(This is rated based on the content of the novel as a whole rating of each individual chapter may very)
Prologue
“To arms! To arms! We are under attack!” the cry went out.
The word had already been shouted a thousand times that night when it reached the ears of Charles Smithsteele in the dimness of his smithy. He stood frozen over his anvil; hammer in one hand, a still glowing piece of steel stock in the other. He was a little down in the bottle but more likely it was how unexpected the alarm was. The sweet scent of burning coal from the forge wafted about him as a gust of wind blew some of it back down the chimney. It brought him back to his senses.
The call to muster had been sounded and he must answer it. Charles threw off his worn leather apron and emerged from his shop. Dark figures thronged the cobble stone street. Some carried bows or swords but those were outnumbered by more makeshift weapons. All of them surged towards the ominous pillar of oily smoke that rose into the sky. Like moths to a lantern they went; all drawn to a fire so immense it tinted the night time clouds orange.
Charles blinked in disbelief at what he saw. There was a sort of mad insensibility about what was happening. Why would anyone attack Stonesword when they had not been at war for over thirty years? Hell, there weren’t even any political disputes to fight over, and demon spawn would never attack the city itself.
The master smith had almost dismissed the idea when he came to a realization. There had been reports of goblin raiders striking as far south as Dothia. There had also been rumors that these raids were connected, part of a grander scheme guided by the hand of a ruler. Why not here? But why?
Men and even some women continued to rush past. Glares were shot his way, at the only one in sight who had not joined the flow of militia.
There was more at work here than what there seemed. If goblins did indeed attack it would be no better than suicide. The dozens of armies had laid siege to Stonesword over the ages and none had ever breached the keep. What hope could mere raiders have?
From some where in the whiskey hazed passages of his mind a thought came. It was a distraction. If this was, it was working perfectly. Every able bodied man was on his way to join in repelling an attack on the northern wall. The palace would be unguarded except for a few body guards and there would be an open escape route.
The master smith had stepped out into the street as he thought and was being jostled by the crowd that surged past him. The queen would be vulnerable.
He fingered the leather bound grip of the hammer at his belt only once before he started fighting against the tide of bodies. Charles was met by the angry grumbles and cussing of those he shoved aside in his urgency.
At last he broke through the rush and looked about at the now silent buildings around him, recognizing his surroundings. He could see the gold plated dome of the palace up ahead. Almost there.
His heart pounded with fear as he reached the great iron bound double doors that were the main entrance of the palace. The ceremonial guards lay in bloodied heaps, beaten to death and skulls staved in. Could he be too late? With a great kick he sent the double doors to the great hall crashing open.
A dozen heads turned and Charles froze; he had interrupted a stand off; nine Goblins were in a loose semicircle crossbows trained on three figures. Two men Charles didn’t know had their backs pressed to the wall, one with a jeweled dagger to the throat of a tenth Goblin that he was using as a shield.
The master smith knew that dagger though. He had sold it to him. He was one of the Dragon Riders’ men, one of their priests if the robes were anything to judge by. He and the other robed priest were here to look for potentials.
Charles was the first to react. He threw himself behind one of the massive granite pillars. The master smith stuck his head out to see that the majority of the Goblins were still concentrating on their targets, but two had paired off to take care of him. Charles pulled back his head just in time to avoid the crossbow bolts that whizzed past. It would take the goblins a few precious seconds to draw back their strings and load another bolt. That was his opening. He took it.
Charles stormed out from cover, his hammer at the ready. He fell upon the nearest of his two assailants crushing its skull with a deft blow to the brow. Muddy, green blood splattered his clothes. The second goblin had loaded another bolt and was raising his heavy cross bow but Charles closed the distance between them before it could bring the weapon to bear. Chainmail armor was never meant to deter a hammer strike like the one Charles delivered to its chest. The sound of breaking bone told him that he had snapped its sternum.
The Dragon Priests took advantage of his distraction. The one with the living shield cut the Goblin’s throat and they charged forward. They were not swift enough. The remaining Goblins recovered and opened fire. Harsh snapping twangs filled the air as the strings sent their projectiles forward. One of the Priests went down full of bolts, the second was struck in the gut.
Charles bellowed in rage. These were holy men that had been slain; a double sin, the blackest of sins. He lost control of his humanity and took out his fury upon the assassins. Bones shattered under his weapon as five pounds of steel met flesh under the strength of a blacksmith’s arm. Charles stood amiss a pile of broken bodies bawling the names of the gods.
He remembered the priest that had taken a gut shot and searched the blood soaked floor. Guards burst through the door, weapons raised as the master smith propped the robed man against one of the ornate pillars. The armored men relaxed seeing that the fight was over and their captain came to kneel next to the wounded man with Charles.
“Bring a healer!” the soldier cried.
“No,” the priest snarled in pain. “It’s too late for me. My guts are all sliced up. I only have a few more minutes. You, Charles Smithsteel, master smith, I remember you. You made me my dagger.”
“That’s me,” Charles knelt next to the priest, his anger broken by the sound of the dying man’s voice.
“Send for your wife man.”
“What?”
“She is pregnant is she not?”
“Yes,” charles replied, “Due in another two months.”
“I must read your unborn child. Surely the child of such a man will hold promise,” the dragon priest urged.
“You heard him send for Charles’s wife, make haste!” the young captain shouted to his men who were admiring Charles’ handy work.
Charles nodded his thanks to the captain. He was grateful that his status as the master smith made him well known to the guard.
A few minutes later Charles’ wife was escorted into the room. She crossed the broad expanse of the great hall to her husband. If the sight or stench of the aftermath of the fight perturbed her she gave no sign.
“Give me your hand dear,” the priest whispered.
He took her hand and his eyes widened with shock, his lips twisted into horror then joy.
“I have never found one with such potential,” the dying man murmured to the dark haired beauty. His eyes were far away.
“What are you talking about?” Charles demanded.
“Dragon Priests have a way of seeing, a way of knowing. Some say it’s a gift from the Dragon God himself. We are tasked to use this gift to seek out those who will become dragon riders. Upon the rarest of occasions we get a vision of the future for that candidate.”
“How-,” Charles began, but was cut off.
“Don’t ask how. I am running out of time,” the priest whispered so quietly Charles and his wife had to lean close to hear. “It has already started. These goblin raiders from the north are but the first. There will be more, a great, terrible army. Not just goblins, but also demon spawn so terrible that the very sight of them could tear your sanity away. The six nations are divided, weak. One by one they will fall to this army. The dragon riders, corrupt as they are now, will turn a blind eye. Hixelom will burn unless your son—,” the screener let out a strangled gasp and went limp.
“Unless my son does what?” Charles shook the dead man fruitlessly.
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