Blade of Erogrund

What remained of the battle passed in a blur of pain, blood, and vengeance all of which flowed furiously from Godric.

Erogrund fell sharper with every blow but each step brought a stiffer foe than the one before. Draeknol consisted of a single looming cave, the jagged ceiling towering two-hundred feet above. Shadows swathed the ominous walls of the cave like curtains, broken only by the four or so gaping entrances that spat dull grey light from the world outside into the depths of the dark.

Bones littered the rocky, uneven ground and with them the gold and tarnished silver of a hundred cities. Gold that had been their pride in days past and their fall in the Days of the Dragons. Amid the treasure and bone, serpents roared at the sight of the marching army.

The glistening of dragonfire and daylight against thousands of spearheads and swords left them gleaming like so many candles. One by one the serpents fell to the swords of Men and, particularly, Erogrund. Godric tasted the blood of seven Dragons on that field but no amount of silver gore could satiate his hunger for victory. Every time his arm swung in a deathblow his eyes would fill with visions of Ennor’s fallen body and the blade bit deeper than any Dragon’s teeth.

Yet the strength of Men was only so great. Even the Dwarves began to tire as the sun bowed its head beneath the jagged peaks. Bodies of soldiers, knights, horses, and Dwarves thickly matted the ground in a gruesome carpet that grabbed at their feet and slowed their march. Almost as thick was the nauseating odor of scorched flesh, heated metal, and, above all, blood, that curled in a sickening clouds from the corpses left on the ground as the battle progressed.

At times it felt as though the Men of Niron were arranged only for slaughter. When fire and smoke filled their lungs and the only break in the dark was the shining of the serpents’ claws Godric quietly reserved that they had indeed finally faced defeat. But each time the Dragon at their forefront would be slain by his sword or another’s and the Blue Army would again sally over its carcass.

For many hours the battle endured. With each charge more Men fell until their corpses covered the ground inside the cave as thickly as they did outside, if not more so. Godric grew sick with the sight of blood and disgusted at the flash of fire. Every flicker repulsed him such that his sword would always find the Dragon’s tongue and still the flames that came from it.

Wounds covered him from head to toe despite his fragmented armor. Three times he drew a shield from the ground to replace his own and three times it shattered upon the might of the Dragons. His bracers fell away and his grieves were discarded after they hung in crinkled remains from his legs. Only his breastplate remained despite being dented and blackened with fire.

It was in this way that the Army of Niron made battle against the Dragons of Draeknol and the North. Even as the sun submitted to the horizon victory eluded them.

A single Dragon remained. In the depths of Draeknol Godric could not see its size but every limb stood thicker than the eldest tree he had ever spied. Its massive sides heaved with ancient golden scales and its crown of horns was twisted in a more regal configuration than any of its kin. Its eyes shone as gold as its plate wherever light played across its skin but most of its serpentine body lie smothered in curtains of shadow.

Godric’s eyes darted through the dark to spy where he might pierce it, yet it always eluded him. Even after eleven Dragon corpses lay like mountains on the rocky floor of the cavern it twisted among them.

Soldiers picked through the bodies warily, their eyes flashing just as Godric’s for the least sign of the Dragon. The rustling of its scale upon stone slithered from everywhere as the sound echoed through the immense cavern.

Why do you seek to slay me, Godric Swordwielder?

Godric reeled at the voice. The shadowy forms of soldiers and knights who walked beside him did not so much as blink at the thunderous, masculine voice whose words had racked his mind.

“Did you hear that?” he asked a battered woman beside him who limped on her left leg.

She shook her head.

They cannot hear me. I have only interest in speaking to you at this time, Hatchling of Men.

“How do you know my name?” Godric asked quietly.

The woman gave him a queer look. “You are the Master of Erogrund; all know your name.”

A soft rumbling in the dark racked Godric’s mind as the Dragon laughed. Do not speak, little one. Your mind is mine to read and already you feel my thoughts.

Godric stopped. His hand drew a broken shield from the ground and lifted Erogrund to reassure himself. Answer me, Nameless One. How have you known come to know my name?

The Dragon purred. I am not as nameless as you may think, Hatchling. I am Daehonir, Hatchmate of Aidrear. It is my scale and talon that you have slain on the field of battle. As for your name, long it has been on my mind.

What is your game? Godric spurned angrily. Will you cower so before an army of Men?

Do not mistake me, Young One. The Dragons of the North are renown in understanding. It shall not be long before my defeat. Already you have taken the fire from my kin, but before my tongue is put out a word of counsel must be offered to you.

And what can you offer me? Godric accused. Are you so unwilling to die that you hide behind the shadows of riddles?

A burst of hot breath seethed in silence through the Dragon’s thoughts leaving Godric to wonder if he had gone too far. Finally the quiet was broken. You have fared well in battle today, Young One. But what of the day after? And what of the year-next? Do not let your pride in victory steal away the truth.

What truth? The truth of our victory? At last Niron lies on the brink of freedom from your kind. Is there not pride to be had in that?

And how long will it remain free? Daehonir’s voice pierced Godric, causing making him reel in shock.

“Are you alright, Sir?” the woman beside him asked.

He nodded distractedly as the Dragon’s voice continued. My Hatchmate took the gales of the wind over the North Peaks. It was not long before I followed her. And the others? Will it not be long before they follow too?

Godric found his thoughts filled with the vision he had beheld that night with Matthias and Hilthwen. The coiling dark mass that spiraled through the air while he had stood helplessly on the cliff to be battered by the wind. The chorus of shrieking voices that had barraged his sleep through the white mist curtain he could never seem to break.

Yes, Daehonir said grimly. Think on your dreams.

There are more than you. Godric realized darkly. Beyond the mountains?

Daehonir did not answer. Instead the scene Godric stood in slowly disappeared. The shadows of the caves melted into a stone floor of polished obsidian as the light of the dying day spun into a tapestry of light that filled his vision. The soldiers and bodies that lay around him melted into the haze of the vision until he stood alone on a high peak with the wisps of icy clouds filling the abyss before him. Far away a series of black mountains sheered through the gloom.

From somewhere near the peaks a shriek of alarm sliced through the eerie silence of the scene. A crest of pure black broke over the teeth of the distant mountain peaks but Godric found himself cowering at the prospect of viewing whatever creature reared its head over the mountain. His breath caught in his chest as he realized that the beast must stand above the frosted spear points of mountain and he shook as freezing gales swept the smooth stone floor he had fallen to. His skin crawled horrifically and his hands rose to shield his eyes from whatever demonic monstrosity rose over the clouds in the distance.

The voice of Daehonir called to him from seemingly far away. They are called the Azvogath. It was not until two centuries ago that they ascended from the Avôg Descir Ballac - Depths of the Broken Earth - where no Man’s eye has lain. Their shadow falls upon all and spares none.

Godric fought to stand in the blustering frost that ripped through him. His entire body quaked in horrifying shivers. Take me away! Take me far from this place.

The Dragon hummed approvingly.

As he stood on the smooth cliff Godric felt another gale thrash him mercilessly. He could feel the presence of the demon even at the vast expanse of haze that separated them. His mind vainly told him that it was only a vision. That the creature could no more hurt him than a thought or memory but terror held his body all the same.

These are what drive us, Hatchling of Men. The Azvogath consume us. Darkness seeps into the ice of our mountains, polluting our peeks and summits. Shadow ails our highplaces and devours our kin. The scene changed until he stood alone on the same black stone but the mountains had disappeared. In their place a vast valley filled with boulders that seemed to weep red onto the soft snow covered ground. Godric felt himself grow sick as it dawned on him that the shapes were not boulders but heaping mounds of dead Dragons piled like mountains as blood dripped from their brutally gruesome wounds.

Not long ago Men climbed the North Peaks, Men with wickedness in their hearts. We cast them out from our summits, though not before they had seen the Azvogath. Therefore we charged them with this tale: carry word to the Kingdoms of Men. Be as swift as the wings of the Elderwing, venture over the North Peaks and alert them that our Lords are coming and with them the Wings of our Kingdom. Dark were the days of the Vesitivir - the Scourge as you call it - and great was our desire to face not another. Filled with wickedness were their hearts, but they took our message in a gem of great beauty to give to their King.

When my Hatchmate descended from the peaks she found a land not emptied but filled with a Kingdom rich with plunder and overflowing with pride. She grieved and fought, slaying many of yours as they came against her. Daehonir paused his tale as his voice grew thick and forlorn.

Who were these that carried the gem? Godric requested, but in his heart he felt he already knew.

By their own tongues they were called the Orshi, Daehonir mourned. But in the tongues of my kind they are known only as the Avardn - the Slayers. They took the lives of several of our Greatwings and their failure has slain my Hatchmate and Hatchlings on this day.

Godric felt his heart weep as he heard the name of the Orshi. His mind turned from the Dragon’s voice and the horror of the vision that surrounded him to Aeis’s words in Naevir when first he had told them of the Orshi and the Prophecies. “The honor that they had led with before had been replaced with such cruelty and malice that they were no better than the monsters they had once strived the defeat..... On the day that they were to be slain, they gave one more prophecy to Eroth himself, but no one knows what it said. Rumor has it that he cast it into the River Niniye before any could hear it.”

So Eroth had heard the words of Fate and attempted to unwind its cloth, Godric realized. Had Ennor known too? Is that why he had taken the sword? Because he knew that Eroth was destined to fail?

That is why you have had visions in the night, Young One, Daehonir whispered. I have no interest in slaying your people, but - the deep, noble voice Godric heard in his mind paused - but neither do I wish that I should see more of mine put to the Dark. You have taken my kin from me this day, though this is just. You defend your land even as we have sought to defend ours - even as I wished you would - but know that in time this will no longer be your land. In time you will become foreigners - wanderers in the woods. The North is coming.

You speak as though you know me, as though you knew I carried the sword, Godric murmured suspiciously. He clutched the smooth leather of Erogrund’s handle reassuringly in his hand.

Aye, why else should Evetheast have taken his vengeance on your village? Because I sent him. The eye of the Dragon sees far beyond the reeds of the plain and the stones of the mountain. My Hatchlings grew in strength daily. Were it not that the Blade be carried against them, in time they would crumble the very cliffs of your city around you.

Godric could not believe the words trickling through his thoughts like ice water coming off the mountains in spring. He shivered in horror. You did this. All of it. Waves of hot anger pulsed through his chest. You killed them. All of them. My father, Drom, everyone. And for what? The words screamed accusingly through his mind like a spearhead toward wherever the Dragon crept in the shadows.

For you, the Dragon roared. For all of you. The Age of Men has passed. Elves dwindle like dew on a Dragon’s scales. Dwarves too will soon find their home in their tombs of stone. Men also shall one day but may the Stars and Moon forgive me if it is this Age that steals them away.

But it is not your hand alone I have touched. A girl among you with hair even as the fire of my kin, a close companion, also has been chosen. She shall be a leader among Men. Scalebiter rests well in your hand, Small One, and with it you shall become a remnant of the North but do not be mistaken; you are not the savior of Men. To the girl I gifted wisdom and guidance greater than yours. She will bring Men to safety in the South. There they shall prosper again.

Mira, Godric thought, aghast. How do you know this? How can this be?

The eye of the Dragon sees farther than that of Men, Small One. Now my time has come, but if all else is forgotten, remember this: the ambition of my kin cannot be undone. Always must Scalebiter reside in the North lest they sweep the frosts of the High Peaks until even the Seas of the South freeze over. Yet the Men of the North cannot reside with it lest they find their end among the tundra that shall soon fall.

Why do you tell me this? Godric asked. Why is it that you should counsel me so? Why is it that you have guided us here, even to this very battlefield?

It is said that the wisdom of the Dragon is beyond contestation. Let me simply say the life a single Man is of no lesser nor greater worth than of my own kind. We are not so different, Young One, and yet the cold of evil drives us to the field of battle. I wish that one day it would not be so. And so I let the lives of some be the salvation of many.

Godric heard a great commotion shake the earth to his left, jarring him from the Dragon’s sentiment to turn. The woman beside him shouted in surprise as the looming golden crown of a Dragon’s brow swept through the shadows into the scant beams of light that entered from the cave mouths. Two eyes as large as a soldier’s round shield peered ponderously through the dark at the small remnant of the army that remained in search of him. The sapphire blue of the eyes hid as heavy lids blinked resolutely.

Spears, shields, and swords swarmed the immense face that stared stoically into the ranks of Men. The sound of battle rose again but it did not last long. Almost before the soldiers had gathered were the swords stilled and the shields dropped.

Godric never heard the Dragon fall.

Mira milled among the fallen.

Such gore covered the field that she could hardly gaze upon it. Steel and iron lie in contorted heaps, shattered by tooth and claw or made brittle by fierce fire. Similarly were the bodies, many twisted and mangled such that it took all her strength to look upon their shattered forms. Acrid tendrils of smoke snaked from their decimated armor like so many souls being released into the air.

Every now and again she would come upon one who still clutched for life. A man pinned under his fallen comrades or forced motionless by broken bones. A woman left in a haze as blood fled from her through a horrific gash in her side. These she did all she could for, letting the Power heal what it could and her own voice comfort as well as it might. Her hands grew sticky and scarlet with all the wounds they were laid upon but still she walked among them. The thought that a man or woman might be left to die not in the thick of battle but on the field of hard fought victory gnawed at her.

She hesitated to enter Draeknol but found herself walking among those that had fallen inside its shadowy chasm all the same. The light was much less there, disguising the fatal blows that had stolen the life and love of those around her. Darkness covered them almost peacefully.

Immense bodies of Dragons lay like mighty boulders among the dead. Scales glistened dimly wherever the scanty light of the late afternoon danced across their glassy surfaces, but the light that shone back felt oddly empty to the girl.

Empty as they were, still they drew her in. She walked alongside the mighty beasts, admiring their sword-etched armor and the beauty of their scales. The malice had fled from their hides until each scale seemed to hunger to be filled like a mirror left to reflect the dullness of a stone wall for too long.

It was as she examined a Dragon clad in bronze-gold scales that she came across a small company of Dwarves standing around the serpent’s scarred, battered head. Even from its crest could Mira tell that the creature was no Hatchling; the skull spanned at least four dwarves from base to nose and at least two from jaw to crown. A huge eye rich in blue gazed blankly to the shadows above them.

The Dwarves had removed their helmets, which hung cracked and dented from their hands. They nodded a beat welcome to her through the mass of braids and bindings in their impressive, fire-darkened beards.

“It is done, miss. How fared you?”

She smiled at their welcoming tone. “Well, thank you. And you?” In truth she could scarcely believe her condition. Besides countless scraps she had gone utterly unharmed. Fire had charred away much of her left sleeve but the skin showed no signs of fire other than a modest red hue.

Each shrugged their bent shoulders.

“We made it,” one finally murmured. “That is more fortunate than others.”

“Yet you do not seem joyous at your victory?” In every book Mira had ever read the conquering army had sallied back in great spirits with trumpets of victory and armor glistening with pride. No pages had spoken to the haggard, exhausted, and wounded faces that stood before her.

“War is seldom joyous, either in victory or in defeat,” another muttered through his dense chestnut beard.

Mira bowed her head. “My apologies; of course you are right.”

“There is no need to apologize, child,” the Dwarf closest to her sighed. “Come, perhaps you might help us.” His hand, still bound in part of the armor that had encased it, gestured to the Dragon’s tremendous jaws. “There seems to be something inside this beast’s mouth but for all our wit we cannot pry the jaws open. Might you have any ideas?”

“Can you not fit an ax-head between its jaws to pry it open?”

“Alas,” the Dwarf replied, “we’ve tried this but still it does not budge. Fused like steel in a forge it is.”

Mira let her hand graze the smooth armor of thin scales that covered the folds of the Dragon’s mouth.

“It seems the mouth is open slightly,” she murmured as she slipped her hand between the teeth that were just visible between the Dragon’s sharply defined mouth.

“Aye,” a Dwarf with a sharp black beard agreed. “But our hands are too large to fit between the monster’s teeth.

“Allow me, Master Dwarf,” Mira replied kindly. Her fingers felt the coarse, dry skin of the Dragon’s mouth as they searched. Its tongue felt jagged almost as a knife blade under her hand but suddenly her fingers closed on something foreign: an uneven sphere as smooth as glass with countless faces cut into its surface.

Drawing it out through the Dragon’s teeth Mira and the Dwarves shared a gasp upon seeing it. Only a dim beam of light traced its surface but it was enough to sparkle in countless eerie colors that she had long since grown familiar with from the hours spent in Naevir.

“A Prophecy,” she breathed.

“Someone find the King,” one of the Dwarves whispered. “He must see this.”