Blade of Erogrund

Godric’s horse turned unsteadily between his legs as it climbed the hill.

He had ridden at Dunn of course but the mighty stallion that held him now was far from the shaggy mares they had used to pull plows or carry water. Its sleek coat glistened like black tar in the sunny morning light as he followed Ennor’s horse and Thain’s firm footsteps up the charred ground.

Even the hill had not been spared the dragons’ fire. Every blade of grass was shriveled and every stone blackened with soot. The trees that he, Matthias, and Hilthwen had hidden among were nowhere to be seen. No doubt their trunks and branches had been added to the cloud of ash that covered much of the plain.

Reaching the top of the small hill, Godric turned his horse with a less than graceful pull of the reigns to stand him beside Ennor’s and the other Lords’.

Before them was the Army of Niron.

Some mile away the cliffs stood like a mighty wall forming a backdrop to the grandest sight Godric’s eyes had yet befallen on. Rows of new wagons lined the rear of the host, among them the billowing folds of countless tents, numerous bails of hay, and the repetitious sight of hundreds of wooden barrels from which the scent of vinegar, wine, herbs, and salted meat wafted lazily. The breeze of the Sea carried these seductive smells through the two hundred ranks of men and women standing tall in half-armor. Shields mounted their backs upon which sat large travel packs filled with the remainder of their armor, tents, and tools. Sunlight sparkled off the new metal that clung to each man’s chest and arms until they dazzled in the morning light.

Banners of each division stood proudly in the hand of its captain, their blue fields covered in the white of their unit’s signet. These coarse standards formed the base for the sea of flags that wavered like sails above the vast host. Flags of blue, green, and gold fluttered among the ranks in the hands of each Lord’s or Lady’s herald - both major and minor - signalling the armies of his or her House. Together the veritable blanket of banners flapped as waves on the sea.

Among the divisions of footmen were massive wagons of the Dwarves. These stood out for their dark, elder timbers and the small coils of smoke that rose from metal pits bolted to their centers. Even now the occasional hammer stroke could be heard by an armorsmith on his anvil. The ash and smoke from their fires drifted among the banners until it carried with the scents of meat to form an almost pleasant smell above them.

Finally was the cavalry arrayed in two long lines at the forefront of the host. Standing at the base of the hill on which Godric stood, this was possibly the most impressive part of the army. Not only for the long lances they carried or the glistening of their helms against the daylight but the mere fact that they had assembled. To get such a number of horses from the caves Ennor had deemed impossible yet there they stood. Stable-boys and groomers wove among the stomping, snorting beasts bringing water and hay from the supply wagons. The well-brushed coats of the horses gleamed nearly as brightly as the armor of their riders, together forming a truly impressive sight.

But above all that struck Godric was the black.

Everything underfoot snapped with the dry cracking of charred death until smoke and soot rose with every footfall from the field. The Dragons had come neigh on a week ago to prey on their victims, but still the plain was scorched with the marks of their passing. No bodies of the hundred were left, though no one was foolish enough to expect that there would be. Some guards claimed they had seen people among the denser woods east of the city but, staring on the pitch black blanket of embers that covered the field, Godric found himself not believing it.

“We’ve managed four-thousand,” Thain was saying. The Dwarf had touched his tattoos, ushering the unnerving presence of his battle helm, but the fact that he had chosen to stay on foot left him standing five feet below them, effectively eliminating the terror of his armor. “More than I had guessed but fewer than I would have liked.”

Ennor nodded. He too wore battle armor, though simpler than Godric had expected. It wore no markings or fanciful patterns; instead plain polished steel clad his strong frame. But it was hard to miss the dragon-headed war helm that rested in the crook of his arm. It too was steel, however it was fashioned in the gruesome likeness of a dragonlord, complete with two twisted horns that coiled from its crown. The steel from which it was crafted had been polished such that it glimmered nearly as brightly as the veins of silver that inlaid the horns.

“The march will not be easy. The men are here, but how will they travel? And even more, how will they do in battle?”

“It’s been twenty years since the Men of Niron saw battle, my lord,” spoke a Lord Godric recognized as Sir Vyron. Godric thought well of the middle-aged man. In the week since he had returned, Vyron had done much to help Ennor prepare as Sire of the city and his word had become one of familiar counsel. “But I daresay they have heart.”

“True,” Thain muttered. “But the heart is the wrong muscle to win battles. A strong arm and strong sword is what a man needs.”

“We are as prepared as we shall be,” Ennor said with a note of finality. “Lord Havillon, repeat the figures, if you would.”

Havillon nodded from his place several horses to the right of Ennor. His small arms drew a scroll from his saddlebag and unrolled it.

“Four command tents of woven thread, one-hundred spare blades of northern steel, fifty blades of western steel, one-hundred wagons laden with supplies...”

The Lord continued his figures while Godric returned his gaze to the army. Somewhere among them Mira and Saracyir walked, doing tasks of their own. The thought was oddly reassuring to him.

Wrapping the reigns around his palm he could not help but be glad that he had been invited to ride with Ennor’s vanguard. They were noble men, strong men. Ever since he had returned with Erogrund Ennor had accepted him into counsel less and less reluctantly until he was nearly welcomed by the men. Granted it was likely for the blade that rested on Godric’s belt rather than for his own character, but still the feeling was one he held with honor.

“And how many supplies have we for the men?” Ennor asked as Lord Havillon had stopped.

“It is a two day journey and there are enough to support roughly forty-five hundred for three days at most.”

Ennor and Vyron nodded their satisfaction but Godric raised a hesitant hand. “Three days? What of the return journey? Will we not need four?”

An uncomfortable hush settled over the collection of men until Thain planted his ax in the dirt.

“Lad, campaigns are no easy things. To move this many supplies is in itself a mighty task but another day’s worth could demand more time, vulnerability, and risk than we care to wager.”

“Not only that,” Vyron continued calmly, “but considering the nature of our fight we can expect a far smaller returning army than venturing one. If, that is,” he added, “there is a return army.”

Godric hung his head. “Of course, I’m sorry.”

Ennor smiled and set his helmet atop his head. “There is no need for apology. We are, all of us, concerned for what to is to come. But best we meet it lance first with our horses galloping, eh?” This set up an almost merry laugh among the Lords as they spurred their horses back toward the army lines.

It was not late into the morning when the thunder of the army’s feet shook the ground. Each division parted its separate ways from the plain, following the fluttering of their respective banner to lead their own route through the high plains to the Grove of Meklin, which Ennor had chosen as their rallying point.

When Thain had explained the plan to Godric he had shaken his head, his finger still on the point where the grove lie on the map. “That king of ours is far smarter than Men give him credit for. This is easily the largest grove in the western stretches of Niron and it lies in a deep valley, save the Western mouth which opens into a straight stretch toward Draeknol. If there was ever a place to attack the cliffs, here it would be. ”

The Elder Trees that grew in Meklin were said to be tall and stout, enough to hold against all be the oldest dragons. Furthermore Thain explained that the valley would largely protect them from the soaring serpents. Only a mile of flat plain separated the expanse of woodland from the sharp crags of the Draeknol, making it truly an ideal place to encamp for the brewing battle.

Fifty men mounted on horses of their own joined Godric, Ennor, Thain, and the other Lords in the vanguard as they departed to the sounds of departing trumpets. Troops marched around them, each finding their own route to the Grove of Meklin under the call and banner of their captains. Godric could not help but pray that he would see them all again under the protection of the stalwart branches of the Elder Trees. Ecthion willing, whoever survived from the First Army would find them there as well.

Godric soon discovered riding was not the most comfortable pastime but neither was it as horrible as some had led him to believe. He could remember the riders that would go here and there in Dunn carrying messages from the farthest fields to to the Town Square or the like and how they would complain of the soreness between their legs. One man in particular - Jarud had been his name - always grumbled to the point of annoyance about the task.

What I would give to see that man again, Godric reminisced sadly.

It was not long before the hoof beats of the horses formed a hypnotic drum that subtly shaded his thoughts. And there was plenty of time for thoughts.

His mind wandered with every passing mile from the fate of the few that had remained in Biren-Larath to the fate of those that even now climbed through the woods toward their king’s rallying banner at Meklin. It stuck him as odd that while none of them carried a blade as legendary as the one on his hip or spoke with the authority of kingship they still were the lord or lady of their own journey. Each had a life apart from the role he played for his king and yet it was his or her bond to their king that would decide their fate.

Making camp was a far more difficult task than riding. At night the knights of their company would ride in circles around their chosen sight, which always was to be a dense grove of trees for fear of being sighted from above. Then the watch would be decided, tents pitched, and the fires lit. Though it was a small camp at least ten - closer to fifteen - fires were lit among the tents and trees. Thain explained that many small fires were necessary to keep away the timber wolves yet any one great fire would be a beacon to the Dragons. And so the camp was set and the watch kept until morning.

In the morning dew lie thick on the ground though at least the wind had stayed for once. Not a twig or leaflet dared quiver in the stillness of the morning. Vyron just chuckled as Godric could not help but start at the smallest sudden sound.

“Calm yourself, my boy,” Vyorn said reassuringly. “There is such a tremoring of feet against Niron that I daresay she feels the storm brewing too. And so even the trees and birds hold their breath for our journey.” He only winked at Godric’s confused look.

The second day’s ride was stiffer than the first’s and far quieter. Vyron’s words seemed nearly true when by the time their afternoon sup came about he had scarcely heard a single bird song or deer romp among the trees.

Yet the silence offered no solace to him at first. The smell of damp leaves untouched by the lacking breeze hung in decaying stillness over their trail. Even the gurgling of the creek they followed for some time sounded muffled in the later hours and the sparkling of its clear waters perhaps more bitter than sweet.

With the stillness came the cold.

It finally occurred time him that it was strange the cold had lasted for so many weeks. It was not unusual for a front of icy air to descend from the North Peaks during the summer, but it was some five weeks since the frigid air had woken him outside the ashes of Dunn. When he mentioned it to Thain the Dwarf just pulled his firs tighter around his stocky shoulders.

“Dragonfrost. Bards say that as the fire grows within the bellies of those monsters the heat of the air shrinks away with it. If the Hatchlings have grown as bold as the soldier Ephraun tells us then we can expect a greater cold than these summers have seen in two decades, Ecthion save us. As we grow closer to Draeknol I daresay it will only grow worse.”

And worse it grew. Every step of the horses brought new drafts of motionless, frozen air through the treetops until a silver sheen of frost clad the whole landscape. As they passed, the sun shone ethereally against the clear ice until each blade of grass and branch that bowed to the passing king looked to be inlaid with diamonds.

Godric could not help but be amazed. There was darkness in their path, this was indeed for certain. The marks of the dragons were not hidden among the broken trees and scorched land buckled under their footsteps as it struggle to carry the weight of its saviors. Yet it did not break beneath there feet. Instead the ground rose to meet them in a solemn display for the company. The darkness of the flame-etched trees fled with the afternoon sunshine until every broken bow and chipped bark stood resolutely as soldiers welcoming their Lord. The cold bit like a dragon’s talon but with it came the frost that unrolled upon the earth at their feet as a train of diamonds laid by Niron for its passing king. Even the leaves above clad themselves in the silver of the frost and lie together in a canopy to shield the brow of Ennor and his company.

Finally when the ice grew sharp enough to become harsh rather than beautiful and the saddle had lost its welcoming sight, Ennor stopped the company. Ahead of them the ground dipped steeply into a great valley.

Godric reigned in his horse beside Vyron’s and Rethemdl’s to gaze upon the sight.

A great wood lie a quarter mile prior to them. Its timbers were indeed thick, most a man’s arm-span or greater. Their branches rose proudly from the dark of their bark as beams of a great castle hold the parapets above. Leaves greater than Godric’s hand clad the branches in a dense awning over the huge expanse of land below that remained shrouded in shadow despite the bright afternoon light. This, Godric rightly guessed, must be Meklin.

Despite the grandeur of the forest it was the land beyond that truly caught Godric’s eye.

Green fields poured from the mouth of the forested valley in the widest field he had ever gazed upon. Grass tall enough to touch his stallion’s knees stood resolutely in silver spikes from the frosted ground for almost as far as the eye could see. To the west of the forest he could just make out the faint rolling of the Sea against some unseen rocky crag, its waters lazily lapping against rocks that no doubt stood as jagged pillars against the icy plain.

At last his eyes alighted on the black cliffs at least a mile from the edge of Meklin.

Immediately a chill trickled icily down his spine.

Tall, jagged spires of stone climbed from the rocky crags at the far edge of the plain in twisted towers. Huge strongholds of stone blackened by tongues of seething dragonfire stood as columns erected against the beauty of the field upon which sat the horns of the crags. Lofty peaks pierced the brooding clouds above like spearheads through a weathered banner. Darkness seemed to seep from the very stone in coils of shadow just beyond Godric’s sight, though he could sense them even from the distance that separated them.

Mouths of caves opened like the dragons’ jaws at the base of the cliffs guarded by sharp rocks that poised like some demon’s spear above each opening. As they listened, the shrieks of some foul serpent slithered out of one such crevice, pouring its bone-shaking sound upon the wide expanse of the plain.

Draeknol.

“Come,” Ennor said finally. His armored hand clutched the reigns of his horse tightly, but Godric noticed a small tremor shake him. “We best make camp.”

The vanguard entered the forest hastily though not without caution. Ten of Ennor’s knights led the way with him close at their heels. One hundred eyes watched carefully for even the slightest sign of danger.

Their fears were to some extent relieved when it was discovered that they were not the first of the Blue Army to arrive beneath the mighty bows of Melkin. Three banners of soldiers hollered welcome as their horses thundered passed the tents and trees, to which Ennor responded by raising his sword in honor of them.

A captain of the largest troop approached Ennor reverently and gestured he wished to speak with the king. Ennor motioned his thanks and drew the company to a halt, slinging himself from the saddle to stand beside the weathered soldier.

“Hail captain,” Ennor greeted. “What’s the word?”

The captain shook though from the cold, the dragons’ shrieks, or the presence of his king Godric could not tell. “There is little word, my lord. Only that six-hundred men have found their way to your banner as of yet with some eleven-hundred no more than four hours behind.”

Ennor smiled and slapped the startled captain on the shoulder. “A well enough start; let’s hope the rest find their way as well.”

Unsure of how to respond the captain nodded awkwardly and waved his hand toward a small hill near the place where rose of white tents were already rising at the hands of soldiers.

“If I may, my lord, we thought you might desire to encamp yourself here as we have scoured the wood and found no place as well suited.”

The king nodded his thanks and turned to examine the wide, flat hill amid the column-like trees.

“A fine suggestion, captain.” The king paced back to his horse and dropped the blade of his sword back into its sheath with a hiss of steel. “Come gentlemen,” his voice suddenly as serious as it ever had been. “We’ve a battle to plan.”