FIFTEEN YEARS EARLIER

Hadarthas, the shaman, opened his mouth to the sound of beating drums and throat singing.

To Alan’s ears, what he said sounded like gibberish.

The shaman's eyes were wide open, rolled back, as he jumped to his feet, shivering like a reed in the wind.
The shaman’s voice morphed into that of a woman, high-pitched and rough. His words seemed to cut the air like a razor.
“The world... The world... The world will cease to be.”

Alan the Blacksmith shivered. He turned, facing Skapasis the chieftain. Skapasis had an exaggerated grin on his face, his red mane covering his furrowed brow. His gleaming armor reflected the bonfire’s light. A dozen Dragon Knights in plate armor, his warrior elite, stood by his side, surrounded by banners and tents, watching the oracle and expecting a favorable omen before the battle.

"See, you fools?" Skapasis shouted, raising his jeweled sword into the air, a dragon etched into its pommel. “Our armies will destroy this empire, we will reign in fire! Itruscia will fall! We shall sack her and our oppressors shall be our slaves!"

"The world…" Hadarthas’s screams grew louder, piercing Alan's ears. "Fifteen years, in fifteen years, they shall come again. The world... It is better to die... It's better to die than to see them come back.”

Skapasis' proud expression turned to uncertainty.
And the shaman continued: “Please die, die, let us die, let the whole world die before their return... They wait, dreaming they wait... Inside the earth... They wait... They will return, in fifteen years, they will return... It is better for the world to die than to see them return".

Skapasis’ generals exchanged glances. The drummer continued beating and the other acolytes remained on their knees.
“Let us die, let us die, it is better to die!” continued the shaman.
"Enough of this farce," growled Skapasis through his teeth.
Hadarthas' screams did not cease. He danced on the carpet, as if bound to it by an invisible energy, then looked at Alan with rolled eyes, red veins stretching through them. He dropped the prayer wheel, threw himself at Alan's feet and grabbed him by the legs; he looked up and opened his mouth.
"Don't let her come near it!" Hadarthas cried like a rabid dog.

“Who?”Alan asked, moving his feet out of the way. Was he talking about his wife, who was miles away, campaigning against the capital of Itruscia?

“Don't... Don't let her... Don't let her!” Hadarthas shrieked. Alan's eyes swung upward.

He suddenly blinked in surprise as he saw Skapasis lift his sword and thrust it into the shaman's spine.

“I will not tolerate this!" said Skapasis, pulling his sword from the shaman's dying body. Hadarthas strained his back, and after a couple of spasms of pain, he lay still.
The beating of the drum ceased. The faces of the other generals were pale as hemp paper.
Then, Skapasis wiped the blood from his sword with a woolen handkerchief.

Skapasis raised his sword again, eyes fixed on the nightsky.

“Goddess of the Hunt, you have betrayed me!” he shrieked into the sky, dozens of banners with his emblem, a red dragon, fluttered violently as if in response. “Your oracle has now been silenced, and so shall you be silent before our tribe! We reject your betraying word! But by Ares, I swear we shall burn the Eternal City to the ground! The dragon will swallow the world!”

“The dragon will swallow the world!” echoed a hundred voices, the Generals of Gadalia, the Dragon Knights. But Alan remained still, hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his knees trembling. He turned back and rushed toward his horse. Whatever was about to happen, he had to get to the battlefield. He had to get to his wife.