The Shadow Scrolls: Series Book One, The Vale of Blood. PD Ph.D. Lorenz

knuckles beneath his skin being covered with the red of his own blood as his grip began to loosen. That’s when another wave hit. More of the projectiles lodged into his back. That time, from his neck to his right flank… another in his leg and one in his arm. With that second strike, the sovereign slumped upon the back of the war horse, but still held on tightening his wounded thighs around the contour of the steed’s mighty back. The horse could feel the squeeze and perceived the need to increase his speed, not so much as a prompting from his dear friend, but rather as a cry for help.

      A moment past before the king regained the strength, which was quickly draining from his body, to raise his eyes toward the cavern in the distance. He judged himself to be not quite half way across the battlefield and could see more of the stealthy warriors rustling amongst their nests ahead and on his right and left flanks. More arrows flew, and again the king was surprised when they missed his body all together. That’s when the horse beneath him was struck several times and the rider realized that the enemy was not aiming for him at all. They were truly in this trial together and it disheartened the rider to think that his trusty friend was suffering as well. However, the previous onslaught only served to strengthen the horses’ cadence and it was yet one more occasion for the king to be proud of his steed.

      At the three quarter point, that is, at about twenty six lengths, the third wave of arrows found their marks. They were the ones that produced the most damage for they had been let loose at the closest range. The grand outcropping of Sturmstone that once served as the fount of Paraketh, and then helmed the depths of darkness, also served as the position on the field of battle where the enemy had created their redoubt. Determined not to allow the horse and rider to reach their goal, the arrows that flew from the bowmen nestled into the base of the cliff were duel headed and flew in a circular trajectory thereby striking with greater damage and ferocity. It was those missiles of destruction that caused the once mighty Diokalees to finally stagger, and the once majestic king to finally let go of the reins for the pain was too much to bear and the devastation too complete.

      At that point, their path was not a straight one as it had been. For the first time, they were removed from their heading as Diokalees stumbled to the right, and the king slumped to the left. If it were not for the arrows that were lodged in the side of the courser, the rider would have fallen all together, but he managed to hang on to two of them which were fastened side by side on the forth quarter of the left shoulder. Seeing their last strike moment approaching, enemy combatants began to emerge from their hideouts with unsheathed swords in their hands. Like a tumbling projectile approaching them, each one craved for the fame of delivering that fatal swing, a swing that would never connect.

      As the man and horse staggered closer and closer to the mouth of gloom, there arose one more arrow upon one more bow, and it was from high atop the Sturmstone tower. Appearing upon the mount was a warrior-prince of unrivaled splendor, second only to the king himself. Prince Magreth stood as a powerfully built and well carved leader of hordes. A thousand battles would only begin to describe the fullness of his list of achievements. He had become the ill gotten owner of many manor houses, lands, and even a city all obtained by deceitful gain. His dress was that of hardened battle array stained pearl-white from dye that had been obtained from the felled petals of the Willowfeld trees ages past. His helm was also carved from Willowfeld, but coated in silver and gold that, at that moment, glowed in the sinking sun. He held a bow of magnificent enormity and, it seemed, could only be raised and aimed by the strong arms that were fitted to his immense and towering body. In a strange way, his voice resembled a herald’s trumpet and a player’s lyre all wrapped together, or some other sort of wind and stringed instrument that had been formed and fashioned to announce war. And a war cry he did raise.

      “My kingdom shall rise and never fall,” he harmonized from above.

      It echoed down through the cracks and crevices that were inherent in the shear angles of the Sturmstone perch. The melodious voice had a hint of victory song hidden in its chords that caused the sauntering soldiers far below to stop in their tracks. It even produced a start in the heart of the suffering king and caused him to pull back his bloody head and tilt his whole body backward so that he could look upon his conquering foe.

      Prince Magreth may also have discovered that two sets of additional ears on the opposite side of the valley had heard his decry if they had not been scrambling down the back side of the basin. However, even being around the corner from the entrance to the vale, Oliver and Salmon shuddered at the sound of his echoing decree. It beckoned them to speed their descent, and they managed to peer around the entrance into the dale that lay before them. That was when they witnessed the “last strike” but it was not completed by any mere foot soldier… No, it was Magreth himself who delivered the blow.

      His arrow was not double pronged or even single pronged. Neither did it have any flight feathers. No, it was a single shaft so elongated and perfectly balanced that it was more like a spear than a simple fetcher’s arrow. It had a thickened mid-shaft with beveled ends and when it was let loosed, it neither quivered nor quaked. So straight and true did that arrow fly, that when it struck the heart of the king, it passed right through his body and half way into the hind quarter of the war horse upon which he sat. He had timed the shot perfectly and both the horse and rider fell, rolled, and finally slid only to stop just short of the mouth of the gaping cavern, a tangled mess of blood, sweat, and mud…

      There they lay, steam emanating from the bodies in the sudden appearing evening chill with great beads of blood leaking into the dust of the valley that swallowed it like a dry and parched throat. A swell of victory cry grew within the diaphragms of the enemy soldiers and they surged forward toward the felled king knowing that their plans would continue uncontested. However, before their victory cheer could be released, the most unnatural of occurrences happened, and it caused even them to pull back from their advances.

      It began as a peculiar wind and it swirled into tiny tornadoes about the valley. From deep within the cavern, a bellowing vapor arose from the deep. And then, as fear swallowed the atmosphere, two sets of mysterious tracks emerged from the gloom of the grotto. One would have only known that there was some sort of creatures emerging because the tracks could only be seen by the dust that they produced. As far as the creatures themselves, they were invisible to the human eye. Oliver and Salmon could see that something darkly mysterious was happening from a distance, and it deepened the darkness of the mystery, nay, the blackness of the nightmare they had been witnesses to. All eyes followed as the tracks made their way to the bodies of the king and his horse. When they stopped, what was then observed could only be described as nothing short of menacing.

      In a moment of time, the invisible specters thrashed and tore at the blood stained clothes of the motionless body of the king that shuddered in response to their attack. Like a victory dance, they tore and thrashed about unaware to the human eyes save for the clothing, flesh, and blood that was flying everywhere. The thrashing continued uninhibited like a festivity of rage until all of a sudden it stopped, and for a moment, all that saw were filled with a dreadful awe. Then, ever so slowly, the torn and broken body of the king was dragged into the heart of the abyss. Like a macabre procession, he sank into the depths of darkness pulled by seemingly invisible claws on seemingly hideous and unseen arms.

      A moment later and a long way from there, in the farthest distance north of the vale, the Range of the Unknown released a great flood of waters. It was as if the mountains themselves were convulsively weeping. The waters tore through the white castle of Kalaw and half demolished the structure… and its crumbling shook the sides of the mountain from the summit to the base.…

      After that, all fell quiet upon the vale and the soldiers slunk away one by one after Prince Magreth had removed himself from his lofty perch. The hot wind eventually died down and the ashy dust settled upon the ground once again…

      And then, silence prevailed…

      The next day, when all seemed to be clear, Salmon and Oliver made their way to the war torn body of the great horse Diokalees, and dug a trough next to the place where he had fallen. While they dug, neither spoke to each other and only the thought of how they could possibly tell the tale of what they had seen. They wondered if any would believe the story of a warrior, possibly even a king, who had stripped himself of his soldiery, surrendered to the lances of a thousand volleyed