Dragon Wars - The Last War

Prelude - To War

Prelude
To War 

The hall was filled with a low hush as the Céilidh, the gathering of village and town leaders, elder warriors and just about anyone else who could fit and found room in the creaking ancient wooden building could hold, turned and looked towards the tattered banner laid out on the old hefty oak table that stood in the centre of the room. There were short muttered whispers in the dark flickering of torch and hearth light but none in the front row, the eldest and most respected advisors, would speak. The banner was weather worn and battered, telling the story of how it had come to be torn from its mast. Ripped from a ship as it crashed upon the rocky northern shores in a heavy storm, soaked in the salt water of the sea and sun bleached on the shores, before luck and happenstance brought a parole it’s way.  It had endured all this, and yet it’s colourings where still strong, its sigil; a dragons claw as black as night on the red fabric, was still plain to see.
Giric Stockenwolf stood at the head the table, looking at it. He felt it goading him, mocking him here in his own hall. His anger was making his sense heightened, it was if he could hear every breath being taken by the men and women standing in his hall, even the children foolishly, brazening defying orders to stay in bed and hiding crouching in the beams and rafters above them. He could feel all their eyes dart from banner to him, and back to the banner again.
Tarth, the old Sentinel of the North, & the village leader of which the parole that found the banner, belonged to stood near it. A brave soul to stand apart from the crowd,

“You know what this means” He said in his gruff hard voice.
Giric looked at the old gnarled man, in all the times he had met Tarth before, he could never tell if he was being condescending with intent or if he always talked like that, and this time was no different; except in one regard. Tarth was not addressing some young raw warrior, a rider fresh off his pilgrimage; he wasn’t even addressing a young lord in his fathers keep. Now he was addressing the Lord of the Valley, the King in the Sky, and Giric was a bit too tired to play the ‘respect your elders’ game tonight. 

“I know what it means” Giric said, his voice filling the hall, bring silence to the whispers in the shadows, “We all know what this means.”
Tarth eyes widened as he caught a glance of his lords eye, “begging your pardon Stockenwolf” he said bowing his head and taking a step back, “I only meant…”
“I know what you meant” Giric interrupted, “we all know it. We’ve all suspected it for a time now. This is just the proof of our fears.” He took a breath, “the northern raids, the whispers we’ve all heard from the caravans now; the tales of black sailed ships. It can only mean Carvery is more active, testing the defences of the shore and sky. Seeing what actions if any the Empire will choose to do. It won’t be long now before” He paused. The thought had came to him, many times over the past few months, with the long winter and hungry bellies, the tales of horrors long the northern and eastern shores. It was the reason he had instructed for more patrols in the first place, it was why he awaited the reports of every returning pilgrim with equal parts anticipation and dread. But now as he was about to say it, voice the thought out loud, it suddenly all became very real.
“The mean to invade.”

There was no sharp in take of breath, no exhale of surprise or astonishment, just the sound of grim acceptance of a truth long held at arms length in the hope that it would by virtue of ignoring it turn into a falsehood 

“So Bolla isn’t quite as dead as we hoped then?” One of the village leaders in the throng spoke,
“He can’t be still alive, that’d make him near ninety. Has to be an heir” another retorted.  “But who could unite the factions of Carvery?”

‘Who indeed’ Giric thought as he looked back at the banner and the sigil of the line of Blackclaw and a feeling of dark dread passed over his heart. He looked up to the rafters a little above and back from the grand table that was once his fathers, there were two boys sitting there, their legs dangling from the beams, his eyes locked with the young pale skinned brown hair lad, his son; Airt. He tired to force a smile, to show his son that even as the growing threat was discussed there was nothing to worry about, but he knew that would not fool anyone, let alone his son. He lowered his head, and turned to look over his shoulder. His eldest child, his heir, his daughter Acair stood back from the crowd ever alert and silently watching next to what could be called a thrown, a simple wooden chair that stood a little higher than the rest. Acair, had just returned from her pilgrimage, she looked young and keen, and even with the stern look on her face of a women trying far too hard to be serious she was as beautiful as her mother. Giric wondered if he had looked that keen and eager when he had returned from his pilgrimage all those years ago, swordsure and full of self believe. Thinking that he had seen all there was to see, that nothing could faze him, or make him question his strike. How foolish he had been. He had known nothing of war; of real battle. And then he wondered was this what his father felt all those years ago?