The Saga of Friedrir Black-Hand

Brondehal's Sorrow

Fadir and Irascri.

The names were etched into the smooth grey stone, the stonemason's marks still fresh from the morning of labour; a testament to a legacy that would endure. A small figure stood in the shadow of the vast, looming rock and looked on at the ceremony, his brow heavy with loss and pain. Friedrir turned his head up towards the enormous rock which he stood aside and took in the many names which adorned its smooth surface. The battering summer winds swept down from the mountains and swirled around the crowd gathered to see the spectacle; a smouldering wooden plinth with flame and smoke billowing from its peak. The onlookers watched intently, gripped with awe and sorrow, as the flames grew higher and higher, touching the skies with their ferocity. Scorching fire overwhelmed the struggling wooden beams as each one crackled and crumbled under the screaming heat, while the men and women in attendance gazed on in unbroken silence as the flames engulfed the oaken trunks.

King Golbadir, the noble man, arrived atop a nearby mound surrounded by his retainers, each brave warrior clasped a great axe in their right hand and pressed it to their chest, honouring the fallen dead. He stood beneath his golden crown draped in polished armour encrusted with jewels and adorned with intricate patterns of glorious battles embossed onto his chest plate, his long grey beard hung over his armour. Not a mark could be seen on the king, not his body or his raiment. The group stood apart from the rest of the gathering, separated by the rocky crag which they stood upon, however, despite their incredible presence, not one member of the crowd turned to greet their lord; their attention and hearts were fixed on the blaze. Golbadir simply joined the sombre congregation in mutual silence.

Friedrir took in the scene that was laid out before him, trying to recognise the faces that he could see in the crowd. The aching man looked at the sorrowful expressions which were ground into the faces of those who watched the ceremony as the light danced about in the dying sun and saw his own pain. Then he looked towards Golbadir and saw not pain and sorrow, but eyes of vengeance set deep into a lofty expression of pride and remembrance. Friedrir saw his king's face and felt his overwhelming sorrow be replaced by a flood of pride as the flames, which spiralled high into the sky to commemorate his mother and father, bore deep into his spirit.

In the bright and wild flames Friedrir saw the two figures, bold Fadir and wrathful Irascri, his own father and mother, as they rushed upon their foe and slaughtered them in the dim light of the stone pass, bitter snow covering the floor. The innumerable Sicire continuously pressed against the wide shields of the two heroes, each assailant eager to stab and slash at the defenders to rob them of their lives and send them down to Drenthri's hall. Still Fadir and Irascri fought off the savage attackers and drove them back with powerful swings of their axes, their dyed black hands thick with the blood of their foe. Their allies had abandoned them now, driven off by the sudden appearance of the Sicire and desperate to return to the safety of their own lands. The brave man and woman of the Norbren battered their enemies and drove deep into the flooding ranks as they rushed through the narrow pass. The cliff faces were wet with the blood of men and the icy snow was red and bloody as the warriors clashed at the centre, lost in a rising tide of enemies.

The rest of the Norbren had fled absolutely and only Fadir and Irascri remained, driven by an endless desire to give their lives in the name of Drenthri. Their end came when Haraldr the Tall, Lord of the Sicire, with his great broad sword and strong shield, burst through to the neck of the pass and roared as his blows landed against the wide shields of Fadir and Irascri, his eyes wide with rage. Haraldr fought like a mad creature; blinded by hatred and fury, his attack was relentless and berserk. Brave Irascri and Fadir were taken back by the sudden ferocity of Haraldr's violent burst and braced each other against each mighty blow. As they focused on the barbarian stood before them the Sicire who had been chasing the routing allies of Fadir and Irascri turned about to face the brave warriors. Before the pair were aware of the danger a tide of enemies swept underfoot, crashing into their exposed backs. In moments they were gone, consumed by the numbers of their enemies, and Drenthri took them for herself down into the deep to stand alongside her hallowed throne.