Blade of Erogrund

Chapter Three- Swords and Smoke

The dawning rays of light pierced Godric's closed eyes uncomfortably, despite his determination to block them out.

Giving into the beckoning of the morning, he opened his eyes reluctantly. At first all was peaceful and still, but when he rolled over he felt the movement of his dagger and the events of the past flooded his mind like a torrent of flushing chaos.

He started as the memories of fire and destruction crashed over him, causing him to frantically sit upright. Gasping for breath he looked around to try and find where he was, still discombobulated with the events of the previous day occupying his mind.

The gurgling of water was the first detail to hit him; it flowed distantly off to his left. Thin groups of oak and maple trees surrounded the grass that he lay in that casted a pleasant shade over the field. A gentle breeze, nearly like the one the day before whispered through the hardwood branches, caused them to sway mesmerizingly.

Then it hit him. It was cold.

Not just a stormy gale from the north that still carried traces of its former warmth, but the air itself was ruthlessly cold, unlike anything else he could recall. The air even smelled cold, like freshly formed ice on the Cobblestone Brook in winter.

Godric lay back down in the cold, dew-covered grass to rethink what was going on. Fire. Yes, there had definitely been fire but from what? And the villagers... The villagers! Where had they gone? He jumped up once again but quickly stumbled as his stiff muscles refused to respond. He fell to his knees and stood more slowly, stretching as much as possible.

The frigid air filled his lungs, making him more alert as he looked around the place that he lay. Without even thinking, his right hand fell to the sword hilt that still hung from his belt.

His father's sword.

He bowed his head as the last memories of his father came to him. There was no way he would have survived the explosion of the tavern when the fire hit it. His father was dead.

Godric picked his head up. Father may have died, but I will see to it that anyone who can be saved, is. He swallowed nervously as determination gave him new strength, but his mouth was parched. The gurgling brook suddenly sounded very alluring.

Stretching his arms once more, Godric followed the sound through the thin grove of trees. Thick columns of smoke still rose from the ruins of Dunn far above the woods, so there was no concern about losing his way back.

As he walked, his mind drifted to the attack on the village. What could have done something like that? What had the power to level an entire village? Nothing I've ever heard of, he thought.

The grass turned to stone as he made it to the Cobblestone Brook. It appeared that he was only a mile or two from the village, as it looked like this section was what he knew as Breaker's Bend, a sharp bend in the river that caused the ice to shatter and crack in the winter. The ground stooped down underfoot, leading to a depressed area next to the bank of the brook where small pieces of shale and stone formed a miniature peninsula into the running water.

Just as he moved to step down, he noticed a shape next to the water. With a rush of fear he drew the dagger from his belt.

The figure seemed to hear the sudden hiss of steel and turned around with alarm, standing to the height of a person. Godric recognized it immediately.

"Mira?!"

The girl's beautiful red hair was twisted and caked with dirt and mud, which also covered most of the right side of her face, but it was easily recognizable. Her face was pale and in sharp contrast to her puffy red eyes. She still wore the same dress as the day before, but it was filthy from shoulder to toe and torn along the bottom edge in several places. In her hands she clasped an old, worn book that Godric recognized as one she had often taken to read at the brook.