At the heart of the Drakengard stands an impossible tower. Built on the foundations of an ancient library, its base is seven hundred yards wide. It is approximately one mile high, though the size of the fortress masquerades its true scale with a web of sky bridges, aerie, and scaffolding. Much of the tower is solid rock until halfway up. A single narrow bridge offers the only entrance on foot, and scaling the narrow, unlit staircase within to the top is a trial few would attempt. Fewer still have ever succeeded.
Atop the tower stands the Stormhold. It is a watch house from which the night sentry sounds the mile long horn mounted on the tower. Forged centuries ago by the first of the Dragoon Order and bound in chains of magic the Stormhold emulates the roar of an Elder dragon. The tower’s sheer face and extreme height channels the sound into a single, harrowing note out across the jagged peaks and down through the warren like halls of the fortress.
In a chamber two miles beneath the Stormhold, a wizened man stands vigil over an auspicious youth. The red headed pupil read from a tome older than either could fathom. The book’s pages were three foot tall and two wide. Its spine was encased in iron and steel clasps forged centuries ago in the fire of the Drakengard’s oldest dragons. The first Dragoons wrote the edicts and laws that still governed the fortress in the book’s first pages, in the very room they stood. It was the Library of Hesta, the Elder Dragon of Knowledge.
Only The Verger, the High Dragoon, and the Captain of the Guard knew of its existence. The only entrance was through a concealed door in the Great Hall. It was protected by a mile long spiral staircase wide enough for one and steep enough to have to climb. Dimly lit torches burnt faintly in rusty brackets. It was a forgotten place, and the chronicles contained in the miles of shelves stretched back through the millennia. To see the library was a privilege. To read the contents of the books was a birth right.
“There is a windswept heath between the eastern peaks and western cliffs of the valley. The Drakengard stands at heath’s Northern end, unassailable by land. The heath serves as a landmark, guiding dragoons back to the Aerie.”
Ozoric Newalla frowned. He stopped reading to take stock of a wealth of new information. Though learned, he found the book to be more comprehensive than anything he had studied prior. The tome, as the principle chronicle of the Drakengard stood pride of place on a black dragon lectern. The lectern had been carved out of obsidian burnt by the dragon fire of Chalazae, the Elder black dragon. After three hours of study the weight of expectation was beginning to get to him.
“Is something troubling you?” the Verger enquired softly.
“What happened to the heath?” Ozoric asked. He looked up at his mentor.