Dragon Wars - The Last War

Chapter 1 - A year and not a summer later.

A year and not a summer later.

 Braytor sat on a wood cargo box in the draftee near disused warehouse; he was spinning his sword, as he was known to do when waiting, and bored. When he woke this morning he had been the head of the royal guard, the youngest to ever to reach that position, that was seven years ago mind, but still it had been an achievement. He wore a set of armour as blue as the grand ocean, a cloak made from the finest silks, and his sword had never been drawn in five years, but now. Now he found himself in an old abandon warehouse with it’s empty boxes and bales of hey and mice and the cold draft blowing in through the cracks in the roof, his fine silk cloak replaced with a dirty grey woollen blanket, his finely polished armour blood stained and his sword. His sword had killed friends.

He and the few other men, four in number, Grish, Oroka, Pela, Ballen, all sat in the near darkness of the full mooned night, they could risk no lantern, candle or torch.

Suddenly Grish raised his head, his ears pricking, and he pulled his sword, the others, noticed him and followed suit,

“Foot steps” he said.

Braytor then heard them himself, so quite that he might have missed them if it wasn’t for Grish and his scarily sharp ears. He rushed to the door, Grish next to him,

“Patrol?” Pela asked sheepishly hanging back from the door, his sword arm shaking in front of him as he held his sword tightly.

“bloody well better not be!” Grish spat out before Braytor shushed them.

They stood quiet, swords in hands ans they heard the hurried foot steps coming closer; they were running. Then as they reached the door, there was a pause, no sound, everyone collectively holding their breaths, straining their ears, then;

Knock

it was singular and solitary, quite too. Braytor looked at Grish. Grish, raised an eyebrow and a shoulder shrug, he didn’t want to take the blame. Braytor scrunched up his face, and moved a few steps so he could reach through the door as Grish opened it. The door opened, Braytor reached out, grabbed the jerkin of whoever was outside and pulled them in throwing them onto the floor.

The boy, barley a man, scrabbled to his feet, finding himself surrounded by swords.

“Please Sir’s Please.” He pleaded,

“Sumer?” Braytor recognised him, he had been in the kitchens when they had made their escape from the palace, he was Lord Barenbow’s 3rd son, squire to some such knight that Braytor only pretended to learn the name of. He looked a bit worse for ware, his hair ruffled, his shoes scuffed a deep red blood stain and spatter on the side of his otherwise cream coloured jerkin, he looked like he was about to breakdown and cry in any moment. “How did you know to find us here?” He shiest his sword and his fellow guards followed suit.

“Sir Ixin” Sumer said quickly feeling his life was still in danger if he failed to answer in haste, “she told me where to find you.”

“Where is the little imp?” Grish asked in his harsh tone, eyeing up Sumer from head to toe, trying to gauge his worth.

“she..” he paused, it seemed he was trying to find the words, but nearly in tears he knew the words, they all knew the words before he ever had to say it “she died. Right in front of me she died.”

Braytor noticed the blood stain on his jerkin again. Was that Ixin’s blood?

Braytor steeled himself, he would have time to morn the lost of one of his best later, “do you have anything for me?” his voice was hard and harsh like a cliff wall. Sumer nodded and then reached inside his jerkin and retrieved three small scrolls. Grish snatched them off him, and hastily opened and scanned them, before rolling them back up and handing them to Braytor.