The Young Shall Inherit: Aerolan Saga: Book 1

The wind blew roughly across the scraggly plain, dry grass whipped about, dust swirling up until it touched the clouds and brushed them with powder, painting them in translucent yellows. The tints contrasted with the open sky above and made the clouds seem painted on a canvas of shallow blue.

  The sun bore down relentlessly on it all.

  A man, standing solemnly in his black robes, stood on the sheer cliff overlooking the prairie, the wind blowing around him.

  Dust blew across the plateau but his robe never fluttered. There was no sign, in his stance, the wind blew at all.

  But even he squinted from the glare of the desert sand and held his hand above his brow, trying to see across the vastness.

  Darker clouds roiled above and behind him, tossed out of the translucence into a presence that seemed evil.

  They boiled and tumbled quietly, but with a ferocity that made them seem alive.

  The clouds charged at the mountains and bolted across into the lands to the south, punching with difficulty through the high passes.

  Mano'n watched for a while, but couldn't tell whether the clouds actually made it across. He felt certain some did.

  Darkness should sweep across the south, destroy it and all people there one day. He hesitated a moment.

  Maybe there were some exceptions.

  From his lofty perch on the edge of the sheer cliff, he looked out over the land searching for something living out beyond where he stood. Except for the tent village far below, he could see no way anything could be alive anywhere in the broad reach of this desert.

  The oppressive heat didn't affect him significantly. But there were others, he knew, wandering out there, trying to find some safety from the inferno.

  Along the coast, small clusters of people tried to survive; small villages squatted in coves and canyons opened to the sea , enough to have fjords which ebbed and flowed continuously.

  Salt water was better than no water and these nomads had learned how to distill the precious fluid.

  The hate keeps them alive. The hate and the promises.

  The mountains rumbled behind him. He turned and looked at the bluff towering upward toward the peaks.

  The face of the cliff was sheer, black and glistening in the sun. It didn't reflect the light or the intense heat, but seemed rather to absorb it.

  Carved into this edifice was a cavern, only showing itself by the gaping dark hole which seemed out-of-place in this wasteland.

  Those he could see entering the darkness disappeared quickly into the black. Others leaving the gaping entrance stopped suddenly, as they exited, holding their hands, or something in their hands, over their eyes to shield against the sudden brightness.

  Above the entrance stood an immense wall with ornate carvings, some large enough for him to see from where he stood, but most were small -- a display of stories and fables.

  Tales were carved in runes; tales of the passage of time in this place and of the ruination of this blighted land during the First Age of Imitation -- the time when the Al-Esfer'n walked the planet before Baalsa'n came to alter what they had done.

  Mano’n turned back and looked across the prairie again, a grimace on his face.

  We have much to do. Much to do before they discover we are near again.

  Abruptly, he turned and walked quickly toward the wall of legends.

  As he burst into the shadows, the people working there bowed to him as he passed by.

  Mano’n paid them little heed. His thoughts were preparing him for his meeting with Baalsa'n, and he needed to make certain there were no mistakes, especially today.

  PERCHANCE HOPE