Where Eagles Dare

Prologue

It began as a whisper, an ignition in the dead of night. The flames flickered through the oil-soaked, dried straw, accompanied by the screams of three hundred thousand soldiers. The fire gracefully twisted over the entire bale, like the tender touch of a lover. A single ignition grew into an all-consuming fire. An inferno that spread a message through Vadaton; a message that would devastate the land for years. A scream echoed. The fireball shot from stillness to a terrifying flight. A malicious intent, fired by a war machine. The high speed of the burning orb pushed the wind aside. Even a gust from the cold north could not extinguish the flames or divert the ball from its destructive course. This course led over the living, breathing bodies of thousands, over the imposing walls of Dawndale, the City of First Light, the Origin of the Realm, the Home of the King, the Capital of Vadaton. The fiery demise descended onto the roof of a carpenter family's house, breaking through the tiles that provided protection from rain and cold, setting the house ablaze with the family still inside, their bodies charred to ash. Such was the hate and wildness of the army that besieged the capital. There were no omens, no warnings. The downfall struck them all unexpectedly. The attackers set up their camp as soon as they arrived that evening and immediately began bombarding the city. First, they launched boulders as large as a ten-year-old child, then switched to burning bales of straw. The devastated city was now ablaze. The walls were fully manned, and there was total chaos. Soldiers ran to their positions, seeking cover from the flying fireballs and arrows, shouting orders, and the clash of swords echoed everywhere.

The catapult crews had been working all day, from sunrise to dusk and further into the dark night. They hurled sharp, heavy stones at their enemy, targeting siege towers, soldiers, and other catapults. The enemy, in turn, hit the walls, the houses behind those walls, and the precious catapults of the defenders. Many of these machines were already completely splintered by heavy stones or ablaze. This fate befell every side of the large, round city, which was completely surrounded without any escape route, aid, or safety. Dawndale was doomed, a massive city that saw the sunlight first every morning in the province of Ateodal, known as the City of First Light. The proud stronghold was surrounded by two legendary walls that had stood for three hundred years. At the heart of this majestic city rose the Citadel of Arpton, a tower three hundred meters high illuminated by giant torches. Since the reign of King Agron I, the Citadel had served as the residence of the Eagle Kings.

The Great Hall was located at the foot of this unparalleled structure, with long spiral staircases leading all the way to the top. The tower ended in a round top with ten imposing pillars that rose from the base of the Citadel. Each pillar symbolized a Great Eagle of the night sky, revered as gods of Vadaton, their brilliant appearance depicted in the clear nebulae visible at night.

Within the Citadel reigned Lycaron, the Eagle King of Vadaton, Wielder of Aldarion, Hero of Dehael.

He stood on the balcony of his chamber, overlooking the city. Countless small lights from burning houses and flying fireballs lit up the night. From there, he could see everything: the foot of the Citadel, the streets and squares, and the inner wall that was once the only defense but now merely a dividing line within the city. No threat would reach that wall anymore. Now, it was the great outer wall that kept dangers out and provided safety to the inhabitants. Lycaron had not slept; he had only tossed and turned restlessly in his bed, hoping for sleep that would not come. Before going to bed, he had handed over command to his old mentor and loyal friend, Valens. Valens had assured him that the city would hold; he would awaken, take back command the next morning, and withstand the attackers every time they recklessly risked their lives to storm the outer wall. His thoughts were entirely consumed by the coming morning, by what was happening under his rule. Lycaron let out a deep sigh, filled with nerves and restlessness. He wore only a white linen cloth around his waist; it was midsummer and still warm that night. He felt the heat of the fires burning below him, a heat that felt different, ominous. He looked up at the sky, hoping to find solace in the stars or in Aowei, the blue star. Normally, around this time of year, one could also see Hyrcanus, the nebula that resembled an eagle, on a clear evening. But tonight, they were nowhere to be seen; the sky was shrouded in smoke clouds. There was no starlight to gaze at, no hope to find as on beautiful evenings. Lycaron's eyes fell back to the burning city. Such destruction he had not seen since Dehael when it seemed as if the world would turn to ash and smoke. Perhaps that was why he couldn't sleep. The same fear of destruction he had experienced fifteen years earlier. It had kept him awake then as well.