The Wyrm in the Valley

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. When the world was young, knowing no strife or war, life ran rampant amongst the grassy plains and through the dense swaths of forest that made up the Valley, a natural formation that stretched for a thousand miles in every direction. Serene beasts grazed the fields with birds soaring high above them in their domain of blue sky. The trees grew tall and strong, with trunks stronger than steel and boughs so long with leaves so green, they outstretched far and wide, coming together to form one large canopy. But with the growing of the canopy came the Darkness.

This canopy stretched over the entire Valley, with openings that would span miles for the non-woodland creatures to roam peacefully under the light of the Sun. But within the heart of the forest came the Wolves, great beasts of prey that spawned from the Darkness the forest had created. Sleek coats of fur black as shadows did they have, and shadows were what they were, stalking creatures for sport and food when they dared to venture. With the Wolves and their new bloodlust came Fear, that dreaded and most abominable feeling.

Over time, Fear and Darkness joined together to overtake the Valley, stretching their creeping fingers over every living being. Even the might of the Sun was overpowered, not able to pierce the veil of Night. All was turned black as the Wolves ran wildly across the plains, killing all that breathed even their own on occasion. Shrill were there howls as they roamed their now vast territory, summoning their twisted brethren with their cries. Deer, elks and all other creatures of goodness ran away to the edge of the forest trying to escape the jaws of Night, but their efforts were in vain for the Wolves could smell Fear from miles away. They sought out their prey and ate some, but most they slew for sport.

But then, over the eastern mountains there came a light, dim but unwavering against the waves of dread that flooded the Valley. The Wolves saw this and ran at great speed eastward with hopes of destroying the source for even though it was dim, any light burned the Wolves' eyes with great pain. When the band of beasts arrived, they recoiled in the feeling they created: fear.

A small host of tall things in cloth with long, black hair and tan faces stood before them. They walked on two legs and had two more at their side which carried at their end large sticks with flickering light at their tips. Man had come! And with them they brought fire which they harnessed from stones and wood. Wary of these new beasts that stood before them, but not afraid, the new people shook their torches before the Wolves leaving hot embers that scorched their coarse fur. In shrieks of pain, the Wolves fled back into the deepest part of the forest where the Darkness was strongest.

The Men went forth through the Valley and its forest, expelling Fear and Darkness wherever they walked. Finally, the host appeared in an open clearing in the very heart of the Valley; somewhere to begin their new lives. The men began to use their tools of iron and stone to hew down the trees around the clearing, using their wood as fuel for their fire and for building new shelters to keep themselves safe from the new terrors they found themselves surrounded by. But, much to their own surprise, Men were not bothered at all by any wicked things that lived in the Valley with them. Evil is afraid of light and of that which is new, and Men with their fire intimidated any and all that approached their encampments.

For generations, the society of Men in the Valley explored and settled, their light spreading far and wide across the land, expelling darkness wherever they went. As the long night faded, the Sun found her confidence once more and shone bright upon the land that had known only dark for so long. But not altogether did the Darkness dissipate. Dark creatures still dwelt in the Valley, hiding in the secret foul places that no man would dare venture. They’d creep out of their holes when the Sun took her slumber; Wolves would stalk the woods and plains where Men were not, killing anything they could find but no longer for sport but out of desperation to satisfy their ever-gnawing hunger.

In number, the Men grew exponentially over the years, being forced to go forth deeper into the Valley in search of new land for settling. During their expeditions for new places to settle, which spanned over hundreds of miles, connected to one another with roads and bridges over time, they destroyed much of the forestry that grew thick in the center of the Valley. Many modest villages were constructed throughout, and many attempted to expand their villages even more by convincing other villages nearby to build jointly with one another in an attempt to create strong cities of immense productivity and prosperity.

So became the Four Realms of the Valley, the mighty kingdoms of Men. In the north right at the heart of the foothills of the Northern Mountains, the kingdom of Nordland; a fierce, heavily fortified city with halls carved deep into the mountain. They specialized in mining and forging, supplying much of the weaponry and raw materials to the other kingdoms. A proud, stubborn, yet noble group of people, the men of Nordland welcomed all travelers and trade, helping any who asked without request of compensation. For these traits, the Men of the Valley looked to the north for guidance and leadership in times of peril.

In the south, in the middle of the vast Southern Woods that had remained largely untouched by Man in their venture for new lands, was the forest kingdom of Gron. A massive network of wooden houses, bridges, and structures all interconnected; a single entity was the realm of Gron, spaced out over miles upon miles. The men of Gron were a secretive group, often choosing to dwell within the borders of their own forest though there were exceptions. Gron being surrounded by limitless amounts of lumber, they had no way of acquiring precious metals and the like, forcing them to do trade with the other realms.

To the west and east were two halves of the same realm, Eldrhalfr in the west and Vatnhalfr in the east. Eldrhalfr was founded at the foot of the only volcano in the Valley, Uggr, though the founders had no knowledge of the mountain’s true purpose till it was too late. Vatnhalfr lied far in the east in the center of a great lake. Only by ferry could one enter the city, but very seldom did anyone come in. Yet often did the soldiers of the city leave to protect their borders. With one high king ruling, these two realms both valued training and preparing for war against the Darkness. With weapons and steel from Nordland, the two cities bolstered their armies and defenses making ready for the wave of evil they knew was building in strength and size in the darkness.

Daily, soldiers of both Vatnhalfr and Eldrhalfr went forth from their fortresses of stone, acquired from their trading in the north, to hunt any beasts of wickedness. They searched far and wide in pursuit of these creatures, particularly the Wolves. Because of these joint realms, the forces of evil were kept at bay, allowing the other realms to continue building their economies and expanding their territory. The Four Realms of the Valley worked tirelessly together to ensure peace and wealth for all, and the Valley knew no strife for generations upon generations. It wasn’t until the Great Schism that the peace that was so long fought to keep was utterly destroyed.

After six hundred years of cooperation amongst the kingdoms, the two joint realms of Eldrhalfr and Vatnhalf came under the rule of Dano, a power-hungry tyrant whose lust for combat extended beyond the fighting of evil. Dano had desires of domination, of endless power and control over all. Before he waged his war, after months of brooding over his schemes, he sought out the source of the Darkness in the old forest to learn its secret powers of old. Alone he went, telling none of his doings, under cover of night. Using a sword forged by his older brother, Solomon, king of Nordland and Grandmaster Smith of his realm, which had the power to harness fire, he wandered through the forest for days. Dano had almost given up hope when he heard a whisper one night. He followed the hushed words to a massive oak with bark the color of charred black, as if it had been scorched by a thousand fires. The branches were twisted and gnarled, covered in black leaves.

Dano approached the trunk of this burnt oak with much caution. Drawing his sword from its sheath, he imbued its blade with fire and struck the tree, “I am Dano, high king of Eldrhalfr and Vatnhalfr, soon to be the Emperor of the Valley. Are you the Heart of the Darkness?” The tree became engulfed in black and purple flames but as quickly as they appeared, they were extinguished.

A raspy, low voice echoed from the trunk, saying, “Dano, self-proclaimed Emperor, who are you to walk so boldly into the Wicked Wood's darkness and threaten me with fire, a magic so old you’ll never comprehend it fully?”

Dano sheathed his sword, now filled with Fear imparted by the foul words of the Wood. He said on his knees, “Dark Spirit, I submit to you! I meant no offense, only to ask for you to teach me in the art of Darkness. O, Wicked Wood, allow me to learn your teachings needed to conquer all.”

The Wicked Wood laughed, which pierced Dano's ears like a thousand breaking branches. “Ah, you wish to attain my power, to bend the Night to your will. You shall gain limitless power, power great enough to cover the Valley in shadow and conquer all that you wish; immortality! You’ll be a god among Men, but what about I? What shall the Wicked Wood acquire?”

Dano bowed to the spirit, palms flat on the forest floor, “Anything you desire, and I will find it for you.”

“Is that so?” questioned the Wicked Wood, “Are you willing to sacrifice that which he has yet to know?”

“Anything, Master,” he said, eyes cast upon the floor,” I will give anything I have.”

The Wicked Wood cackled once more and the sky rocked with thunder. “Dano, I will grant you my powers, but you must take part of my spirit with you, a fragment of my essence, and in return I will grant you my strength.”

Dano nearly laughed at these terms, thinking the path to limitless power too easy. He kneeled and declared, drawing his sword, “I accept your terms, my master.”

As this deal was struck, a plume of shadow billowed from the scorched oak and infused itself into the sword, turning the blade from steel to obsidian. It began to glow and wreathed itself in black flame. Dano had perished, and in his place rose Nosal, the One Without Soul. Imbued with the dark power of the Wicked Wood, Nosal returned to Eldrhalfr to begin his war upon the Valley.

Nosal gathered all his strength to his realms in secret so as not to disrupt the supply chains that maintained his war effort. But Solomon became suspicious at the increase of materials his brother was gathering. Later that year, he confronted his brother at the annual Meeting of Kings that took place in the united fortress of Annes.

When the Kings sat at the long table in the Hall of Lords, Solomon at the head asked his brother to tell him his purpose for the recent surge in demand of materials for war, “Brother, tell me, why the sudden increase in such materials needed for war? Is your fight against the creatures of Night getting worse?”

Nosal did not answer. He remained silent, his eyes fixed upon Solomon. “Dano, please. If the fight is getting tougher, let us aide you.”

“Nosal,” the dark king spoke in a low voice, “You shall address me as Nosal here on out, and you all shall bow to me as lord.”

The king of Gron, Terathor, laughed at this statement. “Dano, how you've grown arrogant. You believe that we would simply agree to submit to you because you changed your name to folly?”

“Silence yourself, Terathor!” bellowed Solomon. “Dano, what are you saying? Do you mean to go to war with us? We control most of the Valley together, our resources are far superior to yours and our firepower shall dominate you and your people. Think, brother! Don’t throw away our long earned peace for power!” He stood up and drew his lance from his back, Elding; bolts of lightning surged through the silver tip.

“Fools,” Nosal growled, “Stubborn fools! You label me arrogant but you boast about your power and land as if your strength of arms matter. You are both two blind to see that I possess a power far greater than your feeble minds can possibly fathom. In one year, war, the war your hubris caused, will ravage your precious lands!”

“Our war? Our hubris? Where is this coming from? You’re speaking nonsense, brother! We simply wish to keep peace and the ever looming darkness at bay!” shouted Solomon.

“We do not wish to go to war with you, but we will if we must. Fate will not be so kind to the aggressor,” said Terathor, drawing his mighty bow of yew, Orn.

“One year,” said Nosal, drawing his black sword. The kings recoiled from the immense heat of the shadowy flame as he thrusted it deep into the stone floor and disappeared in a wisp of smoke.

The two kings stood there in a long silence as they processed this threat. Finally, Terathor spoke, “Solomon, I know he is your kin, but he speaks of a war that will destroy the Valley. We must act with haste.”

“I know, Terathor,” Solomon said with a heavy heart. “Summon the lords of your realm. Have them fortify their cities and bolster their armies. We have one year to prepare, and now that Dano, or Nosal, has been corrupted by the Darkness, his power shall be great. We must be ready. We shall meet back here before the year ends to strategize."

“It will be done, Solomon.” Terathor bowed and ran from the Hall. Solomon sat back down upon his seat and rested his head in his hands. He sat there for a long while, sitting there until the Sun went into her long sleep and he was still there when she arose in the morning.

While Solomon and Terathor made their way home to begin their defense preparation, Nosal returned to Eldrhalfr. He had no intention of waiting a full year to begin his campaign, and with the guidance of the Wicked Wood, he made his way to the top of the volcano, long thought to be dormant.

At the top, he stared into the empty chasm below. No signs of activity were perceptible, and Nosal was confused as to why he was there. Then, a faint voice emitted from his sword, saying, “Nosal, with the power I’ve bestowed upon you, let us raise a force unstoppable and most terrible that will guarantee your victory in this war.”

“But how, Master? What am I to do?” asked Nosal.

“You must cast the correct incantation, my apprentice,” croaked the Wicked Wood, “an incantation I will show you.”

“You must repeat after me,” it said, “‘I, Nosal, the One Without Soul, hereby grant my power unto thee!’”

Nosal repeated the incantation, so hungry and desperate for power he did not consider the very words he spoke. At the final word, his blood began to burn, and he began to scream in agony as his limbs twisted and contorted in unnatural movements. Nosal's eyes exploded in flame, forcing his fall to the ground; he was immobile, his limbs limp and lifeless. Then he rose, and a guttural growl came from his dark mouth.

“Finally,” said the voice, “A vessel! Now, I shall not be bound to the confines of that dreaded oak but am free to walk upon the face of my Valley. I will bring back the darkness but I will do it first through its destruction through flame!”

Now in possession of Nosal, the Wicked Wood was complete. He drew the Black Blade, shooting forth a burst of purple and black flame into the mouth of Uggr. The earth began to quake and the sky grew dark with storm clouds gathering overhead. Smoke billowed from the of the volcano that was soon followed by a pool of magma.

“Rise my instruments of doom!” commanded the Wicked Wood, “Take my magic and spread carnage in the name of the Night through fire!” At these words, monstrous scaled beasts with wings and horned heads flew forth from the volcano, breathing fire from their frightful jaws as they emerged. The Wicked Wood leapt into the lava, too, immersing himself in the molten rock. The magma began to bubble and grew tumultuous like waves in an angry storm, and from the chaos spawned a great dragon, larger than any of the others. He spread his terrible arms, thick and strong, that blotted out the sun. His roar was thunder, his hide impenetrable, and his face as twisted, black and gnarled like the tree he was crept out of. No more was Dano I. His consciousness was seized and shrunk, pushed into the far recesses of the mind he once controlled to be forever tormented by the Wicked Wood’s evil spirit. No more was the Wicked Wood addressed as so; he would now forever be known as the Wrathful Wyrm.

Now that dragons had entered the Valley at the evil magic of the Wrathful Wyrm, there was little stopping the Wyrm from unleashing his horrible horde upon the peaceful people of the Valley. The soldiers of Eldrhalfr and Vatnhalfr came under great conflict. Were they to serve under that very darkness they swore to destroy or do they abandon their lord for whom they’ve loyally served? Many came under the influence of the Wyrm’s spell, allowing themselves to be corrupted at the false promises of power and wealth. The dark magic twisted their minds and bodies, turning them to horrible beasts with mannish features. These were the first of the orcs, villains whose minds were altered to hate their once brothers and sisters.

The Wyrm had his new orcs kill all that resisted, the few that there were. These rebels, the Loyal, led by Siegmund of Eldrhalfr and Harald of Vatnhalfr, fought back against the orcs. They and their families along with those families of the men who fell to darkness, fled their cities towards Annes. There they hoped to make amends with the other realms in hopes of gaining refuge and pardon along with aid in the war effort against the king they forsook.

Siegmund and Harald met Solomon and Terathor at Annes along with the rest of their people. At the sight of these people standing before the gates, Terathor drew his bow and notched an arrow quicker than a man blinks, and he loosed it directly into the shield hanging at Siegmund’s side.

“Hold there!” he bellowed, notching another arrow. “You, citizens of the enemy realms! With what audacity do you dare approach the united fortress of Annes! Why do you come and what is it you want? Speak swiftly ere my arrow enter your wretched skulls!”

Siegmund held his hands to the air and dismounted his steed. He drew his sword and threw it to the floor. “My good lord,” he says with head bowed, “We do not come with malcontent but in humility and friendship.” He looked upward towards the balcony the kings and their lords stood in. They were glorious to behold in the light of the setting sun, like great gods of earth and flame. Solomon stood the tallest of the bunch, holding his legendary lance, Elding, in his right hand.

Terathor lessened his draw and lowered his aim. “What is it you seek then?”

“My name is Siegmund,” said the leader of the Loyal, “and we are what remains of those loyal to fighting back the darkness. Our lord, Dano I, has abandoned his duty as police of the Valley and given his soul away to the Evil One. This you know.”

“But what you don’t know, good lords,” he continued, “is that his treachery goes much deeper than you can imagine.”

“What is it?” questioned Terathor, “What crimes could this man possibly commit that’s worse than joining with the Dark?”

“My lord, if I may be so bold,” said Siegmund, “but to ask that in exchange for my intel that you and your allies provide my kin with shelter and supplies so that we may rebuild our lives?”

This filled the forest king with a deep rage, that the people of his enemy would come here to bargain with him, but Solomon intervened.

“Siegmund,” the northern king said with a voice so powerful it seemed to echo off the four mountain ranges of the Valley, “you come at a time of war to the fortress of your nations’ enemies to beg for help with the promise of information. You knew that by asking you might run the chance of insult yet you did so anyway to ensure your peoples’ safety. This takes courage, and for that, I will aid you in your time of need. But! You will tell us all you know of your former master’s plans and all your men will fight for me. Is that understood?”

Siegmund and Harald both fell to their knees in gratitude, blessing the wise ruler and thanking him profusely.

“Come inside,” said Solomon, “and let us discuss what we are to do.”

The Loyal were led into the safe walls of Annes where they were given warm beds and hot food. The men were taken to the armory to be outfitted for battle while the women and children were taken to the main hall. Their hosts had adjusted the great hall into a camp for the refugees. Siegmund and Harald were fed then led to the Hall of Lords where Terathor and Solomon, along with the other lords of the kingdoms, gathered at the long table. Maps of the Valley were laid about its surface; more intricate maps of each forest, plain, river and canyon were stuck to boards around the table. They rose when they noticed the two Loyal leaders enter.

Solomon greeted them both first. “My lords,” he greeted with a bow, “I am pleased to see you tended to. I’m sure the journey was wearisome.”

“Aye, milord,” said Siegmund returning the bow, “We are very much in your debt.”

“‘Debt’ does not begin to describe the situation you two are in,” scoffed Terathor.

“Silence yourself, Terathor!” commanded Solomon. “These are our new allies until they prove otherwise and you shall treat them as such.”

Although Terathor was a king of his own sovereign realm, he most often would obey the commands of Solomon whose presence commanded respect from any and all. “Yes, Solomon. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” said Solomon. “Please, my lords Siegmund and -Harald, is it- please sit.” The two lords sat at two chairs opposite Solomon. “Now, you both know the enemy’s intent, you’ve seen his army with your own eyes. Tell us: what is it we should expect to fight six months hence?”

“Milord, the hordes of our former master are vast in number and great in strength,” said Harald. “Through black magic, he has morphed his loyal soldiers into horrible creatures.”

“They’re not as strong as men for they are smaller in size,” continued Siegmund, “but they are far more vicious and cruel; they’re like wild animals in battle. Orcs, he calls them.”

Solomon stroked his chin as they spoke but said nothing. Terathor leaned forward in his chair as he listened to their accounts while the rest of the lords sat back in horror.

“As you know, our former king has amassed an enormous amount of arms and supplies, enough to fight on two fronts,” went on Siegmund.

“From the east out of Vatnhalfr, he’ll send legions upon legions of his new orcs to conquer the realm of Gron,” said Harald.

“From Eldrhalfr, he’ll send his primary force to Nordland,” adds Siegmund. “He knows the north is stronger in defense and hardest to breach. It’ll be where he directs most of his force.”

“Ha!” laughs Terathor. “If that wretched man believes Gron easy prey he is a fool. Your master isn’t the only one capable of spellcasting.”

“When Dano I first made his threat of war,” began Terathor, “I myself went searching for power with the intent of protecting my people. But never did I travel to the darkness but to the light! I climbed the highest tree of my kingdom and from its topmost bough I entered the Sun. At first blinded by its light, my eyes soon adjusted and I was swathed in a warm blanket of gold. A woman came from above and declared, ‘I am the Guardian of the Sun, Watcher of the World. What is it you seek, Terathor, King of Trees?’ And I said to her with my head raised, ‘O, Guardian, the Darkness has risen and threatens war upon your lands. I seek only that which stops its reach from growing.’ And she placed her hand upon my cheek and kissed my brow. Her lips scorched my head but the pain subsided and my body began to flow with sunlight. ‘Go forth now, King of Trees, and use my power to protect my land!’

“With the magic the Guardian of the Sun has granted me, your master will find me no easy opponent.” Terathor rose and light flowed from his fingertips.

“I have seen the Sun Guardian, too,” said Solomon. “Though I did not seek her out as you did, Terathor. She visited me in a dream. I stood upon a mountain, the tallest peak in the north. Lightning streaked across the black clouds like a thousand fingers though there was no sound. It was completely silent. Then! A bolt struck right before me but I was unmoved. A woman, beautiful and dark, wearing nothing but a crown adorned with a golden eagle, stood before me. She said to me in a sweet whisper, ‘Solomon, King of Stone, you go to war but you do not go to victory.’ I cry out to her, ‘How do you know this?’ Suddenly, the ground that I was standing upon cracked and shattered, sending me spiraling through a dark mist. I landed upon a plain, burning and destroyed. Creatures, the very same ones you two described, slaughtered my people. The woman appeared again, saying, ‘The Wrathful Wyrm has arisen, the age of death is upon you. But nothing is for certain. Take up the mantle of responsibility; become the Wielder of the Sun!’ She then bade me lay with her, and I did, bearing no shame for having taken no wife. After, I awoke with a new vigor. She has made me master of the sun, a magic even I have yet to fully understand.”

Terathor stood from his seat at the end of this tale. “So it is that the two kings of good have the blessing of the Guardian of the Sun!” he cried. “Whoever this Wyrm is cannot be as powerful as our might put together.”

“Whether or not you possess such great power, and great power you both do wield, I fear it may not be enough,” said Siegmund. “You know not who the Wrathful Wyrm is nor the power he possesses.”

“How can this be?” asked Solomon. “The Lady of the Sun has granted Terathor power of light and I, the Sun itself. I am nothing if not humble, but the two of us will be unstoppable against the dark!”

“Yes,” said Harald, “but your battle is not only against the dark.”

“From the volcano, Uggr,” said Siegmund, “the Evil One, conjured from its long dormant flames a new terror. A horrible scaled monster that can fly and breathe fire. The Dragon, he called his new creation. And he hurled himself into the molten rock, and from the fiery pits he emerged a Dragon but unlike those which he created. He’s wingless but gigantic, far larger in stature than any other. His scales are long and black, curved and sharp like spears. His face is gnarled and twisted like a burnt oak tree and his teeth are rows of jagged rocks.”

“The Wrathful Wyrm, has not only the power of the darkness, but has manipulated light into a weapon of destruction. Light cannot defeat light, even light of wickedness.”

Fear gripped the room. The lords began to clamor in distress, fretting over how they were to defeat such an indomitable foe. Even Terathor sat in silent dismay. But Solomon rose and smacked the stone floor with the hilt of his lance. A crack of thunder shook the room and the men grew silent once more.

“Men of the Valley!” he boomed. “You are fearing defeat from an enemy you’ve not faced in a war not yet waged! Compose yourselves and remember that which is at stake. True, Terathor and I have yet to master the new power we have been granted and that our enemy has created a monster we’ve not faced before. But we will meet them in battle nonetheless. We will fight this evil as long as we must, and if death be our fate, so be it for death comes to all, willing or not.

“Siegmund. Harald,” he said, sitting back down. “The two of you have been of great help. Go forth now and ready your men. Siegmund, you shall accompany me back to Nordland, and Harald, you shall go to Gron. The rest of you shall return back home to defend your lands, and fortify all defenses. We go to war, nut not to defeat. Not yet.”

Thus ended the final meeting of the lords at Annes. With their new orders, Siegmund and Harald parted ways and headed to the kingdoms they were charged with defending. The refugees of Eldrhalfr and Vatnhalfr remained at Annes for the remainder of the war.

King Solomon rode back north with Siegmund and immediately began his training to master the Sun upon his arrival.

“Siegmund,” he said when they both returned to Nordland, “I know you not very well but I trust your judgment. You’ve willingly withheld the temptation of power and have laid down your life to help us. I go now to train in isolation, to commune with the stars and harness their power. I leave you in charge of the kingdom’s armies in my stead. Along with my generals, I entrust you to ready my people for what is to come.”

Siegmund, surprised by such an honor, had not the words to speak, but he would not let the new king whom he served and saved his people. “I will do what I can, milord,” he said. “I swear your men will be ready.”

“Very good,” said Solomon, and he went to the palace and locked himself in the highest tower for the next half year.

In Gron, Terathor and Harald walked the long wooden pathways through the trees, listening to the songs of the blue jays as they darted around their heads. Men and women were running across all the bridges with weapons and other supplies, all in a hurry.

“They’re getting ready for the assault,” said Terathor as he watched. “Six months time, these trees will be a battlefield.”

“Aye, milord,” agreed Harald. In the presence of Terathor, Harald felt a certain unease. The Loyal leader could sense that the forest king held a certain disdain for him and his people, but he dared not speak about such things.

“Harald, you’ve done us a great service by giving up the information about our enemy,” said the king, “but still I do not trust you as fully as King Solomon might. You’ve much to prove should you become a servant of my realm.”

“I do not wish to become a servant,” said Harald proudly. “I wish only to defend my people if I can. I follow your command but I do not offer myself to you as your servant. I am a refugee, but I am also a great warrior. Treat me with your disdain all you like, but it does not change the fact that I and my kin came here at great risk to aid you,”

“Yet you do not come out of altruism, Harald of Vatnhalfr,” retorted the king. “How am I to trust a man who offers the information to save the world for something in return?”

“What else were we to do!” Harald was beginning to lose his composure. “Though we were once citizens of the kingdom now turned evil, we are the ones who remained loyal to the light, who risked their lives in rebelling. Many of my brothers and sisters perished on our journey. The orcs were numerous and relentless in their pursuit, and only by the strength of Siegmund and his small band of warriors were we saved. We knew you’d not help out of good will, so we bargained. Can you blame us?”

They stopped their walk in front of the largest tree in the kingdom, the Sol Oak. Terathor turned to Harald and extended his hand. “You’re right, young lord,” he said. “I cannot say that I would not have done the same were I in your stead, and I offer my apologies for distrust.”

Harald took the king’s hand with his own and said, “I accept your apologies, Terathor. And I cannot say that I would not treat strangers the same as you did.”

Harald took Orn from his back and handed it to Harald. “Take these,” he said. “Watch over them for me while I’m away. I do not know when I shall return but expect me before the endless night begins.”

Harald took them uneasily, nervous at being given such a precious artifact. “What shall I do with these, milord? Where are you going at a time like this? You should be here with your men organizing the defense!”

“Aye, I should, but the Guardian of the Sun needs me elsewhere. I go now to speak to her to learn more about the gifts she has given me. You are in charge while I am away, Harald. You know the enemy we are to fight more than any of my own men. I trust you’ll ensure their readiness. As much as possible that is.”

With that, Harald lept from the bridge to the trunk of the mighty oak, grabbing the nearest branch. Like a jungle cat, the forest king lept from branch to branch as swift as the wind blowing through the leaves. In seconds, he disappeared into the canopy, not to be seen again until the time was right.

So it was that Siegmund and Harald became the stewards of Nordland and Gron, in charge of preparing the kingdoms for war against the Wrathful Wyrm’s horde of orcs and nightly beasts. The work was endless and difficult beyond measure for they had to prepare not just the cities in which they dwelled, but all the city-states that governed themselves within the Valley. Siegmund and Harald were great warriors and leaders, but never had they governed entire nations. But they were made of sturdiness and courage; they did the best they could with unwavering determination.

In the west, under the billowing clouds of black smoke, the Wrathful Wyrm continued to build his armies. Countless were the number of orcs he bred and infinite did the number of evil beasts of darkness, some thought extinct by Men, seem to be. The Wolves were the greatest of these monstrosities for their hatred for Men never left. They would never forgive their trespassing in their Valley and bringing that wretched fire that pushed them out of their own lands into caves deep underground where hunger eternally gnawed at their bellies full of dust.

The Wyrm sat upon the peak of the volcano, reveling in the chaos he was creating. He loved the darkness of the sky and the grim glow of the burning flames he sat upon. Above circled his master creation, his finest work and most devilish design: the Dragons. With their terrible wings, they flew around their dark master, awaiting the day that they may unleash their firepower upon the world.

“Patience, my children,” the Wyrm snarled, “Soon. Soon. Very soon.”

Six months passed, and winter was drawing near. The wind was growing colder and its teeth bit harder at those that found themselves outside. Clouds formed high in the sky, but not just the clouds of organic formation. No, there were other clouds forming in the sky, dark clouds of smoke and shadow that flew in from the west. From the volcano did these clouds of smoke arise from, brought on upon by the Wyrm’s dark power. The clouds sent down snow of white and black, covering the lands in a thick blanket of sick snow. The time was nigh; battle for the fate of the Valley was now imminent. The world of Men trained all they could, prepared as much as they could. The lords of the two realms made sure their lands were either abandoned or fortified, and the kings, absent due to their pilgrimages with the Lady of the Sun, were greatly missed.

In the west, under the black smoke of the volcano, now named Uggr, the Wrathful Wyrm sent forth his legions upon the Valley. Fire and chaos they brought wherever they marched, killing all that laid in their path to the two capitals. The armies of orcs were ruthless in their evil campaign, never taking prisoners, and they abided by the strict rule of their cruel master: kill any and all without mercy or question. The armies of Eldrhalfr were far more gruesome in their battles compared to that of their counterpart, being under the direct rule of the Wyrm himself. Every village they burned. Every woman and child they could get their hands on were killed without hesitation, forgetting the humanity they once had.

The hordes of the Wyrm reached their destinations within a much shorter time than the two realms of virtue anticipated. First, the armies of Vatnhalf reached Gron. They brought with them many siege weapons, but they were of no use for before Terathor ascended the Great Oak, he used his powers to cover the trees with a barrier resistant to fire. The orcs could not burn the trees that his kingdom rested upon, forcing them to resort to arrows and ladders.

The orcs set their ladders upon the trees and climbed up to enter the city, but the defense was too strong for them. Wave after wave, the orcs were slain as soon as they set foot upon the wooden platforms. The ladders were kicked down and the orcs were hewn as they arrived. Harald of the Loyal led the resistance. With the mighty bow of Terathor, he shot down countless enemies, striking fear into the heart of the enemy. The men that fought alongside their steward became inspired, putting aside their fear of the orcs and summoning the courage to defend their homeland. For months, the orcs laid siege upon Gron, and for months they were repelled by the bravery of Men.

In the north, the armies of Eldrhalfr stormed Nordland. Though Terathor cast a special defensive spell upon his city, Solomon did no such thing for he believed that the strategic location of his city would suffice. He was right. The horde of darkness could not breach the city of stone, even with their malicious siege weapons. The gate of the city, forged of tungsten and reinforced with steel, held out against the crudely made weapons of the orcs. When the orcs grew too large in number at the gate, Siegmund would lead the battalions of the city to its defense, repelling the enemy with fear and strength of arms. The Wrathful Wyrm’s war was not going in his favor, but this he knew, and this he desired.

The Wrathful Wyrm was wicked, far more wicked and evil than any being in the Valley and on the surface of the world. He loved warfare and reveled in the endless bloodshed not only of the men his orcs were killing, but even of his own army. He could smell the blood of the fallen and hear the painful cries of death across the Valley which fueled his strength. He grew more powerful with each battle, but he decided it was time to let the Men of the Valley know who was truly the strongest of all.

From Uggr, he sent forth his Dragons to have their fun with their master’s enemies. Out of the ash of Uggr they flew towards Gron, breathing fire as hot as the lava from whence they spawned from unto the land they flew above. They caused destruction beyond explanation, burning all the land in fire so hot that the citizens of the Valley could not extinguish the flames. When they reached the forest realm, the soldiers could not withstand the power of these new foes. Their fire rained down like showers of flame, burning through the protective seal of Terathor, lighting the trees aglow in the flames of war. Many perished, both orc and man, in the dragon attack, but the Wrathful Wyrm withdrew his deadly creations, not wanting to destroy everything.

The people looked to Harald for guidance in this time of dread, but he knew not how to repel such a force of destruction. In both bravery and foolishness, Harald and a battalion of archers attacked the dragons. Arrow after arrow they loosed, but the hides of their foes were impenetrable, even against the legendary arrows of the king’s bow.

“Retreat!” shouted Harald, “Fall back to the main hall!” The archers ran as fast as they could towards the main hall that was built into the trunk of the Great Oak, but the dragons were too swift. They saw the men, tiny ants running madly on a mound of dirt, and dove towards them. As easily as eagles eat fish from a pond, the dragons devoured the men, tearing limbs from their bodies and throwing them against the trees like rag dolls, smashing their bones into dust. Harald did his best to ward off the beasts, but his arrows were useless. Everything was. None could withstand their power, and eventually, Harald, leader of the Loyal and steward to the realm of Gron, was burnt and slain; Orn, the bow of Terathor was consumed by dragon fire, its flying hymn never heard again.

In the north, the Wyrm imitated his attack on Gron, sending his dragons to lay fire to Nordland in the mountains, but his forces were met with much fiercer resistance than he had anticipated. Siegmund did his best to rally the men but their hearts had been frozen with fear. They cowered in corners and threw themselves to the floor, awaiting death to come to them. But Siegmund was immune to the effects of fear. He drew his sword and gave a powerful cry of battle, a cry so loud that even the orcs in Gron felt its strength. He charged the enemy ranks, which had now been bolstered since the arrival of the Dragons, slashing and hewing all who laid in his way. Wolves gnashed at him, orcs bit him with their sharp iron swords, but he did not falter. The men of the city saw their steward fighting alone, and the shine of his sword in the sunlight as he cut down the enemies of evil with dragonfire burning all around him inspired their hearts and cured their fear. They leaped into the fray of battle alongside their leader, repelling the orcs and Wolves with sword and shield. But the tide was turned for only a moment.

The Dragons grew tired of this defense and each one of them gathered together above the city in a straight line formation. Their bellies glowed orange with flame, and their eyes shot forth streams of fire as they prepared to unleash their full power upon the city. But alas! When they let their fire flow from their terrible jaws, a ray of golden light in the shape of a sphere covered the city and deflected the fatal blow. Then, thunder boomed and the men saw a crack of lightning burst from the palace into the line of Dragons. They roared in anguish as the yellow flames pierced their hides. A singular bolt darted from beast to beast, slaying each one it touched.

“Look!” cried the men, staring at the battle in the sky. “The weather has taken a turn for the worse and in our favor!”

But Siegmund knew this was no natural weather. It was King Solomon, lord of Nordland, with his legendary lance, Elding. It was he who summoned the ray of light, and he who rode the bolts of lightning into the hearts of the Dragons.

“It is our King!” shouted Solomon. “He must’ve mastered the power of the Sun. He has returned! Rally to me, men! The king shall watch the skies while we take back the city! Charge!” The men, with a morale as high as their magic lord in the sky, attacked the remaining dark forces in the city.

In Gron, all hope seemed lost to the men that remained there. Dragonfire had wiped out nearly all of the structures and homes as well as killed most of the men and women. The orcs crawled up their ladders with the little resistance the soldiers put up and stormed the forest realm. The remaining forces of good rallied at the Great Oak where their enemies surrounded them. Leaderless, they knew not what to do, but they were not as forsaken as they had thought. From the canopy of the Oak, a ray of light identical to the one that shielded Nordland, hurtled down and landed amidst the sea of orcs and Wolves, turning all within range into a heap of ash.

Terathor had returned! With no weapon except his hands that radiated with the Sun’s heat, he beat back the orcs and forces of evil, inspiring his men to take up arms once more and defend their homeland.

“Come now, Men of Gron,” he shouted, “Let us reclaim what is rightfully ours!” Like a single star in the vast night sky, they moved through the trees, dispatching the darkness as they fought. The Dragons circled back, seeing that their job in Gron was not yet finished, but before they descended from the sky, they turned back west at the beckoning of their master. In the north, the Dragons, too, fled west at the call but were happy to do so; the new power of Solomon was too much for them to withstand against.

At the summit of Uggr, the Dragons collapsed upon the smoldering dirt, weary and wounded from their battles. The Wrathful Wyrm roared in fury when he looked upon his beasts in defeat.

“Fools!” be bellowed with black fire creeping through his teeth. “They think with their new found power from the Sun that they can hold out against the power of me? So be it. I will show them that true power cannot be thwarted by the light.” The Wrathful Wyrm arose and outstretched his monstrous arms and tore a scale from his chest. He held it between his jagged talons and breathed his black flame into the scale. It absorbed the fire and began to radiate with a pulsating shadow.

“Ah, at long last the time has come,” he said. “Behold, my beautiful creations, within this scale lies a portion of my will, and as long as it remains intact, I will never fully die! Guard this with the lives I have given you, and only shall you leave this place at my summoning.”

He leapt from his resting place into the air, flying not with wings but by way of a cloud of shadow that moved quicker than the wind.

After the battle, the two kings made their way to Annes where they debated about the next phase of the war. Siegmund came, too, and they took counsel in the Hall of Lords.

“King Solomon,” said Terathor, “It is good to see that you are well. By the looks of it, I assume your conjoining with the Lady of the Sun went well.”

“Terathor,” Solomon bowed. “The training was long and tiring, but the results were well worth it. Did you speak to her as well?”

“Aye, my veins flow with golden light and power beyond even my own comprehension. She taught me new magic the likes the world has never seen before. With it, we can take back the Valley from the dark hold of the Wyrm.”

“I’m not so sure, Terathor. With our combined powers, we may be able to stop our enemy, but what if we cannot? We must summon our full strength and attack Eldrhalf before they have time to recover.”

Terathor contemplated these words. With the growth of his power came the growth of his hubris. He believed that he and Solmon needed no one but each other to stop the Wyrm, but he kept his thoughts to himself. He trusted Solomon more than his own judgment.

“Very well,” agreed the forest king. “We will gather our armies and advance upon Eldrhalfr when we’re ready.”

“I’m glad we are of like mind,” said Solomon, and he turned to Siegmund, “What do you make of this, Siegmund?”

Siegmund rose and spoke, “Milord, your men will fight for you to whatever end, and now that you both have returned as Warriors of the Light, they feel empowered by your strength, but I do not fear they have the power to fight against the Dragons.”

“The Dragons,” he continued, “are far too terrible a force for us soldiers. Should the two of you with your combined efforts manage to fend off the flying beasts and keep their fire directed away from the armies, then I think we may have a chance.”

Solomon stroked his chin in silence, contemplating these words. “Very good,” he said. “Terathor, make ready what men you have left and let us meet back here as quick as we can. Siegmund, you and I will return to the north. Time is of the essence here.”

The three arose and left the Hall, but Solomon stopped Siegmund and said, “Siegmund, you have been an invaluable member of the Valley, and I am most thankful for your sacrifice and courage.” He bowed low, as though a peasant to a lord, before Siegmund. “Without you, my city, my very kingdom which has been long fought for, would have been gone before my arrival, and nothing would have mattered anymore.”

“I am only a warrior, milord,” said Siegmund, returning the bow, “I only fight to defend my people.”

“And fight you do better than any man I’ve ever seen. Except maybe myself,” chuckled the king. “Siegmund, should the battle go ill, I appoint you my heir. You will become king of Nordland and lead our people to peace. Promise me you will do this.”

“Milord,” and Siegmund bowed as low as his body allowed without his knees buckling, “I will do what I must.”

“Good. Thank you.” The two left the Hall together with a sense of hope brimming in their minds, but it was short lived.

As the two exited the Hall, they met Terathor who stood at the steps of the fortress looking westward at a great cloud of black coming towards them.

“What cloud moves with such speed?” questioned Siegmund, grasping the hilt of his blade.

“That is no cloud,” said Solomon. Before the three lords had time to act, the cloud was upon them and from it, the Wicked Wyrm came down on them like a hurricane.

“It is the Wyrm!” cried Terathor as the great dragon plunged headfirst into the fortress. The three darted out of the way in time, dodging the blow by mere inches. The fortress could not endure the attack, becoming a pit of smoke and fire deeper than any canyon. Annes, the once proud place of peace and unity, had become an abyss into the utmost depths of the earth.

The three had gotten away by the power of the Sun, able to move quick as rays of light.. Siegmund fell on his hands and knees gasping for air. They had dodged the Wyrm’s direct attack, but the stench of his wretched breath and the magnitude of the quake had taken all energy from his body. Terathor and Solomon looked on the smoldering pit.

“The time is nigh, Solomon,” said Terathor, white fire burning in his hands.

“Aye, my king,” Solomon concurred. “We must face this evil now once and for all. Siegmund.” He turned to his steward and raised him to his feet. “Siegmund, remember what I have said. Go back to Nordland, make ready the defenses once more. We will face the Wyrm here and buy the Valley sometime. Go, now. Fly with all the haste you have left! May the Sun watch over you, my friend.”

“Aye, milord,” Siegmund said with difficulty, “I will try.”

“Siegmund,” called out Terathor, “before I go to meet my doom, I wish to tell you that I am sorry for your kin, Harald. Were I there sooner, things might have happened differently, but alas, my men tell me he sacrificed himself to save my people, and for that I am indebted to him and to you.”

Siegmund had no words to speak. The stench of the Wyrm’s black fire was overtaking his senses. He bowed in acknowledgement.

“Come now, Terathor,” spoke Solomon, drawing Elding from his back. Bolts of lightning, the dancing yellow fire, flowed from its tip. “Let us do battle one last time.”

The two lords, mighty men of the Valley and Warriors of the Sun, charged forward towards their fatal foe.

“The two lordlings of the Valley grace me with their presence,” cackled the Wyrm. “Let us see if your wasted time with the Sun was worth it!” The Wyrm waited not for the kings to meet him. With a roar that shook the foundations of the earth, he exploded from the pit, propelling himself with his gargantuan arms. Like water upon rock, the forces collided in a blinding flash of night and day. The battle for the Valley had begun.

Siegmund looked on from a safe distance where the kings had left him. He could not bring himself to leave and was ready to rush into the tumult by his lords’ side should they need it. He watched the battle brew above the pit, a supernova composed of rays of light and flames of darkness shooting in every direction. The warrior thought he could make out the two kings in the chaos, but wasn’t sure, only anxious.

Inside the supernova, Solomon and Terathor fought with all their might against the Wyrm, summoning all the light they could from under the Sun. It was hard to gauge for certain, but those in the Valley thought the Sun grew dimmer as the battle raged on. Terathor tackled the arms of the Wyrm, tearing at them with brute strength in an attempt to buckle his foe while Solomon stabbed at his mutilated maw.

For days the battle endured, and for days did the two kings give all their effort, and for days did Siegmund stand and watch. Terathor grew tired quicker than his fellow lord, and in a last ditch effort, unleashed all his power upon the Wyrm’s arms and legs. The beast collapsed with a cry of pain, but Terathor had spent all his energy. Not able to move, his enemy fell on top of him, crushing his body. Terathor, King of the Forest Realm, was no more. Siegmund didn’t see the king fall, but he saw the supernova lose much of its brightness.

Solomon, nearly spent as well, saw his fellow king, and more importantly his dearest friend, fall beneath the Wyrm. Seeing his friend slain filled him with a great rage, and he forgot the pain in his body.

“Oh ah ha ha,” laughed the Wrathful Wyrm with strain in his hoarse voice. “Your friend is slain, Solomon. You are forsaken, my king, and your arrogance will cost you your life. I will kill you and send this Valley into an endless war! Come now. Strike me!”

Solomon answered the challenge. He thrusted Elding high into the air and declared, “Elding! Spear of Storm and Lightning, serve me one last time!” From the clouds above, a bolt of lightning mixed with what Siegmund would describe as a ray of sunlight wreathed in white flame into the spear tip. From the sky he sped towards the Wrathful Wyrm who laughed and roared as his foe hurtled towards him like a meteor, and he thrusted Elding into the heart of that old devil. The supernova exploded, covering the entire Valley in a blinding white light. Siegmund was thrown from where he was standing by the force of the impact, and nothing remained of the two opponents but smoke and dust. The battle had ended. Light had prevailed, but a terrible cost.

Siegmund ran towards the pit as fast as his heavy legs would carry him. He had not eaten or drank for the three days the battle went on, and the blast had rattled his body. At the pit, there was nothing left of the two kings nor the Wrathful Wyrm they had slain. A shimmering spike of gold and silver laid on the rim, and Siegmund pushed himself to reach it. It was Elding, the spear that dealt the fatal blow and saved the Valley. He gripped its hilt and pulled it, but it did not budge. The spear would only obey the hands of its master or anyone of his lineage, a lineage that began and ended with Solomon.

Siegmund took one more look at the shining spear glittering in the beauty of the Sun. He bowed, and turned north, hobbling homeward to tell his new people of the courage of their kings. But something tugged at the back of his mind, some sort of unease he could not explain. A speck of darkness lurked amidst his mind, but he could not understand what it meant. Siegmund only knew that the darkness had not yet been defeated. Not for good.