The Sword to Unite

by Peter J. Hopkins

  “Amalric,” Cedric asked, “why have you come this far south, to chase after some group of bandits so unconcerned with the knight’s chapter castles?”

  Amalric answered gravely, and with the utmost seriousness. “My lord the bandits we track, the very same who sacked this town, are in the employment of Azrael. Their leader, a man known as Sibi the Brother, has taken a full warband across Midland, slaughtering and capturing innocents that cross their path. These captive prisoners have yet to be accounted for, and we are trying to discover where they are being held, for I fear the meaning behind these attacks is of the utmost severity. For in these times, the Rat grows in strength, and his influence has already begun to corrupt this peaceful land.”

  Amalric continued, describing how the folk to the east had come to reave and rape the countryside. Beyond the mountains east, to the Hirdland, many men had come westward. Many of them mercenaries and sellswords now in Azrael’s service. They came in ragged clothing, sewn together piles of fur, and their faces were grim and uncivilized. At their fronts, great men with chain armor, with faces painted by blood splatter, their brutal clansmen devoted to their evil master. In a long-forgotten time, their folk served Azrael in his first wars against man; it is now that they remember their ways, and take up the sword against the people of Midland.

  “We’ll accompany you back to Telfrost, and then to Prav, where we can finally meet with King Malcom, and devise some sort of grand strategy,” said Cedric as he imagined the savages from the east.

  The conversation slowly dimmed between the two groups, and the knights established a perimeter of guards along the ruins of the wall while the other slept in the hall. Amalric was sitting perched against one of the pillars, clutching at his hands covered by bindings.

  “Does it hurt much?” Cedric asked in a hushed voice, to not wake the others.

  “No…I can’t feel them, but every now and then, I get a small feeling, as though I’m getting better, but it vanishes as quickly as it came.” He continued to writhe his hands. “Telfrost is my birthright you know? Not even the grandmaster could remove me from it. I could have rotted away in my chambers, getting fat and lazy, but I chose this over that. I would rather struggle to lift my blade than feast and rest all day; there’s no honor or challenge in that lot.”

  Cedric was engrossed in Amalric’s life story. “But it isn’t as though you were forced to become a knight; you did it out of duty.”

  “Aye, I was not about to be the first in my house who couldn’t ride a horse into battle…but the truth is I barely can nowadays. He revealed the skirt of his tunic, lifting it so Cedric could see similar wrappings along his legs. “It has spread through my legs now, every step is unsure, every time my horse bounces as it runs I fear I will not have the strength to hold on. But here I am still, and here I shall remain. I swear I will tie myself to my horse before refusing to follow you into battle, you’re the true king, and I’d be happy to die for that and not in my bed not able to lift a finger.”

  Cedric was impressed by Amalric’s loyalty, but he required more than loyalty in his allies. “Thank you for the bout of confidence, but remember, we aren’t out on that field looking for a glorious death, we try to find our way home.”

  Amalric looked down at his mug that was still half filled. “Thank the gods they did not take away my feeling in my tongue,” he said as he downed the rest of his ale and turned over for sleep.

  At the dawning hour when the sun appeared orange across half the sky, the knights and Cedric’s party departed for Telfrost, taking the northern road out of Mileast. The children, Gwen and Atticus, rode respectively with Aderyn and Beorn, and both little ones cried at the departing horizon of Mileast.

  The knights rode in silence, for they had no natural charisma for conversation that did not involve prayer or training. Their life was a simple one, but one that brought peace to those who could aspire to the tenements of The Eternal Dawn. Justice, Honor, and Wisdom, the three virtues held sacred by the order. Many common folk believe them to only focus on battle and to train their bodies only for the sword, but it is not their real goal. For in the order, every warrior must also be a scholar, an administrator, a judge, they must be a beacon of hope for the hopeless. For in their minds, there is not a righteous path to holiness without the balancing of a man’s life.

  For three days, the group rode throughout the day, while also taking rest for lunch when the sun was highest in the sky. They rode through open hilly fields and light spots of trees, where the first of orange leaves had begun to turn, though none had yet to fall from their branches. The air had turned to a temperature that could not be felt, for it was neither warm nor cold, much time had passed these lands while Cedric parlayed in the forest.

  On the third day, they were in a particularly wooded patch of Sodeer land, and they could scant stay in a single line due to the trees. The group heard the snapping of a branch nearby, and each drew their weapons in anticipation of those who had torched Mileast.

  “Who goes there!?” Amalric boomed through his helmet as he waved his sword. From out of the bushes, three figures emerged. Their leader bore a long and scraggly beard with dirt about his face. He wore a long open coat, which revealed a shirt of chainmail underneath. His companions bore separately styled clothing, which had a badge of Sodeer at the chest. They each carried bows that were drawn at Cedric’s company, along with longswords at their hips.

  Their leader spoke, “I could ask you the same.” He took a moment, and then answered Amalric’s question. “We are rangers of House Sodeer, sworn to these sacred woods to which you make your journey. State your business and be gone.”

  “We are Knights of the Eternal Dawn, with the company of Cedric, the true king of these lands and of your lord,” Amalric spoke with gravitas.

  “My lord is dead; his people litter the dirt,” The ranger spoke brashly, and with a hint of anger in his voice, “This man you travel with is no king of me or mine. Begone. These woods remain as ours, these tracking paths our sacred home. Mileast has fallen, the late lord, and my Sergeant-Commander of the Rangers as well. My folk answer call of arms to no lord now. Again, I say, begone.”

  Amalric was about to speak, but Cedric waved him off, there was no point to it. Cedric and his troop pressed onward, leaving the rangers to their business.

  Upon the fourth day’s ride, they passed through the lands of Owain Sigberht, proud lord of Gwent. It was snug upon a hill, with many halls of stone with wooden roofs. Banners of the coat of arms of Sigberht, a single tower upon a green field, waved proudly upon the battlements of the walls. Cedric and his companions did not stop to see the city, only to glance at it from the distance of a hill. Gwent was the second largest city in Prav, and yet it was completely emptied of all life save the rats scurrying about its streets. Everyone had made way to Prav, and the tracking of cart and foot could be seen well in the distance, dark and embedded into the roads. The many tall stone buildings of the city were sharp as a blade up their tops, shaped like obelisks of the Tanaric peoples.

  On the fourth night, the group was starved for entertainment, for the only interruption of the days’ monotonous rides were the brief gusts of wind and sprinkles of rain. As their campfire crackled and the last bit of pork that had yet to turn was cooked, Eadwine tuned his lute once more to sing of ancient tales.

  “Tonight, I shall sing in your common tongue, so the knights may also hear and understand.” He said as he strummed his instrument for tone. He was a true master of the silver tongue, for the tale he told had no translated form in common language, so Eadwine translated as he sung.

  “Forsooth my dear knights I know many tales of my kin, I can tell you of little elves and tall elves, wise ones and daft ones. On this night, I tell you the day of the cleverest of them all, the tale of the Prince Dothriel.”

  In the days when Glanfech still stood tall, and their culture thrived, their Prince Dothriel set off to ride the countryside of bandits and highwaymen, armed with only a
purse of coin, his trusted bow, and his wits. In these times, he traveled as a beggar, appearing as though he had a limp, and wore mudded clothing to hide his princely looks. He went amongst his people, and lived by their charity, often sleeping in barns and damp cellars.

  For weeks, he hunted through the deepening woods of his lands for the bandits who sullied his land. Upon a clearing, he found their camp, and they were drunk on libations and pride. The campfires were wild and unkempt, and so Dothriel hatched a cunning plan. When the last of the bandits fell fast asleep in their tents, their fires still burned brightly in the night. Dothriel snuck into the camp and took up burning branches, tossing them at the tents that went up in a fire like kindling.

  The bandits ran from their tents, clutching at their inflamed cloaks and screaming through the night like wild beasts. In this panic, Dothriel hid along the tree line, picking off the panicked band with ease. Upon the morning, Dothriel returned to the village, where a vast number of his people had come to see the commotion. He threw down the brooch of the bandit’s leader, and the people let out a great cheer. Dothriel, not a seeker of pride or glory, left without lifting his hood, and his bright face was not revealed to his people. Later, on his deathbed, after a long and prosperous rule, Dothriel revealed himself as the hooded vigilante. His people were stunned and brought many gifts to his tomb, adorning it in the rustic goods that thrived in the land he defended.

  Eadwine finished his tune and downed the last of the ale, for they had only brought a few pouches worth from Mileast. The knights sharpened their many axes and blades, not allowing for a single speck of dust or rust to disgrace their holy instruments.

  “By tomorrow we’ll be safe behind the walls of Telfrost, about time too…can’t do without ale on an open road.” Miro said with an angry stare at the elf who has swindled the last of the brew from the camp, all the while sharpening his curved blade to a razor’s edge.

  When the sun broke out upon the sky they took their breakfast of oatmeal and simple dried fruit, for they had officially run out of meat and finer food from Mileast. A short time after noon, they reached the final hill before Telfrost, and they set their eyes upon the outpost of the Eternal Dawn.

  It was of basic design, consisting of four straight carved walls, each holding a tower at its end, and a keep towards the back of the castle. The small hamlets of Telfrost sat snugly upon the open fields of the land, dotted between squares of growing grain now close to harvest. They rode past the moat which was only half filled, making it appear as nothing more than a pit of mud. The drawbridge was closed as they entered and their horses were taken to be fed and rested at the stables. Many folk of the castle, the servants, and guardsmen alike, gathered to greet their lord Amalric, who in turn greeted them all by name. From the main keep, a woman clad in purple garments appeared to float down the stone steps towards the lord of the castle. It was Josephine, wife of Amalric and Lady of Telfrost. Her hair was a dark red, near auburn brown, and her face was pale, a common sight for the ladies of the north. In her arms, she held a baby boy, yet to be named, for it was the custom of the knights to name their sons and daughters on the eve of their first birthday. Amalric rushed to his wife, and embraced her, though they did not kiss, for fear of spreading his pestilence. The leper knight took his child in his hands but again did not touch without a layer of clothing.

  The knights disbanded and returned to their quarters, to retire from their muddied chain and tunics. Cedric and his party were offered fine but snug rooms in the castle’s main keep, where Amalric prepared a large meal for them. They ate red meat and drank from steel goblets, a personal gift from the grandmaster to Amalric. The two children, Gwen and Atticus, stuffed their faces with the food before them like dogs going for fallen table scrapes.

  Miro entered the room, now wearing an elegant silk tunic in the style of his people, carrying messenger scrolls from Castle Zweleran. He presented them to Amalric, who took and read from them diligently.

  “How old are these messages?” Amalric asked shocked.

  “Two weeks by now, could be coming for us soon,” Miro responded gravely.

  Amalric crumpled letters in his fist and slammed his palms on the dinner table, before collapsing his head into his gloved hands.

  “Amalric what has happened?” Cedric implored the Knight-Sergeant.

  Fear gripped the knight, and he struggled to muster his words. “It…it appears as though the outer rim of castles has been sacked. Plymford Keep, the castle nearest the Hirdland, has been burned to ash. There is nothing between Azrael and a direct path to Zweleran. If we do not act quickly all we have done so far will be for naught, as Azrael will burn everything the knights have spent centuries building.” He continued deeper into the letters’ contents. “As I suspected…it appears the riders from Mileast orchestrated these sackings.” Both the children at the table stopped eating, and their minds were called back to that dreadful time. “There are only a handful of operating castles now; we cannot track Sibi and his men without outside aid…we need the spies and songbirds of Prav.”

  “Something tells me finding Sibi will lead us to Azrael.” Cedric said as he imagined the skull-adorned savage in his mind. “I say we ride tomorrow, if we can reach Prav in less than a week’s time we’ll be in good shape to hunt down Sibi and prevent him from raiding any more towns.”

  “Agreed,” Amalric said as he resumed his meal of roasted pheasant, downing the last of his wine. They ate in silence for the rest of the dinner, both out of hunger and the dread of being thrown back into the fray.

  After the meal, Amalric led the two children to their quarters with the servants, he told them of their new life here, that they would be safer here, but the children appeared distant and stared off into nothing as he left them tucked in their beds.

  Chapter 23

  Loden the Wanderer

  That night while Cedric rested, visions once more appeared in his dreams. He heard a slight whisper coming from the woods surrounding the water. “Come through the trees.” It spoke in a manner soft it was as though it was but a thought in the mind, whom none but Cedric would be able to hear. “Come…” It spoke again, this time holding on the single word for what seemed like an eternity. Cedric walked through the forest, brushing against the thick bundle of branches and twigs.

  Before him lay a blue and ethereal landscape, where blades of long grass danced and swayed in the howling wind. Out before him, a long road reached out beyond the horizon. Cedric was compelled to march forward on the mossy stones of the road, and he ran his hand through the grass, which felt cold to the touch. Above him, the moon beamed as it always had in his dreams, though this time its light reflected across the whole of the land, in a distorted appearance of daytime.

  At his side, a leather sack of ale was filled to the brim and bounced off his hip as he took his strides. He felt a great thirst building in his throat, which appeared parched as if from nowhere. He took a few full gulps of the ale before placing it back at his side, all the while continuing his walk along the road. Soon buildings in the far distant came into view, towers of a bygone age, built by those not of his world. The towers floated in the sky, their foundations were torn from the ground and suspended by nothing. Others lay in ruins in the field, and none appeared inhabited. Cedric took another drink and had nearly emptied it when he heard a sound not far from him.

  From over the hill, there was another voice, not like the previous whispering, for it appeared warm and welcoming. The voice sang a tune far from the common tongue, and the words seemed mumbled and without meaning. From over the hill, an old man in a great pointy hat and a dirty robe was walking hunched over, his beard nearly at his feet.

  He almost passed Cedric before looking up at the young king who stood before him. “Oh hello my dear boy, how goes your journey?” He smiled through his silky white beard that covered his face, and his eyes were filled with wise kindness.

  “Who are you?” Cedric said surprised, for he had yet to converse with
one found in his dreams.

  “I am but a lonely wanderer, willing to share idle conversation with another who takes this road.” Cedric looked back toward the road, taking his view off the old man for only a single moment. When his eyes returned to the old man, he had vanished. “Do you have something to drink my young man?” Cedric turned his body around and saw the old man sitting by a campfire that had appeared before them. By the fire, the fields of grass grain had vanished and become a rushing river, which frothed into a white mist as it broke against the rocky shore.

  Cedric slowly and cautiously sat down, for he realized this old man was no ordinary traveler. The old man smiled and stoked the fire with a stick. Again, the old man asked his question. “Do you have something to drink my young man?” At this moment, Cedric’s throat was once more dried, and he felt a great need to drink. He looked down at the bottle by his side and opened the top, seeing that there was only enough for one to be satisfied. Without a word of complaint, Cedric hesitantly handed the last of his ale to the old man, who quickly snatched up the bottle and drank it whole.

  The old man laughed in a sweet-sounding voice. “Thank you, my dear boy; I was truly beyond thirst when you found me.” He saw that Cedric too was thirsty, and his face turned witty and wise. He handed Cedric back his flask. “Take that and fill it in the river, I swear it will satisfy you.”

  Cedric appeared skeptical, but nevertheless rose and took the pouch to the rushing river. He waded into its icy cold current and filled the bottle to the brim, before bringing it back to the fire, where the old man smiled at Cedric. Cedric looked back at the flask and saw that its color had changed, and he when drank from it he tasted the sweet ale of Orford, the reserve that was by fate, never to be drunk. He consumed it all in his thirst to be at home, and with each drop that passed by his tongue, a fond memory of Orford was engraved in his mind.

  Cedric opened his mouth to speak but found that no sounds came from his throat, as though he was deaf to his own voice. The old man shook his head and spoke humorously. “It is not wise to talk without the proper words.” His muteness was clearly a jest by this strange and sage-like old man. The bearded man pointed towards the river. “Catch something to eat.” Cedric turned and saw a great salmon swimming against the current of the mighty river, its rainbow coat glowing brightly through the crystal-clear water.