The Prophecy Of Kale: Book One Prologue

PROLOGUE



The sky was dark. The sun was choked out by the looming, black rain clouds. And the ten thousand MachkaVikana assembled at the Elder Fortress knew they would never see it again.

Brone, the Warchief of the Kitanna clan, stood at the battlements, a cold, impassive look on his face as he watched the black mass of the approaching enemy march nearer and nearer. His Warriors watched also; with pride Brone noted that no fear was visible, on their faces or postures. One held up the flag of the Kitanna clan; a black field and a white raven with outspread wings. Today, thought Brone, the Vikana will be wiped off the face of this world, yet we will die as men. The horn of the chief clan, the Wyrnstikia, sounded with a great bellows that echoed throughout the fortress and down into the plain. A massive roar erupted as all the assembled tribes of the Vikana cried the ancient Battle Cry….

The Deadlord on his mount looked at the fortress. A mere skeleton encased in DarkArmour and brought to life by an evil sorcerer, now he commanded the forces that were to destroy the fortress. By his masters bidding, he was to obliterate the race of men.
The Deadlord turned to his lieutenant, a troll named Skulloc. “Release the Wildwolves” he hissed.

When the message came to the Wolvemaster, a Northern Wolfman by the name of Kull, he lifted his horn and blew a signal. With the sound of locks being opened, a single howl rose across the plain as two thousand wolves charged forward towards the fortress.

Horns blew, and the gates of the fortress were opened. The Wyda, Dafran, and Andreake clans charged forward. The Vikana were faster and stronger than other humans, and within seconds they met the Wildwolves. The foes met with a clash. Blood, black Wildblood and red Vikani blood, flew through the air in a gentle mist, soaking all. A Wryda clansman screamed as a Wildwolf bit into and wrenched off his sword arm, crimson staining its snarling muzzle. A Wildwolf lay on the ground whimpering, six black cruel Vikana shafts embedded in its side. A Wildwolf crouched, feeding on the body of an Andreake spearman, eyes filled with ecstasy. A screaming Dafran warrior swung down his axe, beheading a Wildwolf. Soon, the battle cries and howls of the living were drowned out with the sounds of wounded and dying.

Meanwhile, Cymbrohai archers, known for their accuracy, ran into trenches just outside the fortress, followed by Wrynstikia spearmen. There they stood, awaiting the enemy.

The Deadlord watched, as his skeleton steed stomped and snorted. He turned to Skulloc. “Now, the Trolls will advance” he said in his cold voice.

With a the beating of battle drums, The Trolls advanced, stepping over the many bodies that littered the battlefield.

Suddenly, the archers in the trenches stood and fired. Thousands of arrows flew than dropped with the noise of buzzing filled the air. The troll advancement suddenly stopped as it had been struck by an invisible wall. Many a troll fell and never rose again. These bolts buzzed of death as they repelled the Trollic ranks. Shields raised, the Trolls crept forward. Despite the steady rain of arrows, they came. The Trolls reached the first trench and leapt in. Suddenly, with a cried command, the spearmen stood, spears raised. Unable to halt themselves in time, many a troll impaled themselves on the blades. As the spearmen men raised their weapons again, one troll threw a round, metal object into the trench. As it hit the ground, there was a large explosion. Many men screamed as they lost their arms and legs, and hot shrapnel flew through the air. A barrage of the Trollic Explosives soon cleared the trench. Slowly, the Vikani were forced back. They could only be caused to retreat by killing every last warrior; the trenches were soon choked with bodies from both sides. The ground soaked up so much blood that it became muddy. Screams filled the air as Trolls slashed and hacked with their curved shortswords, sharp teeth bared in feral grins. Many a Vikani fell to the onslaught. Soon the sky was darkened with crows waiting for their feast, screeching greedily. The darkness continued to grow.

The battle raged for three days and nights without pause. Slowly, the ranks of the Vikani thinned. More battalions and battalions of evil arrived, bolstering the ranks. The Vikani had no one to call for aid, being the only men on earth.

Three days later the gates of the Elder fortress were destroyed, and the invaders moved in, burning everything standing in their way. All fell before them. The Vikani retreated to the Great Hall. There they awaited their fate.

Brone surveyed the ragged group in the great hall. Out of all the Warchiefs, only he and Darras of the Cymbrohai clan stood. Maybe five hundred warriors still were left. As he looked at them, suddenly he cried out. All turned and looked at him. “Let us not perish as cornered rats but men, Vikani!” with a roar, the warriors threw open the doors. Outside, the hosts of enemies were taken aback. The Vikani lashed with savage fury; the foe’s dead soon covered the ground.

Brone screaming drove his axe into an Ogre’s neck. Bellowing, the giant creature toppled. As he struggled to pull out the axe, a troll came in, blade stabbing straight into Brone’s back. With a cry, he fell to the ground. As he lay there, Brone called out. “Father Triton, avenge us!” suddenly, energy flew through his body. Brone stood. Then, he turned to stone. Swords were transformed in mid swing; a raven peeking out a corpse’s eyes stiffened. Soon, the entire battle field was stone. All, dead and living was stone. An eerie silence filled the air as all was still.





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