Spring, 1331

“Logan, there’s something in the barn.”

The Forester looked up from his paperwork concerning costs associated with continuing to supply the Stanton Brigade in the field. Sonia was staring oddly at the darkness through the window.

“What is it honey?” Logan put down his papers and awkwardly shuffled up from his chair. After being evacuated from the panic-ridden streets of Cnaeus, the colonel had been sent home to recuperate from his wounds. Though his leg was now much better thanks to the gentle ministrations of his wife, evidently Logan had still not fully healed. Now he stared out from that haven where he had gratefully taken shelter in for more than a month. Thick cumulonimbus clouds had gathered from the mountains and were hovering overhead, already beginning to leak their heavy contents, shrouding the coming night in mist and precipitation. Very little could be seen.

And yet the Forester caught a glimpse of something shuffling into the darkness.

“There it is again!” Sonia whispered.

“Yah I saw it.”

“Some wild animal?” His wife asked.

“Could be raiders.”

Sonia instinctively pulled out her mambele. “Heaven forbid.”

All of the River Triangle had been rife with rumors that Butler’s dreaded Wolves had been released into the Eastern Provinces and were burning and raping their way Southward. Even moving up to the front Logan had heard the stories of Carnton Butler, the turncoat Alban, and his bastard legion of renegade Northerners, opportunistic bandits, traitors, goblins, and corrupted pixies. Supposedly though they were armed only with a sharp curving battle knife and a bag for loot, they were cruel fighters who took no prisoners. Some people even said that they moved as silent as a pack of wolves, or even rode wolves into battle. Recently, there had been stories whispered through Stanton that the Town of Goldsboro had been hit and its inhabitants been slaughtered to the man, the fields set alight and the women and children carried North to slavery. Nothing was reliable; all was hearsay. The Forester had hoped to never encounter those butchers.

On the other hand, he might just be getting riled up over nothing. Probably just the wind along with some figment of their imagination-

Suddenly Vagabound neighed loudly in the barn.

“Shit. There’s definitely something there.”

Sonia looked over warily. “It’s probably just a stray deer-”

A loud thump from a very large object interrupted that thought.

“Okay, Heavens, you’ve made your point.” Logan muttered. He threw on his cloak and picked up a lantern, lighting the candle inside.

“I think I need to check it out.” He said to his wife. “Stay here and be ready if the worst comes to worst.”

“Take your awlpike.” Sonia deftly threw his polearm over to him. “The Heavens know what you’ll encounter in these times.”

The Forester went into the twilight darkness, broken only by the small source of light coming from his lamp. His horse was by now in full on panic, violently thumping on the door of his stable. With a smooth motion Logan silently readied his well-oiled weapon.

Butler’s Wolves never took prisoners, they said. Well, if Logan caught one of them, he was not going to be very merciful either.

At the end of the barn he saw the bright glow of a pair of candle lights. A pair of guards quite possibly, but perhaps some refugees from the war, or even his own troops. The Forester should have put out his lamp, but he needed to see who he was facing. He knew his barn, and if necessarily he could extinguish his light in a split second and fight his way through the blinding darkness. Logan moved surely forward. The lights didn’t move, and there was no sound either, other than the neighing and rearing of his horse and the baying of his mule. The candles likely weren’t being held by his visitors then, and they were hanging by the hayloft for some reason.

Perhaps the intruders were hiding.

Cautiously the Forester raised his lamp, pike readied for a lightning thrust.

Instantly he realized the luminescence was not from lights, but from a pair of large glowing eyes. Stooped over him was a familiar creature, all horns and scales and teeth, half covered in shadow. Those same familiar eyes still shone through the darkness, but it was now dulled with impeccable sadness. Meratezatgh the Dragon sat upon his haunches, nursing his broken arm in a splint. The Dragoneye dangled from a dewclaw.

For a second, the two figures simply stared at each other.

Then the great wyrm spoke.

“Logan Durham, I need your heroics again. Please.”

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U2 - One

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Original: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/52738841/