New Book: Chapter 1 (Final preview before off to editor)

WARRIORS OF DHROTNAC

Chapter 1

It was a brisk autumn night. The wathlo trees swayed gently in the evening breeze under the fading night sky. Their branches oscillating gently during the gusts, while the last few leaves danced, twisting and twirling, to the damp meadow floor. The sounds of children scampering home, after frolicking amongst the fields, and the defiance of the elders from there naps. The chefs could be heard squabbling over this dish and that, as the great bonfire was lit in the center of the village. Many years earlier in the motherland, the ancestors had started this tradition during community gatherings. Much had been previously endured by the ancestors before they found there home there; in the meadow. The elders being the only ones to remember the drought many years ago, which led to the series of battles that tore the neighboring villages on the other side of the Algen Sea. Eventually some of the citizens, who inhabited Dhrotnac, salvaged what they could and set off in hopes to find a new land and never look back. It was since then they established the village of Nhothac. There were a hundred of them that day, of that hundred three remained. These three were the elders of the village.

Traditions still remained strong for the people of Nhothac. Tonight was the ninth moon, the beginning of the remembrance festival. The festival was an emotional time of year for the people of Nhothac. It was a time to recall their fallen kin that sacrificed themselves through customs from the motherland. One custom that was adored by the children was the telling of old tales by the elders. The children were starting to skip to the town center because as all children in Nhothac know, once the bonfire is ablaze the storytelling begins.

The fire was lit, the flames flickering and illuminating the enthusiastic children’s faces for that were cheerfully giggling and chatting in anticipation for the tonight’s tale. This time of year the story was told by the elder of Wisdom, while the elders of Truth and Regret took time to take in the season. The temperature had dropped from earlier so the children were huddled together around the wathlo tree stump, trying to stay warm. Out from the hut shuffled the blanketed mass and sat on the stump…but as he removed his hood to reveal his face, the children could see the content smile of the elder of truth beaming at them. Tonight it would be the elder of truth that would be amercing them in his tales. This created a unrest among the older children who had come accustomed to the stories of the wisdom elder at this time. Once the elder opened his mouth to speak, the audience had settled down. The elder of truth was telling his tale under the autumn night sky as the trees swayed in the wind.

If oneself listened closely, off in the distance one could hear a faint argument taking place in the northern most part of the village. This hut belonged to the elder of Wisdom, who was the oldest of all the elders. “That is a fool’s move, and you damn well know it!” a powerful voice stated with gusto.

“I know our intelligence is questionable, but regardless, we have to commence the training. Whether or not the boy is ready,” the elder swiftly responded.

“No, I will not do…”

“Narron, you of all people know what happened last time,” Wisdom calmly replied.

“Yes I recall”. Narron continued, “Last time the boy was not ready!”

“Luckily for us there were no consequences,” Wisdom said. “These are new times. What once was rumor, know is true.”

Narron looked shocked, “But…”

“Go get the boy, then we can talk,” the elder said with the end of the conversation.

Narron let out and agitated sigh and trudged out of the hut mumbling to himself, leaving the light and warmth for a world of cold and darkness that came with the autumn moons. There was a chilly breeze that was blowing; it ran through his rough beard and long black hair, usually covered by his helm. He walked up to his night black horse, Armentum that was grazing in the nearby meadow, and mounted with the speed of a gazelle. Orienting himself in the direction of the fading bonfire, he rode towards it. Narron was a warrior, the last of his kind, from an ancient city that lay to the west, past the Red Mountains. Still young in appearance, even he was old enough to fight with the elders in Dhrotnac; he was mentally tired from years of peace. After all he is a warrior.

Approaching the center of the village, he scanned the diminishing crowd for the boy. He could not manage to find him. Then looking to his right, he saw a rather lanky child hunched over a long table made of wathlo, scrubbing and scrubbing trying to get off the leftovers of someone’s meal. Narron dismounted his horse and paced over to the boy, who was very much occupied. Before he could initiate the conversation, the boy turned around and questioned. “May I help you?” his voice trembling because this imposing figure was casting a shadow on his work.

Narron replied, “Come with me, the elder of Wisdoms whishes to speak with you.”

“I must finish th…”

Before the boy could finish speaking, he was scooped up by the warrior with one arm and placed on the back of the horse while Narron mounted. They were off to the cozy hut, where the elder of Wisdom sat in the northern most part in the village, waiting to inform the boy of his future.