Blade of Erogrund

“We’re almost there. Just another half mile or so.”

Ephraun’s soft words were carried to where Godric rode behind Matthias by the faintest breeze that blew past them as a result of their horses’ quickened pace.

No one made any inclination that they heard his hushed voice.

Their horses plotted onward down the hill, the thickening forest of the woods flanking them on either side. For whatever the reason, be it the shadows that danced in the cover of night, the glaring eye of the moon, or the vivid memory of the contorted visions he had seen the night before, Godric could not appease the nagging feeling of being watched. The hairs on his neck stood on end, prompted by his tense shoulders that were too wary to turn around and too cowardly to mention his fear. And so they continued.

Every shiver of the night, every faint wavering of a tree branch, and every scent of the moist, cold ground sent another shiver down his spine. Godric could feel whatever it was pulling on him, urging him to search closer in the blackness of the woods for whatever it was but all that stared back at him was the dull grey of the weathered tree trunks and the desolate black of the night.

They had scarcely rode another hundred feet before he could take it no longer. Leaning in to Matthias’s ear, he whispered, “Something’s out there. Watching us.”

Matthias turned slowly to look over his shoulder toward Godric’s worried face and nodded purposefully. “Then I’m not the only one who thinks so.” The boy let a low whistle out that seemed to Godric to pierce the night, though some part of his mind that remained uncorrupted by fear he remembered it to be the song of a Bannerjay. Should he have heard it any other time it would have meant little to him beside eliciting several vague memories of Dunn in the spring when the songbirds came out. Hilthwen, however, caught the tune immediately and staid her and Ephraun’s horse.

And there it was. A single step broke the silence of their stillness; a rider in pace with his prey but momentarily unaware that his prey had stopped. It was neither loud nor prevalent, but to Godric’s intent ear it was clearer than the subtle scrape of Matthias readying his spear.

“Dismount,” the boy hissed. “Come.” The companions slipped from their saddles as quietly as could be managed, but another noise coupled the tussle. Footfalls came from somewhere to Godric’s back right and then again from somewhere in front of them.

“This way,” Hilthwen murmured, guiding her horse toward a thicker part of the brush where the low tree branches knit themselves into crude cover. The small caravan followed with as silent of steps as could be managed until all were bowed beneath the brush, the horses posed behind them with bowed heads.

For the longest time nothing broke the stillness that kept their breath in their chests.

Then a small voice hissed through the unwavering silence.

“Where did they go?”

“I dunno,” another voice whispered from a hairsbreadth away from the bushes where they hid. “Kanora, anything?”

“Nothing,” a distinctly feminine voice answered from farther up the path they had been following.

"Dragonfire,” the first voice quietly. “You two,” Godric could imagine him pointing to hulking warriors, “search the woods. They couldn’t have gotten far.”

Heavy footfalls crunched through the bed of twigs and leaves that covered the forest floor apart from the path. As one pair of steps drew closer to where they hid, Godric distinctly heard the sound of someone stumbling.

“Watch yourself, Ahazan, you bloody dunce.”

“Hush,” ordered the first voice with an obvious tone of authority. “There’ll be none of that. Just find them.” Mumbling was the only reply.

As soon as the footfalls had traveled a short way farther, Godric leaned close to where Matthias crouched beside him. “Do we draw on them?”

The other boy shook his head as quietly as he could manage in his cloak, his eyes never ceasing to stare through the thicket of leaves that hid them to look into the darkness that disguised their hunters. “No. We don’t know their numbers or even if they’re hostile. It’s possible they are a remnant of the First Army. No, we wait.”

Godric shifted his kneeling stance as best he could in silence, but his hand itched until he let it clasp the reassuring iron of the pommel of his sword.

After the sounds of many footsteps had grown faint and then grown more audible as the search party presumably returned, the first speaker cursed again under his breath. The stillness of the night did not carry his utterances to where they hid, though the orders that followed were more clearly pronounced.

“Light the torches,” he hissed. “If they are in these parts then we’ll find them. If not then they won’t see the light anyway.”

Even in the darkness Godric could see the sudden look Matthias flashed him. After his questioning eyes were answered with a nod, he gently eased his sword from its scabbard, its few metallic shrieks masked by the sounds of flit and steel not twenty-five feet away.

Few sparks jumped into the engulfing night until someone spat. The voice the leader had called Kanora interrupted. ”Ox, does it honestly take this long? Give me that.” The rustling of jostling hands ensued until a final scratch was heard. Sparks flew and a torch roared to life.

The blazing stick proved more a log than anything else, though the tar-soaked rope that wrapped its tip was nonetheless enthralled in crackling flames that illuminated the bearers. A short man in ragged, chipped, and wretchedly incomplete half-armor had the dubious honor of holding the flaming baton in what appeared to be the arm that was missing its armament from the elbow down. A cowl that appeared to be in as bad of disrepair as the crumbling metal that covered him draped most of his face, though the stubbed start of an unkempt beard was seen growing from his dagger-like chin.

A woman stood next to him. Standing a full two inches taller, she carried a heavier presence that nearly matched the half-moon-shaped ax that leaned against her wolf hide-bound legs. More pelts covered her chest and shoulders, though these were darker black as though they had come from a bear. Her short, auburn hair was knotted messily with the exception of a few strands that ventured down to her muscular, scrapped arms.

A third figure was dismounting a shaggy, grey horse as the torch was lit. It was a man of no impressive size or baring, but the stance of the other two clearly betrayed his command. A weathered and somewhat torn cloak wrapped his sure frame, under which he wore a thin jerkin of chain-mail according to the metallic shivers that echoed his movements. His right hand carried a short, double-edged sword that proved to be in greater quality than the equipment worn by his comrades. In his left hand was a small, metal-studded buckler that was beaten into disfigurement and hung from a single leather strap about his left shoulder.

“That's more like it,” he murmured, his gaze searching the small area around them that was revealed by the flames of the torch. “Get the others going.”

Two other men who appeared similar to the one who already held a torch came from the edges of the light and retrieved similar torches, lighting them by the flames of their companion’s until their rays scratched the shadows that wrapped themselves around the trees behind which Godric and the others crouched.

Even as Godric whispered a silent thanks that they revealed no more, one of the horses whinnied softly at the sudden light. His breath fell short as his mind told him that the inconspicuous commander of this hunting troop would inevitably notice.

The man did not disappoint.

“Stop!” The company fell still until only the torches dared to whisper their crackling. “Did you hear that?” Kanora subtly dropped the flit and steel into a pouch on her belt and hefted her ax by its twisted wooden handle. “There,” the man said, not waiting for a reply. His hand pointed toward the trees.

Godric shifted his eyes to Matthias, waiting for silent order. After all, he did not not need to watch to hear the blades being drawn. Matthias chanced a glance at Hilthwen and Ephraun, both of whom made no sign of protest.

As the hunters’ footsteps neared the brush and their hands began to draw aside the latticework of branches and bows, Godric could feel his heart pounding, threatening to drowned out the noise. His hand anxiously gripped the hilt of his sword, but his heart threatened to keep him from wielding it. The army of discouragement Theronin had trained in his mind roared its angry battle cry.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he whispered. Whether it was for himself or Matthias he did not know.

The other boy shifted his stance, ready to strike. “For both our sake, I hope you can.”

Then the hunters were upon them.

Even before the last hiding branches were drawn away, Matthias, Hilthwen, and Godric lashed out ferociously. Following Matthias’s lead, Godric thrust his arm forward, the pommel of his sword driving into the chest of one of the men which posed his sword for a backhand strike.

Before he got the chance the man swore vehemently and struck back with the huge, wickedly curved hunting knife that armed his left hand.

The next few moments passed in a frenzied blur of desperate movement coupled with the distinct sound of metal on metal as blades bit each other. The barbarous hunter thrashed like a tree in a thunderstorm, but it was not long before Godric realized that he was, despite his lack of experience, the greater in skill. With long, ill-prepared slashes the man attacked blindly in the half-light of the torches, though his snarling face threatened to shake loose all the teaching Theronin had given.

“Come ’ere boy! C’mon,” the huge knife hurtled toward Godric’s chest while the bulky, muscular right arm lurched forward to take hold of the boy’s jerkin.

For a moment Godric thought that his pounding heart would be enough to shake off any grip. As he lurched back to avoid the weapon a vividly painful memory filled his mind of when he had been foolish enough to make a similar move against Theronin. The young lord had taken full advantage of his compromised balance and instead dove in, driving his shoulder and sword into the boy’s chest.

Offering a small prayer he clumsily readjusted his stance and attempted this maneuver, letting his lesser weight pound the chest of the off-balance hunter. The move was far less elegant than expected, glancing off the ruffian’s chest to land on his shoulder. Nevertheless, the man stumbled backward against the trees in surprise.

Not far away Matthias held his spear as a quarter-staff and had just finished striking its wooden end against the forehead of one of the hunters. The man dropped to the ground, clutching his face and a torch while his companion continued to attack.

Beside Matthias, Hilthwen struggled to fend off the woman, Kanora. Her large ax swung in huge arches in one hand, evidently proving difficult to defend as Hilthwen held her daggers but scarcely attempted to strike with them. The woman’s other hand clutched a torch which she swung liberally as a weapon.

Godric’s attention was redirected to his opponent when the man recovered and lunged from the brush where he had fallen. His blade was once again posed to stab, but his movement was interrupted.

“That’s quite enough!” the chief hunter called from behind them.

Upon seeing his opponent halt, Godric tore his gaze to where the man stood posed at the edge of the torchlight. The buckler he had held was now slung over his shoulder and his short sword hung over Ephraun’s feverish brow like the executioner’s blade.

Everyone had ceased to move.

“Good,” he said calmly. “Now, who the devil are you?”

Godric couldn’t help but blink in surprise, but Hilthwen beat him to voicing the question.

“You don’t already know?”

The man arched his brow. “Should I?”

“Wait,” Godric began, “if you don’t know who we are, why are you hunting us?”

“You’re in our land, boy. That’s reason enough.”

“Are you part of the Blue Guard?”

The man barked a short, gruff laugh. “Blue Guard? Fire, boy, last I heard they operate out east some leagues. This is the land of the Aunvil.”

“Wrong,” Hilthwen countered. “This is the land of the King.”

“Eh,” the chief sniffed distastefully. “Loyalists. No wonder you’re such a scraggy lot.”

“At least we’re not roaming criminals,” Matthis muttered. “And I don’t think you can call us scraggy. We serve the king.”

The chief spat. “There hasn’t been a king in this godforsaken land in twenty years.”

“And,” Kanora added, grinning darkly, “word has it that the ‘king’, as you put it, has changed rather recently.”

“Who told you that?”

“The same man,” the chief continued with a newly kindled light in his eye, “that said there would be a hefty reward given for returning any ‘travelers’ to the city. You remember that, Kanora?”

“Yes sir,” she said through a crooked smile.

“As do I,” mumbled one of the other men.

“Shut up, Ahazan,” spat the commander. “Bind them.” He struck Ephraun across the face. “You think you can walk?”

The soldier spat blood out of his mouth and nodded wordlessly.

“Good, then let’s drop those weapons and move.”

Minutes later Godric found himself trudging beside Hilthwen, wrists bound behind him by coarse cord that chaffed with every step. The torchlight managed to illuminate much of the forested path and the brutish bandits that walked several paces before and behind. The nameless chief road at the back of the caravan atop his shaggy mare, his eyes watching the captives intently. Kanora and the shorter man who appeared to have some position in the band road on Matthias’s horses at the front with Matthias and Ephraun trailing right behind them.

But what struck Godric as odd was the fact that the chief made no effort to turn back toward the city, instead opting to continue down the path they had previously followed. At first it seemed to him that they would take some curving route that broke off and turned back toward the city but no such path became evident.

“What are they doing?” he finally whispered to Hilthwen.

“I have no idea,” she replied quietly.

“Quiet,” barked the chief sharply. “There’s nothing so important that you have to discuss it now.”

“How about you be quiet,” Godric shot back, mid-stride. “We’ve no quarrel with you.”

“Are you daft, boy?” the chief barked incredulously. “Never stared down the tip of a sword? Because I’d be more than happy to give you that sight if you don’t bit your tongue so hard your mouth bleeds.”

Godric found himself sneering. “I’ve stared down plenty of blades of late and I’m no stranger to thugs like you. I know your type, had to put up with them every year.”

“Keep talk up like that,” the commander growled, “and you’ll feel blood whether you bite your tongue or not.”

“No I won’t.” The man raised an eyebrow. “You’re a thug whose in it for the pride and the money. Killing a boy will get you neither while turning us in to whoever it is will get you both.”

Hilthwen leaned in and hissed in his ear, “Do you mind shutting up before he kills us all? We’ll figure something out. Now isn’t the time.”

The commander was slow to respond, finally muttering, “Listen to your lady-friend. We’ll be there soon enough anyway.”

“We already are,” Kanora barked.

Godric shot a final glare at the bandit and looked at where the mounted warrior had gestured. A massive thicket of ancient wooden trees was the only noticeable scene in the torchlight. The otherwise scraggly and withered trunks of the trees that made up the meager forest was broken by a series of massive trunks as thick as several men. Together they formed a jagged line, their bows interlocking into nearly a natural wall of wood and leaf. Farther on, in the edges of the torchlight, the ground appeared to rise sharply in a sudden hill where trees similar in strength and age grew resolutely in contrast the puny trunks that surrounded them. Even the air smelled different as though the comforting strength of the bows could cleanse the clearing of the musty smell that had settled with the morning dew.

“This is Vheor,” Ephraun called, his suspicious voice clearly betraying his confusion.

“Correct,” muttered one of the hunters. “What concern is that of yours?”

The question hung like the leaves from the branches as the commander dismounted and gestured for both Kanora and her companion to do the same. The two men that had trudged beside the riders gruffly grabbed two prisoners each by their bindings and led them toward the grove. Kanora, the still-hooded commander, and the other man all followed closely behind without so much as tying up the horses.

Huge bows as Godric had never seen adorned the path they walked. As they got closer he noticed shadows draping from every leaf and branch in the flickering torchlight, giving the otherwise reassuring strength of the trees as ghostly appearance. The dull torchlight drained the color from the rich bark, turning the chestnut brown of the wood into a bleached bone-white. The leaves alone remained untainted by the bandits’ torches. In fact the soft green of their stems shone only brighter in the light of the few rays that reached the heights where they hung.

“This way,” the short man ordered, guiding the small crew through the woods.

As they walked the hill grew steeper and become riddled with the mighty roots of ancient trees. Soon it looked as though they walked not upon the ground but upon a mountain of wood that had been sprinkled with the dirt of travelers past. Often these bending, serpentine roots would break up on either side of the path into narrow crevices that Godric’s imagination filled with the bodies of stalking timberwolves or even more fearsome creatures.

The hunters continued walking without hesitation, forcefully directing their prisoners up the wooded path until at long last they stopped in beside a particularly large crevice in the lacing network of roots that had built the hill. Its dark mouth gaped threateningly in the torchlight, breathing out scents of decay.

“This is the place?” the commander asked, shoving aside one of the bandits to stand beside the short, cowled man and Kanora.

“Aye,” the man answered flatly.

“Alright then.” The chief pointed his short sword to one of the other hunters. “You, run on ahead. Let them know we are coming in case anything is amiss. If something’s up return immediately; we’ll be making our way in.”

The man looked far from convinced, but he unhanded the bonds of Ephraun and Matthias and stepped toward the tunnel. For a second it looked as though he might protest, his face screwed up in a kind of grimace or scowl but no such rebellion was made. It was not long before his running footsteps faded into the crackling of the torches.

“What is this place?” Matthias asked. His eyes peered futilely into the dark of the cavernous mouth of the crevice. “You said you were taking us to the city.”

“And take you we are,” the chief replied, sneering. “But you didn’t think we would walk right through the gate, now did you?”