Rebelmind Rising

Prologue

Beyond the sweeping grasslands and crags of the Shale Mountains lies an untamed wilderness. A wilderness of snow and ice, biting cold and barren, desolate wastes where no man or creature could ever survive. But a creature does survive there. A dragon, more ancient than the rocks, shackled to this wilderness by an ancient spell.

To the south, kingdoms rise and fall, heroes and villains alike take their places in Armornicaen history, and times change across the wide scope of the eons. Each evil that is conquered gives way to a new tyranny. Heroes rise to combat the evil, brightening the world with justice and truth. But always a deeper evil gives rise to a chosen villain. From his haunt in the frozen north, the dragon watches, ever seeing, ever delighting in the beliefs of those who believe that change can be brought about by fighting the evils in each other, never in facing together the evil coiled in the northern mountains. For it is the dragon's power that feeds the evils of the land and gives rise to the cruelty that runs rampant throughout the vaulted castle halls.

It was summer, the rolling waves that thunder endlessly against the coast and bring bounty to the kingdom gates are cerulean under azure skies. A strange restlessness haunted the dragon, a foreboding sense that the world was about to change forever. Icdaegron, for that was the dragon's name, raked his way up the tallest mountain peak. Boulders, loosened by his claws, rolled, and thundered down the slopes, collecting ice and rock as they slid, landing with a small avalanche on the glacier thousands of feet below. Snow smoke whirled and settled. Icdaegron coiled himself around the peak like he had every morning for ten thousand years. From here, all of Armornicae stretched out under the rising sun, and beyond the sea glittered almost like his palace of ice. Brooding clouds stretched along the western horizon, promising vengeance from the sea. The fear birthed from tyranny blew strong on the wind. Icdaegron flared wide nostrils, it smelled so good. Through the mountain beneath him, running like strong roots beneath a tree, ran the tremors of the people and the conflicts. He could feel each one, individual and collectively, hearts. The years had produced strong hearts, but one by one they had lost their strength as they took on the power offered by the dragon, weakened as they believed themselves stronger.

The first rays of the sun tinted the sea golden, and a tremor shook the mountain. Avalanches cascaded from its summit and sides, and Icdaegron shuddered, clutching the mountain peak with sharp claws. He looked again to the sunrise, its light shining brighter now than the morning star, but otherwise unchanged. The tremor came again, like the heartbeat of the very mountain on which he stood. Could it be? A chill curdled the very power flowing under the locking scales from his tail to the horns between the fire eyes. The heartbeat thundered again, and Icdaegron's eyes narrowed shrewdly. Reaching into the mountain, he followed the line of singing power until he reached its source. A baby. Only minutes old and already a heart that strong. Strong pinioned wings carried the dragon back to the towering heights of his castle. The ice castle was built over the entrance to the heart of Helved Mountain, the mountain where all that is dark, dead, empty, and evil dwells in a bottomless pit. In its fires, the dragon forged his weapons and, in his lair, deep in the darkness, he would listen to the tremors of beating hearts and in cruel satisfaction, he would weave webs of coldness to weaken and still the strongest ones, turning them into his weapons. This child would take extra skill, but if executed correctly, he could become a great asset.

Icdaegron glided through his weaponry, fondling the vessels, and admiring the shelves. "Bribery, guilt, gluttony, too simple of poisons for this child's heart." The lower shelves held more promise, "Deceit mixed with war, could work. Many have fallen prey to that potion's power." Thunder sounded again through the roots of the mountain and Icdaegron shook his head, lowering himself through a tunnel in the mountain. "I shall have to use my favorite weapon of strength." Blue flames licked at the darkness, and the air hung heavy with evil here in the very lowest depths to which evil could fall in the darkness. Beyond this point, empty nothingness stretched on to beyond the roots of the mountains. There was somewhere even beyond the grasp of the dragon's icy breath, but it held no power, no intrigue, no interest.

An icy niche in the wall held all of those. Covered by a clear pane of ice, a single flower endured the darkness, thriving despite the frigid depths, for it itself was evil. Petals of frosty white rose above sword-like leaves. One blossom. Enough for one heart. Narcissus. Icdaegron rubbed his claws together and a chuckle rose deep in his throat. With a single tap, the pane shattered, and sharp claws plucked the flower.

Millenia ago the mountains were green and covered in flowers. Trees crowned their lofty summits, and rivers flowed bright and clear through the valleys, watering the plains below. A lofty race of elves ruled the land, their sleek ships plying the waters about the peninsula, and their wisdom and craft creating beautiful cities and farms on the rolling foothills, under the watchful eyes of the north mountains. The elf king ruled well, and his sons knew the north mountains well, making frequent excursions into the valleys to pluck fruit from the trees overhanging the rivers. The dragon had been the elf king's own steed, a humble servant obeying the king's slightest command and happy, truly happy in the paradise. But when the king placed a lock upon the door in the mountain and ordered no one to go near it, the dragon grew discontent. One dark night, he slipped from the elf king's side and through the mountain valleys to the door. As he handled the lock, hearing the king's words in his ear, the king's eldest son approached. "What are you doing?" he'd asked, and the dragon recoiled. "The king asked me to get something from under the mountain. But he said I couldn't tell anyone."

"My father tells me everything. He wouldn't tell you to do something that he hadn't mentioned to me."

A lock shattered and the door swung open. As it did so, an arrow of ice pierced the dragon's tough scales. Fire kindled in his heart, and he snorted, "Would he? He trusts me more."

The son's face seemed strangely drawn, and he didn't answer. Ice had pierced his heart, and he crumpled to the ground.

The dragon snorted again, and frost coated the tree. Strange. Such beautiful patterns. He brushed the frost and it became a pane of glass. Handsome. Very handsome. His scales seemed to have changed, and he had lost his green shine. Now like the frost and shadows in the snow, blue and white scales covered his body and horns shoved up from his head. He smiled at the handsome dragon reflection. Fangs. Strange. This would be hard to hide from the elf king, but he didn't want to anymore. He had power. He had as much power or more than the elf king.

There had been a battle then, and the mountains had been ravaged, covered in his frosty breath and the corpses of fallen elven soldiers. He'd won, but the elf king had banished him to the mountains and cast a powerful spell to keep him there. He could see the plains below, but his ice and blizzards could not bury the lands anymore. But he still had one avenue through which to manipulate the minds and hearts of men. Chords run deep in the earth, connecting each human heart to a sacred alter, deep under the North Mountains. While unable to sever the chords, Icdaegron could be tampered and manipulate them to create discord and corruption.

The elf king had paused after barring the gate to the North Mountains and gathering the body of his son. "One day a heart strong like my son's shall be born to a great but unknown line of kings, he shall reforge the ancient sword of my son, and combined with the other six kings, he shall be able to open the mountains and destroy the evil within. But he shall only be able to do so if he resists the evil within and withstands the evil without and learns through suffering to wield the sword of his fathers. If he does, he shall take his place as the seventh king and end the dragon power. He shall face the darkness of the dragon pit, but only by going deeper in the darkness can he come to the alter or be consumed by the dragon flame."

Clutching the blossom tightly, Icdaegron cackled. Reaching into the mountain depths, he found the cord he sought and bound the blossom to it, watching with vile satisfaction the strand of black seep into the golden pulse. Betrayal from a brother. Love would be the downfall of the strong. In the darkness of the mountain, Icdaegron reveled in his plan, dreaming of a day when the elf king's prophesy would fail and the world below would crumble again at the tips of his claws.