The top of the table is covered in rocks, carved wooden shapes and other figures. As I study the view before me, I start to see familiar landmarks, and the map of the surrounding area begins to become a little clearer. Under the figures on top of the table, the landscape of the area has also been painted, and the detail between the paint and the figures is amazing.

  “As I am sure you have figured out, this table displays
the terrain all around our camp and the battlefield we are preparing,” Octavian begins, gesturing towards the table. He stands right in front of it, holding a wooden pole that stands almost as tall as him. He lifts the pole and points to a painted clearing on the table, with several wooden pyramids placed on top of it.

  “This is our camp,” He explains. “It is located between these two ridges. The path you came down, out of the forest from the north marks one of two easy access points to the valley. The valley opens up at the southern end, providing a much wider, open entry point.”

  As he talks, he moves the pole, indicating the areas he is talking about. I listen to his words intently, taking in his explanation and all the detail of the layout.

  “We set up camp within the valley to hide our presence from any troll scouting parties that may be running ahead of their main force. After tomorrow, our camp will be dismantled and this same area will become the target for our ambush. Our outriders have reported the trolls to be moving south-southwest and will have to either cross through this valley or lose days of travel time climbing over the ridges with their supplies.”

  I look around the room and see every pair of eyes trained on the table. I am starting to see the plan laid out on the map, and Octavian’s words confirm my ideas as he continues laying out the battlefield before my eyes. He takes carved wooden figurines of soldiers and begins placing them in different locations on the ridges surrounding the valley. As we did with our ambush of the small troll party in the forest, archers will start the battle. Once the trolls have marched into the valley, a volley of arrows will rain devastation down on them from above.

  Because Rayfe will be a part of that first archer attack, I will also be positioned on the ridge with the archers. Pairs of fighters who both fight in close combat will be hidden from view on the ridge much closer to one of the two access points into the valley. Three volleys of arrows will be fired, before the melee soldiers will descend upon the chaos of the troll forces, sealing the valley from both sides and crushing the remaining forces. The archers and their partners, like Rayfe and I, will travel along the ridge after the first wave of fighters descends on the trolls and provide support where we are needed, killing any trolls who to try to escape the slaughter.