Blade of Erogrund

The next morning the army was as quiet as the Grove. Those that had already awoken walked, faces downcast, among the trees to their respective tasks. Sounds of talking were rarer even than grins among the soldiers as they went about their duties or fetched breakfast from the supply wagons.

Even the wet stones and Dwarven smithy hammers had gone silent. The time for preparation has passed, Mira contemplated.

It was not difficult to find Saracyir’s tent in the jumble of marching feet as its silk shone purer than the coarse woven fabric of the tents of Men. Alone in grandeur, the elf’s silken pavilion glowed in the morning light, casting sparkling beams onto the icy frost that covered the ground.

Mira wrapped her knuckles lightly on the pail ash tent post on the outside of the silk panel that formed the walls of the tent.

“Come in,” Saracyir replied softly. “Ah, Iäneur, how fair you this morning?”

“Well, I think,” Mira answered. “I must confess that I was up much of the night thinking on all you’ve taught me. I pray I may remember it all.”

Saracyir smiled as she drew a shining white breastplate from her satchel. It was utterly unlike anything Mira had seen before - a metal bleached so white that it could hardly be called steel and emblazoned with silver leaves down the chest. “You are an intelligent girl; you will remember enough.”

“Are you certain that it is best I ride with you?” the girl questioned. “Never would I forgive myself if something happened to you trying to help me. If I would be a burden -”

“None of that,” the elf hushed as she fastened her armor. “You will ride on my very horse, provided that you still wish to. You have learned much - enough to be a great asset if you desire to risk it.”

Mira swallowed her fear. “Very well then.”

Saracyir smiled. “Then let us make our way to the king’s command, shall we? It would not do to be late on a day such as this.”

Godric woke early after what had felt like a short night. The sun was barely above what he could see of the horizon, but enough of its golden beams broke the treeline for him to see the ash-grey storm clouds that shrouded the skies.

Drawing back the flap of his tent, he lay back on his blanket to stare at the sky as Ennor’s words traced through his mind. Your father was given the sword. Still the words sounded as though they had come from impossibly far away. So far that they could not possibly be true.

Yet for the first time since he had sheered the leg off the dragon in Threst he felt like perhaps it might truly be his sword. His eyes traced the crystalline blade, wondering at the way it glistened in the crisp morning air and refracted the sunlight that had snuck through the dense trees. The crosspiece and handle almost welcomed his touch as his fingers glossed over their well-crafted surface.

Godric rose eventually into the cold morning and stretched, letting the cool, fresh air fill his lungs. Around him many had already begun to make final preparations. Friends strapped each other’s breastplates on with humorless smiles that fought to encourage one another. Spears were drawn from their tents and shields adjusted to their bearers one last time. Even the Dwarves had muted their forges, instead donning thick armor akin to Thain’s and taking up wide, flat swords and solid, short pikes of steel.

As Godric paced to the command tent he spied several banners already leading their divisions to their respective positions on the plain. Long trains of men and women followed his or her banner with countenances as iron as the impressive suits of armor that shielded them.

Ducking under the tent flap, Godric was greeted by the sight of Ennor and Vyron preparing themselves in armor. A tremendous kite shield with a surface of plain royal blue rested against the table beside a similar one of sea green. The latter displayed a bronze sun which was emblazoned on its battle-worn surface to glow in the morning light that poured through the opened tent flaps.

“Good morning,” Vyron greeted. “How was your night?”

“It was alright, many thanks,” Godric replied kindly. “And yours?”

The older knight shrugged as he fastened his left bracer to his forearm. “Not the peace I had hoped for but enough to give strength to my arms.”

“Let us hope it has also graced your legs for I fear we may have to hurry to keep from arriving last to the battlefield,” Ennor halfheartedly jested, gazing at the trains of soldiers heading out of the Grove.

“And where is your armor, lad?” Vyron asked.

Godric felt his face blush in the cold. “I was never given armor, Sir. I confess I don’t know.”

“Do not fret,” Ennor reassured him. “Rodrick, if you would.”

An attendant dressed in half-armor entered the tent with a capacious sackcloth bundle that rang with every step. Even the servant looked set for battle as a shield hung from his back and a sword hung from his waist.

“Sir Godric, if you would,” he said, gesturing for the boy the turn around.

He obliged the attendant hastily as the man drew armor from his sack and laid it tenderly on the ground. Wasting no time, Rodrick brought the large breastplate over Godric’s head and fastened its straps around his chest and shoulders, tightening them with fierce jerks. Next were the bracers that clasped around his forearms and elbows before the rear piece of the breastplate was set in place. Grieves followed, tied stoutly around his calves and thighs until he could hardly recognize his own frame under the bulk of the armor.

After Rodrick had finished Godric turned to face Ennor and Vyron again. Each step felt like he was moving a mountain of weight from his legs to his shoulders. Every piece of metal weighed more than he could have imagined, all adding to an overwhelming burden that pressed on him.

“Well that won’t do,” Ennor muttered. His eyes traced the immensity of the armor disapprovingly.

“I can hardly move,” Godric protested. He tried to lift his arms. His elbows only got as far as his mid chest before the weight of the metal dragged them back down.

“Remove the plates on his upper arms, legs, and hauberk,” Ennor ordered. “Ecthion knows we don’t dare risk taking any more.”

Rodrick nodded his agreement and complied quickly. As he did so the tent flap fluttered aside and Saracyir, followed by Mira, entered.

Even in her sauntering gait the elf caught the eye of the Men. Every step set the brilliant white of her unique armor setting aglow. Sunlight dazzled every silver leaf that adorned her plate until they shone clearer than moonlight. Her hair was tied in a tight knot on the back of her head in order to fit the gorgeous helm that rested in the crook of her equally beautifully adorned arms. The helmet looked close fitting while nearly as terrifying as even Thain’s. Eye slits as slender as Elderwood leaves curved from the protruding nose piece and followed the contour of the cheek guards to form a slender opening down the center of the helm, presumably allowing for speech. Silver lined every etching of the helmet even to the shallowly pointed crest where a blue horsehair plume cascaded down.

“Ennor, Lord Vyron,” she bowed respectfully.

The Men returned the gesture.

“My lady, if I may,” Vyron murmured, “never have I seen you as fair as you look on the eve of battle. It shall be an honor to ride with you.”

The elf grinned in her ethereal way in a mixture of humor and satisfaction. “Lord Vyron, it shall be a pleasure to ride with one whose tongue is as silver as the metal that adorns my armor. I sincerely hope that you may welcome my companion as warmly.” Saracyir gestured to Mira who stood somewhat behind her.

“You’re coming with us?” Godric protested suddenly.

The girl nodded. “Yes, I will be riding with Saracyir.”

“But where is your weapon?” Godric continued incredulously. “You hate swords! And your armor? Will you go unprotected?”

“She has proven to me that she is more than capable of defending herself, Sir Godric, though your concern is touching,” Saracyir answered calmly.

The boy was not convinced. “Ennor you cannot mean to allow this?”

Ennor examined Mira closely, his gaze tracing from Saracyir to her. “Are you certain she shall be well? She looks ill prepared with either sword or shield, not to mention that she carries neither.”

“I am certain,” the elf confirmed.”

“Then I have no more to say on it,” Ennor replied. “Come,” he gestured as he retrieved his shield. “It is time to find our horses.”

Godric rode beside Ennor through rank upon rank of Men arrayed in long columns at the edge of the Grove. Their horses drummed against the ground heavily beside hundreds of Men who stood enduringly grim-faced. Several men and women raised their spears to honor the passing king but most offered only glances if they noticed at all.

As they rode Godric noticed long shadows falling from the dense, thundering storm clouds upon the field that veiled much of the army as if the sky itself was wrapping them in funeral shrouds. The cold’s knife had sharpened over the night until it nearly pierced through his plate and cloak alike. Yet it was nothing compared to the darkness that had descended on the field.

Long shadows draped the rows of shivering soldiers until they quaked from cold and cowardice. Shrieks from Draeknol rolled across the field almost like clawed hands driving the cheerless dark of the storm toward the Grove while taking a hold on the hearts of Men. With every hoof beat another beam of sunlight was choked out by the billowing clouds until desolation was their own welcome. Even the sparkling of the frost was lost in the obscurity of the dark until the ice had lost every touch of beauty it possessed.

Above all was the Draeknol - a glistening column of gruesome rock piercing the flat of the plain like a jagged, blackened tooth. Thunder simmered around its peaks but the light never broke the steely grey of the storm that choked the plain. Its gaping entrances stood blackest of all like hungry mouths filled with teeth of sharp stone ready to consume any Man, Dwarf, or Elf that would dare venture into its depths.

The marching horses at last drew to a stop in the forefront of the Army where Ennor’s company divided. He, Godric, and Vyron rode to the center of the cavalry line that had already assembled while Saracyir with Mira mounted behind her guided the remaining troops farther to the left of the line. Behind them lie a single solid rank of Dwarves as stone-faced as the mountains from whence they had come. Behind them stood the thousands of soldiers that had assembled at Ennor’s call.

Ennor removed his draconian helm and steered his horse to where the commander of the cavalrymen rode. The soldier greeted him with an nod.

“Sire, it is good that you have come. Courage bleeds from these Men even as water into a sandbank.”

“Have all assembled?” Ennor entreated.

The helmeted commander nodded. “All divisions that arrived have reported. Word has it that the troops of Belgin son of Ithius were waylaid in the wood yesterday. We have since heard nothing from them.”

“Has word come from the First Army?” Vyron inquired of the soldier.

He shook his head. “Soldiers quake at the rumors. Not a soul has been seen West of the Grove of Eitrusius where three half-starved, raving survivors were found. They are with the supply wagons but - again - not suited for a battle. Nor,” the commander added, leaning into Ennor to whisper, “would I wish them anywhere near these Men. You can see in their eyes, Sire. They have the desire but their hearts already are trembling.”

“But the army is ready to march?” Ennor asked.

“Aye, sire,” the commander affirmed. “The sooner the better, I daresay.”

Ennor nodded his agreement and drew his sword hissing from its sheath.

As the steel tip emerged from its leather coat an ear-shattering scream rasped across the plain like the very demons of hell itself had been let loose on the desolate field. Men and Dwarves alike fell to their knees with a pounding of armor at the reviling wail while horseman fought to stay mounted on their reeling horses. Shattering against the trees of the Grove, the shriek echoed for what felt like an eternity among the armor of the cowering soldiers. Shields dropped and spears clattered to the ground as Men rushed to cover their ears and grit their teeth against the bone-shaking hiss.

Godric struggled to calm his horse that pranced nervously in circles. Once the animal finally returned to its fore-facing position he glanced back over his shoulder to examine the battle lines.

Some had begun to stand shakily but fewer had sought to even retrieve their weapons. Many continued to shudder against the iced grass of the plain or kneel beside their shields as though they were some mighty wall. Even the Dwarves remained disheveled, their shields no longer held at the ready and spears more on the ground than in the hands of their bearers. Some had even wrenched their helms from their heads, panting heavily in the arctic wind that blew ice into their flowing beards.

Godric’s eyes returned to the field when the sound of drumming horse hooves demanded his attention.

Ennor spurred his horse forward into the field, its shimmering black coat brushing through the tall of the grass and the ice of the wind. In the crook of his arm sat his helmet of glittering silver and steel that glared menacingly out toward the peaks of Draeknol before him. His sword was outstretched like a beam of light piercing the dense shadow that hovered over the field.

Rearing his horse back to face the army, the King stood tall. It was a great distance away that he sat, though still Godric could see the gaunt look that adorned his battle-worn face.

“Stand!”

The king’s commanding voice carried impossibly far across the field until Godric envisioned even the waves of the Sea rising to meet his call. No malice resided in its syllables but neither was there any reserve. Each word carried a message more clear than all the screams of the Draeknol. The King spoke.

Ennor’s horse bowed its head and paced at his guidance back and forth along the line of haggard faces that fought for the courage to raise their heads to meet his gaze. Its footsteps fell in the quiet like Dwarven hammer blows.

“My heart breaks at this sight of our kingdom,” Ennor continued. His words seared through the ranks, commanding every sense of both Man and Dwarf until they could not turn from his pacing figure regally mounted on his charger. “Both that she should be assembled as she is - with the shield at her left arm and the spear at her right - but also that such fear as this should shackle her.”

The king let his words sink into the mire of the shadow. “It was in my mind to deliver such words to you that each of your hearts would alight with a greater fire than any dragon of Niron or the North could conjure, and yet, on the eve of battle, I find myself empty. The tormenting shrieks of the demons that lie in wait have stolen my words even as they threaten to steal away your courage. Fear enchains my tongue.”

Godric thought he saw a grim smile on Ennor’s scarred face as the King let silence fill the void between him and his kingdom. “Yet even as this fear entangles me it reveals that it is the true foe we fight on this day. The Dragons of Niron and beyond are demons of the flesh that may consume our land and raze our fortresses but never will they take away our honor. Our courage.

“This insidious duty is crowned on the demons of Horror, Cowardice, and their prince, Fear. Even now as I stand before you I see their silver, forked tongues whispering lies into your ears, steeling away your certainty. I see their talons slipping between the sheets of your armor to pry your heart, bleeding your resolve. I see the poison they blind your eyes with as you gaze upon the Draeknol, assuring you of its impregnable strength.

“These are the demons that we have fought with for twenty long years. These are the demons that will slay us if we lower our guard. And these are the demons that consume us body and soul. The Dragons we venture to slay on this field of battle clad themselves in great expanses of scales and breathe flames so hot our very tongues swear by them. But still our iron can find their flesh and our steel may gouge their eyes.

“How then do you slice the tongue of Fear, defy its claw, and tear the blind it ties over your eyes? This alone I can counsel you with.

“If it is the dark you fear I beckon you to gaze to your right and to your left, to your fore and to your aft. The men and women on whom your eyes fall stand beside you for the same reason as you. Fathers, brothers, and children each of them. In their dreams they see not a land of gold and riches but a land where their kin rest in safety. Where the tree branch that holds back the rain wears no mark of claw or fire and where the stars may shine bright on the summer nights without being blotted out by serpents. These are they who will hold to you in the dark even into the depths of Draeknol.

“If it is death you fear, I bid you to recall your life. For twenty years we have been defeated by Horror, Cowardice, and Fear. The walls we hid behind were not our fortress but our prison erected by hands so scarred from battle that they would rather live for a death than die for a hope worth living for. And so I ask each and every one of you, do you hope in your ability to leave this field on two strong feet with an arm that still bears a sword, or does your hope rest in the desire that the blue flag of Niron still be waving when the smoke clears? Neither can I promise to you but far more fulfilling will your march be if the latter.

“And finally if it is the looming obelisk of darkness - the temple of evil - that we have so vainly entitled Draeknol that you fear than I can only say this: when I was barely a youth a wise Elven maid that many of you have since met told me a story that has clung to my memory. She told me of a time long past and the words spoken therein by an elf close to her heart. I pray they shall inspire you even as they have me.”

Ennor quieted. Godric could see his armored chest heave as he took a deep breath. ” ‘Always will the demons of this world claim us. But we may choose whether they are the demons that taste the tip of our sword or the demons that keep us from wielding it.’”

Dead silence fell over the ranks of the army. For a moment even the cries of the dragons fell silent at his powerful words.

“And so I leave you with this final question, Men of Niron. For twenty years you have hidden faithfully with me. In the face of battle will you follow me as truly now as you did then?”

Without waiting for a reply Ennor set his helm in place and turned his horse away from his kingdom until its hooves kicked diamonds of ice into the air behind it.

There was no cry. No call or whistle broke the weight of the question that hung like a thick fog over the army. Not a word was spoken among the four-thousand that had taken the field burdened in ice and darkness.

But slowly, one by one, they stood. Their left arms took their shields from the grass where they had fallen. Their right hands retrieved their spears that had struck the ground.

For the first time in twenty years the Men of Niron charged across the plain toward the looming peaks of Draeknol until their steps drowned out even the growling of thunder and the shrieking of Dragons.