Dragonworld: The Drive For Power

Prequel 1: A New Beginning

New Beginning

Maybe he shouldn't have been there.

His boots kept sinking into the slush, sliding in the mud, crushing the moss underfoot. Trees rose all around him, their tangled branches blocking out most of the light. 

And now, even those slivers were disappearing, as dusk approached.

The forest, thick and seemingly never ending, stretched out over a landscape of rugged hills. The marshes and lakes further complicated this harsh terrain. 

Hardly a soul ever passed through these lands, and for good reason.

Danger lurked at every corner. 

He had heard the stories, and laughed them off. In his mind, these were just tall tales sung by people who would jump at anything. Even at the sight of their own shadow. 

He definitely wasn't laughing now. 

Every rustle of the trees, every flicker of the wind, every crackle of the leaves underfoot, it all gave him the creeps. 

"What was that?" 

He froze.

A sound? Or just his nerves? The man mumbled to himself, as he stopped to check his surroundings.

His eyes and ears were on high alert, his feet grinding to a halt. Nothing. Most likely just an animal scurrying about. There were plenty of those in these parts. 

Still, he did not relax. His shoulders stayed tight as he gripped his sword, both hands squeezing until his knuckles ached. 

Why was he there? He should have taken the high route around the hills, like every normal, sane person.

No time, he thought to himself. That would have cost him an extra week. He couldn't afford that. Time was money. 

To fight was to live. To live was to fight. That's how it went for mercenaries like him.

All he could do now was to continue. 

The hill started rolling down gently, as the trees parted to reveal a muddy swampy area around a large lake. The waters were still, unmoving, like the surface of a mirror.

A thin mist curled over the surface, drifting slowly in all directions. The air was thick with the scent of decaying leaves and rotting timber. 

Half-submerged logs jutted out from the shallows, their bark stripped bare, ghostly pale against the dark water. Somewhere in the distance, a frog let out a slow, croaking call, the only sound in the thick silence.

Faikel, the man clutching the sword, scanned the scene. Everything around him seemed treacherous. Mud. Swamps. It would be easy to get bogged down.

His eyes settled on a small stream pouring into the lake just ahead. He decided to cross there. It didn't seem too deep. 

Faikel moved closer to the lake, scanning the edge. Just past the reeds, the water looked the shallowest. He paused for a moment, put his sword into its scabbard, and then stepped down. 

With each step he took, his feet kept sinking deeper and deeper into the muck. Cold water spilled over the tops of his boots, soaking into his socks. He pushed forward nevertheless, knowing he had no better choice.

He waded further into the water, his legs straining against the mud. His eyes scanned the shoreline. Faikel knew he was exposed. A cold shiver went down his spine. He didn't like being exposed. 

Clutching a dagger in his right hand, he mentally prepared himself for any danger that could be lurking in the woods. 

The entire place made him feel uneasy. The trees in the distance, the mud, the water he was wading through. He was not in his element. Too many unknowns. Too many factors he couldn't control. And it was starting to get dark.