Blade of Erogrund

By the following afternoon the war camp was erected in its entirety. Curving rows of small white tents laced through the dense trees, housing the four-thousand men and women who had ventured to the Grove of Melkin. Among them were the four tall command tents that billowed open to the bustling of preparation that filled the camp. Inside captains, commanders, and Lords gave and received orders until the blanket of pine needles and leaves that had clad the forest floor was scraped away by dashing feet.

Busiest by far was the largest of the command tents where Ennor and his council pondered the plans for battle.

At its center a vast circular table had been set onto which an immensely detailed map of Niron was pinned with knives at each corner. The same metal figures that had graced the Council Chamber in Biren Larath sat now upon the surface of the map as Ennor and his fellows debated the nature of the battle.

Ideas were more numerous than the soldiers they concerned, some suggesting a frontal assault others a flank against either face of the cliffs. One captain Godric did not recognize even suggested they cleave lumber from the Grove to build a fleet for sailing to the rear of the cliffs. All the time messengers ran here and there to pass scrolls, maps, and orders to any number of the assembled generals. So intent were the Lords that no break was offered for a midday meal or even supper; the meals were instead brought on wooden trays and served with all haste to minimize delay.

Hours passed quickly under the words of the generals. Godric did not mind. To hear the thoughts of such men was more than a noble pastime to him. He had nothing to add to the conversations, but it was no matter. Standing on the edge of the curtained room listening was enough for him. Every now and again a Lord would glance at him intently when describe an element that utilized Erogrund, but he was otherwise largely ignored.

Sometime in the later hours of the night when the smell of candle smoke had grown thick in the dark of the tent it seemed that they finally had established a plan. Ennor hushed the dozen or so other men that crowded the table and waved Godric forward.

“Make way, gentleman. It is just as necessary for the boy to know this as each of us.”

Ennor tapped a scratching of ink on the map where many graven images of soldiers and horsemen sat stoically. “Here lies Melkin.” With his other hand he tapped a lackluster black mountain enshrined in cloud. “Here lies Draeknol. A mile and a quarter separates them.” His eyes glanced to the other generals who nodded their agreement.

“We have decided the greatest attempt against the fortress will be two-fold: the first by the cavalry,” he moved a figure of a mounted knight onto the map, “and the second by the footmen.” Two soldier sculptures were moved beside the knight. “First the cavalry - headed by you, Saracyir, and myself - will ride to the mouth of the caves. No doubt the dragons shall see us and come upon us swiftly but it is of the greatest importance that we hold our line.”

“That is,” Vyron added, “until the footmen draw in under Thain.”

“Correct,” Ennor confirmed. “A strong half mile will separate us but once they fall on the serpents we will have a solid chance. All the time you must try with all your might to slay as many as you can.” The king’s dark eyes looked piercingly at Godric who fought the urge to look away. “We will do all we can to protect you, but it will be upon your sword that we stand until the troops fall in with us.”

“And if the dragons fly above us?” Godric asked, anxious to redirect the gaze of the Lords. “Would it not be wiser for them to surpass us and land among the soldiers?”

“Aye,” Thain grunted. “Until they taste the sting of our thousand bows, that is.”

“The first thousand troops are carrying bows in their divisions,” Ennor explained. “Should the dragons attempt to land among them a volley of a thousand steel tips will hopefully strike them back.”

“I thought dragonhide could not be pierced save by Erogrund?” Godric asked.

“It can,” Vyron answered, “but not easily. The scale of a dragon is harder than any steel but it has weak points. The eyes, between the toes, the tip of the tail to name a few.”

“Finally,” Ennor said, “it is crucial that we take the battle to them. Once the footmen make it to the mouth of Draeknol we must not hesitate to pour inside. The base of that cliffs is tall and wide, easily large enough for the completeness of our army and more. Ancient seas hollowed its base so now the cave stands upon mountainous columns of rock, leaving the inside empty. Here we will take the battle.

“On the plains we will be vulnerable and open. Fire can consume us and the air welcomes the wings of the dragons. By entering into the cliffs we strip them of the height. They will have to stoop to fight us thus bringing them against our blades.”

“Then let it be done,” one of the Lords replied confidently.

“Go then,” Ennor ordered smoothly. “Tell your units and divisions. The plans are drawn and places assigned, as you know. Tomorrow at daybreak we take to the field.”

Rustling of steps and halfhearted cheers was the only response as the council filed out of the tent to find their armies.

“Not you, Godric,” the king stopped as the boy turned to follow the company of other men.

Ennor drew a glass bottle of caramel-colored liquid from under the table and set it on the map beside a similar glass cup.

“I’d offer you a drink but I seem to recall you don’t prefer this particular brand of refreshment.” Godric nodded uncomfortably, but Ennor calmed him with a smile. “I’m jesting of course. It’s a fine thing when a man sets such boundaries for himself, especially when it comes to liquor.”

“Yes, Sir,” Godric replied stiffly, still unsure.

“You can relax, boy, I’m not going to hurt you.” The king tossed what remained in his glass down his throat and dropped it on the table. Pulling himself up on the oak surface he gestured for Godric to do the same.

“You were awfully silent today” Ennor commented after Godric had seated himself.

“I fear I had little to add to the discussion.”

“Nonsense,” Ennor chided. “Battle is a game of wits. Wits that come by understanding your strengths and weaknesses. I’m told you were a farm boy, but if half of what Matthias and Hilthwen have said is true than you are a valuable asset.” When Godric hesitated to respond the king shrugged. “So what do you think of the plan?”

“Risky,” Godric answered immediately.

The young king laughed lightly. “Yes, I would fear if it wasn’t. But is there anything you would have us do differently?”

Godric thought for a moment. In all it sounded as sure as could be and he said so.

“These are the days I come as close as can be enjoying being king,” Ennor said, picking the glass back up and rolling the uneven surface between his fingers. “If ever I would caution a man it would be that a king is most in danger amid his court on his throne than amid his soldiers on the battlefield. That was my grandfather’s place, not mine.”

“Do you remember much of your grandfather?”

The king looked strangely at Godric with those dark eyes of his for a second before shaking his head. “No, not really. I was hardly even an infant when he marched the land we walk on. My father told me stories though. Stories of his grandeur and power when the kingdom was unified and strong.” Ennor smiled distantly and pulled himself farther onto the table. “There was one that stuck particularly in my mind.

“My father used to tell me that during my grandfather’s reign he would walk along the parapets outside of the castle walls and stare out over the kingdom.” Ennor’s eyes grew distant. “The woods lay not far from the city, untouched by dragon fire since the Scourge. The plains would waver beautifully and the Sea would shimmer like silver, carrying the wealth of the kingdom upon the merchants ships that sailed its waters.

“My father said that one day Eroth, his father, walked among those tall towers and realized that all he saw was bound to him. Every ship, soldier, and tree lie within his power. Its said that as he stood before the Sea he felt even larger than its emerald depths. When I was child that was my dream.”

“It may still come about,” Godric encouraged. “With the dragons slain we can build the kingdom anew.”

Ennor was already shaking his head. “No. I do not wish for that anymore. No king should stand beside his kingdom and feel himself larger. If anything, it is then that he should feel smallest - a man who stands upon the towers built by his people. I would not wish such pride on anyone.”

“It was my father, you know. He’s the reason Eroth died.” It had been weeks since Godric had even let his mind dwell on the haunting fact. “He stole Erogrund before the battle.”

The boy caught himself even as the words were slipping out. Why he was confessing this to the king the day before battle was anyone’s guess. What he expected to hear he did not know but Ennor’s simple response was enough to unsteady him.

“Is that right?”

No anger or even surprise tainted the king’s words. It was a legitimate question free of skepticism and mockery while intent on an answer.

“Yes,” Godric finally answered. “As far as I know,” he added.

“This was some years ago, was it not? Your father couldn’t have been in more than his twentieth year.”

It seemed aberrant to think of his father as a man so young with the armor of a soldier. He probably walked this very ground under Eroth’s banner, Godric realized with some surprise.

“I suppose so. He must have, hadn’t he? After all, he had it for all these years.”

“What was your father like?” Ennor asked, pouring himself another drink from the hardly full flask beside him.

The king’s halfhearted interest rattled Godric more than whatever outburst he expected. It took a minute for him to hear the question and another for him to compose an answer.

“He was quiet,” Godric said slowly. “Much like you, actually. He despised gossip and politics of our village, small as it was. He worked hard and was always ready to lend a hand to anyone who he deemed in need. He was a farmer,” the boy continued after pausing.

Ennor nodded after taking a sip of his drink. “A noble profession.”

A grin cut its way across Godric’s face. “He thought so. When I was small I would ask him why I had to work in the field and he would always answer me with the same line. ‘A man’s place is always in the field. In times of peace he tills the field to feed his family. In times of war he takes battle to the field to defend his family. And when the stars are out and the world is right he stands in the field and enjoys it with his family.’”

“Sounds like a wise man,” Ennor murmured.

“I never thought much of it before, but I suppose he was,” Godric admitted thoughtfully. “Each of his quips and thoughts seemed so far away from the world we lived in that I scarce thought much of them. But now I wonder that I did not cherish each and every one.”

The king took another long swig of his glass. “My father was much the same. He tried all he could to teach me, but I was too lost in the joys of youth to hear many of his words. Now that I sit upon the thrown I beg to every star that I could remember even one of his counsels to guide me. Alas, what are we to do, eh?”

“What was your father’s name?” Godric asked suddenly. “I have heard of Eroth and Eremor but not of his name.”

The king set his cup upon the map with a soft thud. His eyes watched the water that had collected on the cool glass of its surface seep into the soft fabric of the map before he answered.

“His name was Ennor son of Eroth.”

“You are the second of your name,” Godric said, surprised.

“Aye,” Ennor murmured. “But few honor my father enough to recall his rule. He is buried not ten leagues from here yet the only visitors to his resting place are the timber wolves. It is one of my greatest fears that such a fate should befall me. Forgotten by a world he vainly tried to save.” The king shivered but from the frigid air or some distant memory Godric could not tell.

“If only Eroth had won this battle for us,” Godric sighed sadly. “Then all would be well.”

“Fate’s design is one that I have long since tried to unravel,” Ennor whispered. “But if there’s one thing I have found it is that reading backwards will rarely answer the present. It is all well to gaze into the pages past but with each challenge we rise to we write a new chapter. If we are to write a new ending we cannot dwell on the the ‘ifs’ of the last. Our time is now.

“Can you keep a secret?” Ennor asked abruptly.

Godric nodded slowly, unsure of how to respond.

“Eroth knew this,” the king whispered gently. “Your father was neither a thief nor a murder. He was given the sword.”

Each word felt deafening to the ones following until Godric was not certain he had in fact heard the king’s sentiment. The words carried such guilt off his shoulders that he wondered how he had held it for so long but with it came questions that he struggled to fight back.

“Why?” he finally sputtered. “How could that be?”

“It was my father who stole the weapon from Eroth’s tent and who gave the blade to yours.” Ennor bowed his head deeply, covering his scarred and beaten face with a wearied hand. “He knew that even with the sword Eroth could not slay the dragon. Not with ten such swords could he kill the beast. The blade that had been the Men of Niron were long since dulled to complacency.”

“And so he left them? Ten-thousand men and - and his own father - to die?”

“And each one weighed on him more than every boulder of Draeknol. Every man consumed by that fire sharpened the resolve of the Men of Niron until ten-thousand lie dead on the field but the heart of Men had been lit again. To my father it was a brutal but necessary trade.”

Godric was speechless. Never would he have imagined it possible if it had not come from Ennor’s own tongue.

Ennor continued. “I don’t think he ever forgave himself. No one ever knew but it devoured him from the inside for every waking day and darkened night. I know not whether he regretted it but always I held him in high esteem for making the choice that others couldn’t. Even now I cannot bring myself to judge him for fear that I find him in the wrong though this I know: in his heart of hearts he believed what he did was right. For this he will always have my respect.”

The dwindling flame of the candles caught Godric’s eye. As he watched the wax and wick burned lightly into the faint train of smoke that drifted from the candlestick. He could hardly imagine the fire of dragons doing the same to so many men on the field of battle.

“Why do you tell me this?” Godric asked slowly. “Your trust I cherish but I cannot help but question why you would choose me to confide in.”

The king exhaled slowly, making the candle flicker even more vigorously.

“We stand on the precipice that is battle, Godric. I cannot assure your life or mine by the morrow. Someone might as well know and I rather the boy who carries the sword than some proud lord. You are truly special,” the king said, turning to look at him for the first time since sitting atop the table. “You may not know it now, but I am more sure of it now than ever.”

He cleared his throat deeply.

“Come, that is enough talking in hushed tones for one night; my throat grows sore. Let us take to our tents. A day unlike any other awaits us.” He dropped from the table lightly and swept the glass and flask under the table swiftly. “Rest well, Godric, and feel no guilt for the weapon you bear.”

Godric slipped from the oak table and nodded his silent thanks to the king before ducking into the night in search of his tent, the king’s hushed words still whispering in his mind.