Blade of Erogrund

The Prophecy sat atop the oak table reflecting torchlight in ghostly flashes across its smooth faces.

Godric, Vyron, Thain, Saracyir, and Mira stood around the table inside the king’s command tent silently. The tent flaps blew lazily in the breeze, revealing the commanders to the precious few soldiers that had returned from the battlefield.

Godric had watched the troops return in ragged groups under the tattered remains of their banners, if they were one of the few whose bannermen had survived. Most flags hung in stitches from their pikes but still they fluttered proudly for they brought back word of victory. Several horses clopped quietly against the frozen grass of the plain but far more remained motionless on the battlefield where fire had overcome them.

Victory was sweet on the tongues of the army though sorrow threatened to poisoned it. Scarcely a single man or woman had passed through the battle without losing someone dear to them. It was not hard to see it written on their faces. Pride, yes, and even honor kept their shoulders strong, but the weight of loss left their eyes hardened as they returned.

Word of the king’s death had spread quickly among them as well. This was received perhaps better than Godric would have thought. His body was retrieved by six standard-bearers who hosted him upon their silver shields and shrouded him in white to keep away the black of the night. Silently they had carried him from the steps of Draeknol. Even as they drew near to the camp soldiers came to greet the procession. Cheers at the sight of the King echoed against the elder trees that formed the Grove of Melkin.

At first Godric thought it strange that the king's own men should have cheered at the sight of his body, but when he looked into their eyes he saw no happiness or jubilation that might have disrespected the king. Instead he saw a reverent joy that their king had followed them so. Relief mingled with regret as they looked on a man that had stood with them even until the end.

Now the sounds of song murmured on the back of the breeze through the camp. It was like no song Godric had ever heard, utterly unlike the bards of Dunn had sung or the festive beats of the Crop Sowing dances. All he could compare it to was the solemn, noble tune Saracyir and Ennor had sung in the night on the road from Dunn.

But now they had no time for song. Mira had come to Saracyir with the Prophecy who had then gathered the small band together in the king’s tent. Their attention was commanded by the glistening gem that sat stoically on the smooth of the oak table.

Each had held it in their palm. Each had heard its words.

“It sounds clear to me,” Thain said, unusually humorlessly. His face had remained cold and stony since the battle had ended. “The Men of Niron must take up and leave this land. The battle’s won,” he added quietly, “but to wage a war against Fate is one no man can conquer.”

Vyron sighed sadly. “I fear you are right. Dragonfire,” he added, voice quiet with anguish, “I don’t know what to say. To think this should have been over...”

“It is never over,” Saracyir murmured. “All you can do is continue the fight. This battle, this decided the fate of Men. But not the fate any of us had expected. It shall continue.”

“For a time, yes,” Godric agreed. “Daehonir said that the North would fall to the Dragons but the blade must stay to sway them from leaving its lands. And so,” he concluded heavily, “must I. But the Kingdom of Men must go to the South.”

“And am I correct in understanding that I am to go with them?” Mira asked fearfully.

Vyron nodded. “Yes, mi’lady. There is to be no doubt of that. You are to be among them, the Southern Kingdom.”

Godric felt his heart twist as a tear welled in Mira’s beautiful eye.

“I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave you,” she said looking into Godric’s eye pleadingly. “I don’t want to leave the groves, the mountains. This is my home. I have no business in the South.”

“Lass, it bites me like a North gale to say but this makes it sound as though you do,” Thain uttered reluctantly. “Eroth fought Fate once and here we stand in the dusk of battle. Let us not make the same mistaken twice.”

“I will come with you, Iäneur. You need not be alone,” Saracyir comforted, drawing the girl close in an embrace. “It has long been since I looked on the green vales and blue rivers of the South. It would be a pleasure to return in your company.”

“And what of the Men to remain?” Godric asked. “Where shall they abide? Who can they call King?”

Vyron brushed the smooth surface of the table with his fingers. “Few Lords remain to see to another King. Ennor left no heir.”

“Surely there is Law as to who the successor should be?” Mira asked. “Vyron, is it not you? You are, after all, the Sire of Biren-Larath.”

The knight smiled wearily. “Yes, there is Law but it would seem that I am not to be named its recipient.” His tired eyes looked to Godric. “The King gave his life for you, lad. You carry Ecthion’s Blade. By all accounts you are to be king.”

Words of protest blossomed in Godric’s chest. His mouth opened to argue but the weight of the words seemed to stick in his mouth until he could say nothing. His hand grasped Erogrund’s hilt tightly, feeling again the now familiar grooves and etchings of its metalwork.

“I cannot do it alone,” he finally whispered. “I do not know the people. The land.”

“Aye, you will not be alone, lad,” Thain growled, clasping him tightly on the shoulder.

“No,” Vyron agreed, “I too shall remain with you. There are ruins not far from here. With a strong arm and some years to spare we shall raise a noble fortress again.”

“How long have we then?” Mira asked. “Before they come?”

Saracyir seemed to shrug. “Who can say? It has been ten years since Daehonir traversed the Peaks. And ten before him that Aidrear began her destruction. The winds have a strange way of carrying word even to the North; I would guess we have at least that long. The Dragons cannot be keen to traverse the treachery of the North Peaks when they hear that their kind have been slain.”

“In the meantime we will re-gather,” Godric said firmly. “Those who remained in Biren-Larath must be warned. The bandits who roam the plains and woods should be made aware so they can either join the ranks of those who remain or flee South.”

“A true and fair sentiment,” Vyron condoned. “When the time comes we must be ready. If I may, let Biren-Larath be abandoned and with it the dark memories,” he said bitterly. “The Groves offer enough protection from wolves and brigands while rebuilding. A new fortress must be raised, one that will stand against the onslaught that will no doubt come. One that is open to the starlight at night and the blue sky in the day.”

“There are some Dwarves still among those who return from battle,” Thain agreed. “Our hammers and chisels are yours to command.”

Silence filled the room until Godric felt with certainty that it was over. He knew not what but looking into the eyes of each man and woman left him without a doubt that what stood there - the remnant - at the table would never again stand together in such a way.

It struck him as odd and somehow deeply sorrowful. Still they would be together for some time, that much was clear, yet something told him that once his feet pushed through the soft curtain of the tent he would never be able to turn around and go back to that moment. Never be able to see the hope, friendship, and understanding that passed between those five on whom the burden of rule fell.

Finally he could wait no longer. Nodding his solemn thanks, Godric drew the Prophecy from the table and walked from the tent into the cool night.

The camp was alive with hushed conversation and still songs. Men and woman nodded to him with respect or admiration as he passed by. He returned the gesture kindly while his mind strayed from the scene around him. Eventually he found himself sitting on the ground of his tent, Prophecy cradled in his calloused hands.

Leaning against the tent post he closed his eyes and sighed even as warm breeze blew through the trees, kissing his cheek.

One hand held the Prophecy while another wrapped around Erogrund’s handle peacefully.

It’s done, he thought. He remembered the night that Hilthwen had told of the Elestil myth, that each star shone as brightly as the soul had on earth. His eyes opened and danced across the pinpoints of light until he found the brightest star in the night sky while the words of the Prophecy murmured in his mind. It’s done, Ennor.

In the Land of the North

Where the Realms of Men Lie

Will Come a Great Fire, from the Peaks Comes Forth

Upon Its Wings Comes Night

At Their Claws All Shall Die

But the Sword Bearer Will Still Stand

As the World Falls to the Dragon’s Cry

Hush Shall Be the Wind

With a Veil of Red and a Healing Hand

To Avaron Shall the Kingdom of Men Be Led

In a Far Away and Distant Land

Bright Will Be the Stars

Cry Not for the North that lies in Frost

Cry Not for the South Who Homes the Lost

Cry Not for the West Whose Bridge Be Crossed

Cry Not for the East Who Bears the Cost

Cry Only For the King