The Sword to Unite

by Peter J. Hopkins

  Roderic looked down. “All I know is that if he is real, he is a threat to Crawe, whole patrols and camps extinguished in an instance, like a candle being snuffed out. Although there are some reports of villages sacked, so I suppose he could be just in it for wealth and loot. But that is why I send you with my vast army!” Roderic said sarcastically, as he waved his arm towards the Rivermen to accompany Cedric; farmers and hunters mostly, along with Dag who stood high above them. Cedric could not help but smile; they appeared more like jesters than soldiers. “All I know is that Crawe is more preoccupied with this lone bandit party than the real threat, though I highly doubt that he is in league with Azrael like that of your former chancellor.”

  At last the final bags of supplies were packed, and the party set out down the hill. Villagers of all ages came to see them depart, for they now recognized and knew who Cedric was. Some mumbled prayers to the gods as they passed, others looked on in fixated wonder at their uncrowned king.

  Cedric and his companions passed the final huts on the edge of Luxen and moved into the rolling hills of Midland. They headed east, for the roads to the north had no since been abandoned and overrun by nature. Dag led the party, acting as guard and guide to Cedric who trotted along at his side. Behind them, a whole host of Luxen followed on horseback, numbering in the high twenties, enough to stay any highwaymen wandering the roads in search of unprotected caravans.

  The traveling party passed through the land for three uneventful days, filled with foggy mornings and rainy afternoons, it appeared the sun had been banished from the land, for they could not even spot its golden outline through the thick veil of darkened clouds. They passed by dew filled meadows, with all manner of birds singing and chirping through the underbrush and trees. The road sat snuggly between a rolling landscape of hills and a nearby forest which teemed with all manner of life. Packs of deer roamed the land, unfazed by the presence of humans, their majesty was revealed to all who witnessed their elegant prancing through the nearby forests. Behind them, some travelers came and went, passing through to their farmsteads or the markets of local villages, but none came in large number. It rained the first night, and each person in camp awoke to soaked clothes and shivering rain.

  To the far eastern plains of Midland, the Ithlon, the largest treed land of the north, flourish in a green blanket overtaking the landscape for many miles. It is in the expansiveness of the Ithon that the folk of Godric make their domain. Men and women dedicated to the god of the hunt, they live in small villages connected by forested paths that only they know. At the center of this network of roads, lies Mileast, their capital and the home of the Hall of Godric, where the hunters gather to feast and sacrifice in the name of the Huntsman. House Sodeer has ruled these lands for centuries, holding the title as the Wardens of the Forest.

  Deeper in the forest, where the sun cannot pierce the thick overhead of leaves, and stretching branches, the ones of many names make their home. The final kin of Trundor, the Unseen Ones, The Awaerian, meaning to avoid, all names given to those created as hybrids between man and creature. In his final creation, Trundor, lord of orc, beast, and monsters alike, created the Satyrs and Centaurs, and creatures like them. They were given free range over the hills and grasslands of Midland and Lorine, and their people thrived and multiplied upon the meadows, crafting great wooden towers to their god. In the time of man and the founding of the Ten Kingdoms, these towers were torn down in place of stone palaces, and the fields were emptied of the High Breeds. In this time, many of their races diminished and ceased to exist, such as the Fauns, a dear cousin to the Satyrs, who were filled with the spirit of peace, unfit for the harsh reality of man. Some of their folk fled to the south, hoping to find rest in the greener pastures of Essaroth, a kingdom ripe with fruit and sunlight. Many others fled deeper into Midland, into the Ithon, thus becoming the Unseen Ones, for even the hunters of Godric, in their crafty ways, have few times seen a satyr in the flesh.

  The group trotted through muddy grounds on the second day; their horses struggled through the terrain. They passed by ancient wayward stones, built before Adalgott’s rule. They were stuck into the ground, reaching the same height as an average man. Worshiped by the mystic, and carved with runic signs, these stones had long watched over the roads in Midland, a guide for any lost traveler and a beacon for any wizard seeking out ancient signs of archaic power.

  Suddenly, there was a great shriek of a wild beast from the nearby hills. The Rivermen’s horses reared and jumped at the sound. To the sky, the men saw a griffin gliding across the heavens. The Rivermen cried in terror, some drawing their weapons for battle. “It is a sign from Azrael! He sends death to stalk us!” One shouted as he drew back his bow, taking aim at the beast.

  “No, you fool!” Cedric said as he knocked down the hunter’s bow with his arm. “It is a sign of the gods! They find favor with us, sending us the Guardian of Orford to escort us. No foul beast of Azrael would dare approach us at the sight of a griffin. The packs of wolves and other crafty beasts will be turned back by the cries of such a predator!” The bowman sheathed his bow nervously, keeping a steady eye upon the flying griffin.

  As quickly as the Griffin had appeared, it vanished into the overcast sky above them. Then, a great boom came from the sky, and a wave of rushing water was called down upon their heads.

  “Roderic tells me you hail from the north,” Cedric said to Dag, who continued facing forwards, never shifting his gaze to the one who prodded him with questions. “Did he mean Belfas or Vaal?” Cedric said nervously, hoping not to offend the half-giant in front of him. There was a long pause in the one-sided conversation.

  “I don’t know,” Dag responded. “Never met me ma or da, so I cannot rightly say if I am a real half-giant, all I know is that these folk calls me it and no one messes with me.”

  “Did you spend much time in Belfas before coming south to Midland?”

  “Ay, grew up there, for the most part, started selling my sword to the highest bidder in my teen years. It was bloody cold up there, in Belfas, can’t imagine how the giants can live in Vaal, it makes me understand why they want our land so much. It was like the snow didn’t even melt in Belfas, everybody just sat around their huts, hoping they’d got enough grain to last through the goddamn spring, can’t even plant in spring there.” Dag spoke no more, he was not a man for revealing his past and had done very little in that conversation, choosing rather to focus on the nature of the land that raised him, Cedric’s rightful land.

  Chapter 18

  The Rider

  On the third day, Cedric peered over the hills covered in the morning dew; none had yet stirred save himself and Dag, who was sharpening his massive blade. Even the birds had not yet awoken, the whole of the world slept quietly. It was at this moment that Cedric’s eyes caught sight of a rider just along the cusp of the hill. His clothes were drab and dull, a dark gray cloak covered his body from view, reaching down to the buckles of his horse. The rider made no motion as he overlooked their camp, a black iron blade and dagger were at his side, and both were battered and worn from use and covered in archaic symbols.

  “Don’t mind him,” Dag spoke up, still sharpening his blade with his whetstone. “Not even a complete fool would try to take us by himself.” Dag finished polishing his sword, held it high pointing it towards the mysterious rider. He sliced his finger across his throat, threatening the rider to come closer. The rider whipped the leather on his horse’s halter and rode in the opposite direction. His cloak followed his ride some feet behind him as if he were a phantom. Dag laughed and returned to his blade, making sure it was in pristine condition. Cedric remained laying on the ground, pondering about the nature of the mysterious rider.

  Dag kept to himself for the rest of the day, replying to Cedric and others with a mere grunt of understanding. He would have made quite the handsome man if it were not for his scars and lack of etiquette. The road quiet save the mismatched beating of hooves against the ground, which melded into
a single unending sound. Eadwine strummed at his instrument the whole way, giving a song to the dreary world around them. His voice sang of ancient tales of bravery, both strength of men and grace of his elvish people.

  There again, in the evening when the group traveled under the light of the setting sun, was the rider spotted along the horizon once more. This time he was not alone, at either side he was accompanied by a group of fellow horse mounted men, each cloaked and wielding blades. Next, to the first rider, a man wrapped in a bear cloak was reigning his horse. He had two skulls, placed on spikes on his shoulders, and his face was wild and covered in dirt. They now counted in equal number to Cedric’s escort and could easily overtake them, though they remained halted on the evening’s horizon.

  Dag drew his blade and let out an angry cry. “Bastards! We should have killed that scout when we had the chance. To the plains of Carathras to the north, we shall lose them in the night’s shadow!” He barked his orders to his men, and all made ready to ride with the fury of a howling wind.

  The Rivermen flew through the grassy meadows, hoping to outrun and tire the mysterious group who now kept pace and remained at a distance. With each beating of the horses’ hooves, the sun’s light diminished across the land, as were their hopes of escaping those who pursued them. They had ridden for less than an hour before the sun became only a sliver of orange light across the sky, and the whole of the plains were shrouded in darkness. “There is no hope! They shall descend on us in the night!” Cried Gaspar, who was looking back at the ones who chased them.

  “Steady yourself wizard!” Dag shouted, he too was panicking, he was turning his eyes to every direction, and his mind was racing in hoping to formulate a plan. “There! Just north I see buildings on the edge of the hills, we ride there and defend from inside!”

  With a pointing finger, Dag commanded his men to the site of the ruins, where he intended to make his last stand. They quickly road through what appeared to be the ruins of a town or village, burned into ruin some many years ago. They made their defense at what once was a hall, belonging to some former lord. It was of fine craftsmanship, with a wooden tower propped up from its roof to watch over lands both near and far. Its thatch roof had not yet collapsed, and the wooden walls and stone base proved as sturdy enough protection for the party of the Rivermen. They took wooden beams and loose stones from nearby and placed them at the large doors of the hall, barricading themselves in for the night.

  Cedric and Eadwine were at the top of the tower, searching for the horizon for the pursuing party, but they had vanished from view. Eadwine leaned against one of the support beams. “Who do you suppose they are Cedric?” He said as he gazed at the sky that had now turned dark. “Normal bandits are halfwits, content to charge in headfirst, they certainly don’t use scouts.”

  “I know, there is something peculiar about those riders, I doubt that is that last we’ll have seen of them. We should ask Dag about this place, seems like suitable soil, why would the people abandon it?”

  Below them, in the great hall, the Rivermen had burrowed in for the night, each slept with spear and bow in hand, ready for their barricade to be smashed down by the pursuing riders. They had relit the fire pit resting in the center of the room with broken furniture and twigs and had cooked their meal over its crackling flame. Dag rested on an old wooden bench, it would normally fit at least two men, though he barely fit himself. Cedric’s party rested too, for each was weary from the day’s ride. The horses were tied and fed in a nearby stable, which was guarded by the two knights accompanying Dag.

  Cedric rummaged through boxes and bags left by the previous inhabitants. From their contents, Cedric learned that the people here were not wealthy in coin but kind. He found all manner of trinkets and otherwise valueless items, intricately knotted jewelry and carved wooden figurines in the chest nearest the throne of the hall. Little dolls made of thatch and cloth were most common, the property of the daughter of whoever once ruled here. There was a peculiar cleanliness to them, as though they had not been used and rather left to the decay of time. Cedric was keen to uncover the fate of the folk that once lived in this fertile land, and he approached Dag in search of answers.

  “Who lived here? By the look of it some noble lord, perhaps wealthier than Roderic’s kin.” Cedric said as he tossed a jeweled doll on Dag’s lap. The half-giant lifted it with his hand; it appeared minuscule in his hand. Dag sighed heavily at the sight of the toy, and he paused before speaking.

  “People who did Crawe much wrong,” Dag said as he turned over to rest.

  “But what did they do?” Cedric pressed.

  Dag again turned over on his side, clearly annoyed by the questions he thought unimportant. “If it makes you shut up I’ll give you the brief version. Once upon a time House Lenich lived here, and they thought it was a bright idea to challenge Malcom’s claim to the throne. They lost both the war and their heads, with their lord sent off to the Dweoran mines for punishment, goodnight.” Dag angrily said, turning over once more for sleep, all while tossing the doll into the fire. Cedric hopped from his seat and threw his hands into the flames to save the doll. Malcom Crawe was an odd fellow to many, an old and shriveled man, who still had a burning strength within his spirit, though now it appeared dormant to all around him.

  Cedric slouched down next to his companions; his mind left half satisfied with the account of House Lenich. He took out his satchel and tucked the doll away snuggly, and he watched the fire burn as he thought of what this hall looked like in its former days of glory. Torches giving light, and banners flying throughout the hall. The sounds of laughter and joy filled Cedric’s imagination as he pictured a happy home amongst the present ruins.

  “It’s strange, isn’t it?” Alfnod said, staring into the fire. “Only weeks ago, we were feasting in Orford, now we sleep in ruins, expecting each minute to bring our deaths.” He turned his gaze to Cedric. “If I had another choice, I’d still be here beside you, and I know the others would too, even Galdwin.”

  Cedric responded. “I sit and wonder if would even be on this road. How many hardships will we face here, and can we even survive them?” Doubt and discouragement filled Cedric; he had brought his friends into a land fraught with danger, for a goal now so distant and chance. He looked down at Aderyn, who was sleeping soundly at his side. “I cannot protect any of you from what is to come.”

  “We know that. We don’t need protection, Cedric,” Alfnod replied, he attempted to cheer him up. “Well I know I certainly won’t be the one to fall.”

  “And why is that?” Cedric said confused.

  Alfnod smiled. “Why because I’m the hero of this story. The tale of Alfnod the Brave, and his heroic adventure with the humble second in command known as Cedric, who would be lost without his constant guidance.” Alfnod struck a pose as though he were a performer reciting ancient tales, stretching his arms to the roof in dramatic fashion.

  Cedric smiled and for a moment could forget all that ailed his party, for a moment he was once again happy. That night each of them slept on guard, clutching their weapons at every creak in the floor, thinking it to be from the bandits who chased them. The morning’s rising sun beamed through tiny holes in the roof and walls and illuminated the whole place.

  Dag was quick to rise and prepare his men, upon a table he crafted a makeshift map of the nearby land, on it were markers indicating the town, the plains, and the nearby forest Ithlon. He had no mind for strategy, and he struggled to plan their next course of action.

  Cedric studied the land from both the map and the tower, searching for some undiscovered strategy that would save them. The raiders could not be seen along the horizon, though it was safe assurance that they were merely hiding in wait for the Rivermen to leave the village. The road was far too exposed to take, but the forest, the Ithlon would provide proper cover. From there, they would travel east and then north, towards the next noble house of Midland, while leaving Dag’s men to escape south, where the hills keep them hi
dden from their pursuers.

  Cedric informed the Rivermen of his plan, and each of them agreed that it was their best and only option. They knew it would undoubtedly draw the bandits to Cedric and his men, and away from themselves. Their gear was packed and ready, and the barricade at the door was broken down, each made ready to fly from this place. Before they left, Cedric did one last search through the keep and found a dusty old chest; its only content was a worn and ancient banner, that once waved in the name of Lenich. It was the symbol of twin deer, crossing their antlers between one another. Cedric rolled up this old banner and took it with him, placing next to his own in his knapsack.

  Cedric joined his group at the door; they would leave first, just moments before Dag and his men. The door was swung open, and they ran to the stables, quickly packing their supplies on the horses and saddling them. They rode as fast as they could to the edge of the Ithon, unable to see what lied ahead through the thick and ancient forest. Before they entered, Cedric turned his sight back to the town, where he saw Dag’s group making their exit. Along the northern horizon, Cedric also caught a glimpse of their unknown enemies, giving chase towards the forest. The plan had worked as the Rivermen had hoped, now it was up to Cedric’s group to lose them in the expanse of the Ithlon.

  Beorn and Eadwine descended into the forest first, swinging their blades through the thick underbrush as they rode. Leopold was next to enter; his cloak danced along the tangle of branches guarding the Ithon. The rest soon followed though Cedric dallied at the edge of the forest, looking back towards the advancing bandits. Aderyn called to him as she entered the Ithlon, though she did not stop riding, “Cedric we must go!”

  Cedric was frozen in place, for he saw what none other saw, for they had already entered the forest. He saw the mask of the lone rider. It was a burial mask typical for the folk of Midland, composed of gold and steel, it shined and reflected from the morning sun that was piercing through the gray clouds above. His eyes appeared dead, as though they had long lost the warmth of life, and Cedric felt chills rushing down his back as he locked eyes with this masked man, it appeared time had frozen when their eyes met. Cedric’s mind was rushed with fear, “his eyes, by the gods his eyes,” he said to himself. The rider’s eyes were black and deepening, like a void of existence. He felt the cold of those beady things as he stumbled into the Ithon.