Ordas had been surveying the land, trying to get his bearings, and resented the intrusion.
“Yes, Slark?” He frowned.
“I’ve been studying the maps, and I believe we are…”
“I know where we are,” Ordas said. “This was our capital. The minions of the Dark Lord did not leave one stone on top of another and filled all of the foundations, trying to erase our very existence, but he didn’t succeed. See those trees? The heart of the capital was rooted to the center of the Earth in that spot and there are still ruins.”
Ordas smiled to himself. He could see the disbelief in his lieutenant’s eyes.
It was the same for every new generation, generation after generation for over 500 years. They would come to court and find Ordas as the head of the military. They would hear of his eccentricities, particularly his claim that he was almost a thousand years old. They would grow old and he would stay unchanged.
But they never believed.
Ordas walked a few paces, Slark right behind him, and studied the large field that once held a gleaming city. A few stones were visible. Looking closely it was possible to tell that they had been carefully shaped yet later shattered as the Dark Armies took hammer to every little piece of masonry.
A few of the stones were familiar. The patterns came back. Even though all had changed over the centuries, the bones of the land remained.
“Come, Slark,” he said. “I need some help.”
Continue reading at Trent’s World