Blade of Erogrund

Chapter 43- Heavy Words

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 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."