Blade of Erogrund
Unwelcome Visitors

Dragonfire, Godric swore to himself.

With another grunt and strong heft of force into the crude wooden plow, he managed to break up another foot or so of thick, clay dirt. Leaning back on the plow, he wiped his sweat-stained brow with the already drenched sleeve of his ratty tunic. The sun was just reaching its height in the noonday sky, virtually cooking everyone that was unfortunate enough to have to stand beneath it. If it had not been for the miserable heat, the acres and acres of plowed land surrounded by dense, lush green forests would have made a pleasurable sight, especially mixed with the pleasing aroma of blooming flowers from the Cobblestone Brook only a ways away, which was carried by a gentle breeze into the fields where he was working.

Godric glanced up briefly at the sun, gauging the time. Roughly twelve-thirty. Only five more hours, he thought with a groan before once again forcing his weight against the infernal wooden machine. Clearly it was getting dull, because it only made it another foot or two before the long wooden spike that tore paths in the ground snapped with a sudden crack.

“Hellstorm,” he cursed quietly. With a sharp tug, he drew the crude plow out of the ground and carried it a ways to a stump near the field. The breeze rustled the trees as he walked, which somehow always seemed to be a relaxing sound. In a stroke of luck, someone had left a hatchet in the wooden stub. Sitting himself down, Godric drew the short hatchet and began sharpening what was left of the prong that had broken. Enough was probably left that it could do they job well enough, but he would likely have to make another that night.

Just as the spike was nearly at a point, footsteps alerted him that someone was coming. Turning around, he was surprised to see Mira walking toward him. Judging by the sizable books under her arm, she was had been reading by the brook.

Subconsciously, Godric looked himself over quickly. His chestnut brown hair was still matted and dirty from working in the fields all morning, but he did his best to rearrange it in a semi-presentable manner by brushing it out of his deep blue eyes. His stout, strong arms were dark from smeared grime and deep tan of being in the sun and his cloths were in varying states of disrepair. Not exactly my best look.

The last time he had seen Mira was at the Planting Festival several days ago when her father had invited the village over and they had celebrated the planting that took place the next day. He fondly remembered that she had worn a long green dress that seemed to flawlessly match her eyes while at the same time complementing her long, beautiful red hair. She wore a similar dress today, but it was coarser and lacked the former elegance. Not that she needs it, Godric thought, smiling.

“Are you okay?”

The question snapped him out of his reminiscing and he realized that she was standing in front of him with her arms crossed, a confused look on her face and a humorous light in her eyes.

“What?” The question sounded even more stupid than he had thought it would as his voice cracked awkwardly at being taken by surprise.

Mira smiled in a kind, mocking way. “Hmmm, maybe you should spend a little less time in the sun, Farm Boy.” He smiled back and looked down in embarrassment, his face flushing. “It’s okay, I’m sure you’ll recover from your delusions some day.”

He laughed a little an nodded. “At least I don’t whittle away all my time reading dusty manuscripts next to a pond.”

Her face fell in a look of pretend-hurt. “I’ll have you know that it is a brook, not a pond, and some would consider that a noble use of time. Better than rooting around in the dirt all day.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” He said, his grin widening. “Then again, almost anything is, so that isn’t really saying anything.”

She shook her head. “Some people are hopeless.”

“I try not to judge.”

She glared at him for a couple seconds before they both started laughing.

“Anyway,” Her face turning more serious, “your father is looking for you. Word has it that the Blue Guard is coming soon and Drom is looking for men to watch the taverns and houses.”

Godric grimaced, but nodded his understanding. He hated plowing, but if the Blue Guard was coming, chances were that being in town would not be pleasant. The Blue Guard was notorious for their heartlessness toward the common folk. Supposedly they were the regular army for the scanty few villages that remained part of the “Kingdom” of Men in Niron, but they were more like bandits and thieves than actual soldiers and no one seemed to know who they fought, other than their own people. Thankfully, unlike most villages, their town of Dunn had a militia organized by the powerful blacksmith, Drom. They were no trained soldiers or fighters, but, then again, neither were most of the bandits that preyed on them.

Placing the plow next to him, Godric hefted the hatchet and stood, making his way through the fields with Mira back to the village-proper. It was not a long walk, only about half a mile, but it was long enough that he got to enjoy her company. Her smile and the gentle sound of her laugh seemed to make the trees even greener and the sun even brighter, but cold reality set in once they reached the Town Square.

The village itself was arranged in a large square, streets running parallel to the sides of the Town Square that then formed four entrances in and out at the corners where they intersected. A short wall, nearly ten feet in height, surrounded most of the village, but ended in the southwest corner where the road made its way down to the farmers’ fields and the herdsmen’s flocks.

This was the way Godric and Mira made their way into the town, the braying of sheep greeting them from the pens. A dark mood filled the streets as they made their way to the center. All the shops, save the tavern, inn, and smithy, were shut with boards over their windows and bolts on their doors. The looming roofs of the buildings cast ominous shadows into the streets, setting a melancholy feeling on the cobblestone paths, despite the otherwise sunny day.

In the Town Square Godric quickly found Drom, who was easy to pick out of the crowd of men that were assembled there. The hulking man stood nearly six-and-a-half feet tall, with massive, ripped arms that reflected the challenge of his trade. His thick, dark hair was pulled in a short pony-tale, revealing his hard, but not altogether unkind, brown eyes. He was handing out spears and leather jerkins to the few men trained in their use when he noticed Godric and Mira.

"“Ello lad! You just missed your father. You and he are to be at the tavern ’onight, but I think you will find him at your house.’Parently he had some business to take care of, but mind that you are in place when the horn calls.

“And you, missy,” He said, waving a finger at Mira, “your mother’s worried sick for you. She’s half sure that you’ve been carried off by the Blue Guard already, bless her soul. You better make your way home too...for both our sakes,” He added with a smile before returning to dispensing equipment.

Mira shook her head in exasperation, but waved goodbye to Godric and made her way across the Square to her house, which was only a couple streets out. Pausing a moment to watch her go, Godric turned and made his way back to the southern side of the village.

The walk to his house was not a long one - the village-proper was only a square mile - but walked slowly. Being assigned to the tavern was no joking matter and it weighed heavily on his mind. The Blue Guard were fond - often too much so - of their drink and were just as unhappy to pay for their drinks as they were happy to drink them. There was hardly a “visit” that didn’t end with tension, but there had never been bloodshed, as far as he knew.

These thoughts ran through his mind as he finally came to his small house which was crammed between two similarly miniscule stone buildings. He pushed open the crude wooden door. The stone building was dim, lit only by the occasional candle and several narrow windows, and lacked all adornment or decoration, save a faded tapestry that hung in the dining room. The thick scent of dampness hung heavy, but Godric did not mind. He thought, with a touch of sorrow, to when his mother had lived and had filled the house with flowers and decorations, but it had been so long ago that he could never seem to replicate the inviting feeling she had created. That, combined with the fact that Father was not one for adornment, resulted in a bare home.

The sound of scuffling in the pantry alerted Godric that his Father was likely there. Making his way through the hallway, he discovered that this was indeed the case. Hearing the steps, his father’s bowed figure turned with some difficulty, though the pantry was scantily stocked, and he smiled weakly.

“Hello, son. I take it Drom gave you the news?”

Godric nodded. “That we have the tavern? Well enough, I suppose. Provided those thugs can keep their hands to themselves, of course.”

His father grimaced. “I wouldn’t count on it.” He turned back around to what he had been working on.

A large cobblestone had been removed from the pantry floor, revealing what looked to be a small space underneath. Godric looked closer to see what his father was doing; previously he had no knowledge of this. As he watched, his father drew out what looked to be two daggers that hung from ancient leather sheaths connected by straps, most of which were mice-eaten or torn. Thick layers of dust formed a coating around the weapons and their equipment that puffed in small clouds when his father picked them up.

“Here,” he said, handing one to Godric. “Be careful, though. These are no rat-pokers like Drom makes.” Godric raised an eyebrow and his father chuckled. “He’s a fine blacksmith to be sure, but he’s no forgemaster. These are true weapons. Go ahead, draw it.”

Hesitantly, he scraped off the half-inch of grime to find the once-fine handle. He rubbed his thumb along the hilt, scraping off dirt that covered the tarnished silver. He gently pulled on the dagger, but it resisted for a second before sliding out with a jerk and its sudden appearance took his breath away.

The blade was forged of hardened steel and overlaid with thin layer of silver that had been shaped with delicate swirls throughout and tiny runes had been cut into the narrow blood groove. The beauty of the knife was only paralleled by its incredible fearsomeness. The dagger balanced perfectly in his hand and, even though he was no weapon master, he could tell even by its appearance that it was a deadly tool.

As he examined the dagger, Godric’s father pulled out a longer parcel that was wrapped in a thick black blanket. Unfurling it, he revealed a sleek sword that sat in an aged sheath, with more rags wrapping its handle and hilt.

“Father...” Godric breathed, still examining the dagger. “Where did you get these? I’ve never heard of weapons like this before.”

His father smiled knowingly. “A past life, son. They are only tools. Fine ones to be sure, but tools all the same.”

A deep, rumbling horn echoed through the road and into the house.

Godric perked up. “That would be Drom’s horn, I suspect.” His father nodded and strapped on one of the daggers as well as the sword.

“Hurry with your weapon, son. I have a feeling they will need every man they can get.”

By the time Godric and his father had made it to the Town Square, it appeared trouble was already afoot.

Drom stood in the center of the Square, spear in hand, surrounded by twenty or thirty other men armed with similar weapons and the hardened leather jerkins he had been passing out before. The numerous other men must have taken up their positions already throughout the town to keep an eye on things.

Directly across from him was a second troop, this numbering nearly fifty men in a filthy menagerie of scale-male, chain-male, leather, and plate armor all overtop a standardly ragged tunic that appeared to have once been cobalt blue. Every weapon from tree branch to torch to two-hand sword filled their hands - hands, one might add, that looked very capable of using them. At their head a tall wiry man with a jagged scar across the right side of his face exchanged heated words with Drom. Making his way closer to gathering, Godric picked up their conversation.

“...And this is how you greet the Blue Guard?! An army waiting for us? Bolts on the gate? Good god man, I would not be surprised if you had archers behind these houses waiting to stick us in our sleep!” The wiry man continued to yell at Drom, but the blacksmith stood his ground and answered calmly once the barrage was over.

“You can’t blame us for protecting our own. These are dangerous times, Haurk; we are only taking precautions. There are harsh folk in these lands and we intend to protect ourselves against them, should they try to attack us.”

The wiry man, who’s name appeared to be Haurk, spat in the dust. “Protect! Ha!”

Drom glowered distastefully. “So if you are the new captain, where, pray tell, has Renis gone?” That’s right, Godric though, a different man had led the Blue Guard last time they had come.

“Eh, that fool fell in the West Fields, out yonder,” Haurk said with a wave of his hand. However, considering he waved East, Godric guessed there was more to the story than that, as there often was when it came to the Blue Guard.

“You have our condolences,” Drom said through gritted teeth. This, finally, was semi-true. Renis may have been a thief, but at least he showed restraint.

“Hellstorm your condolences. I’ve no need for them, only your brandy and steel.” Haurk’s men murmured in agreement. Two of the men made their way to the tavern, which sat on the edge of the Square and kicked the door in, bashing and twisting its hinges until it fell with a sharp bang. Godric clenched the dagger in his belt, but his father placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Calm, son. These men will do what they will do. Drom will fix the hinges free of charge; it is our job only to protect the people.”

Most of the Blue Guard flooded the tavern, but Godric noticed that a few lingered behind to talk to Drom as he and his father slipped in after them.

It had only been a couple moments, but the small establishment already smelled of sweat, alcohol, and dirt that clogged Godric’s nostrils like cotton soaked in some foul concoction. The Blue Guard at least demonstrated some restraint when it came to getting their drinks, allowing Bher, the bar tender, to pour drinks for each man before they took their flasks and made their way to a table or booth. Laughter, crass jokes, and harsh shouts filled the small room, nearly shaking it like an inhabited gong.

Godric and his father sat in a small corner table, eyeing the men. Most of the Blue Guard had only knives or small clubs, but a few carried large maces and short swords. These ruffians occupied nearly all the room in the poor establishment, but he noticed that there were three other townsmen in the opposite side of the room, close to the kegs, that also appeared to be watching the Blue Guard warily.

This is going to be a long night, thought Godric.

As the day drew to afternoon and the afternoon drew to night, the beer kegs grew as empty as the minds of those who consumed their contents. Nearly all the Blue Guard lie unconscious, slumped like slugs over their tables. Still a few murmured to their comrades absent-mindedly and others traced the tops of their flasks with their fingertips, deep in thought, or as close as they could be to thought in their cloudy-minded condition.

There had been almost no scuffles, an unusually uneventful night. Godric’s father sat dozing in his chair, but the boy could not. He kept eyeing the men, which felt wrong since they were in a compromised state, but still even worse not to lest they suddenly lash out.

Footsteps thumping on the broken-down door alerted him that someone was coming in. Looking up, Godric saw that it was Haurk, who had been one of the only Blue Guards not to have visited the tavern and, for that matter, to have remained in a state of somewhat sobriety.

Making his way to the bar, Haurk barked in a harsh voice, “Your finest wine. Now!” Bher scurried off into the back room and Godric thought he heard Haurk mutter a curse as he looked around at all the drunken troops. Only seconds later, Bher returned with a beautiful bottle of some old wine, but the boy did not catch what it was. Apparently it was fine enough for Haurk, as he hastily downed a glass of it before taking the bottle from Bher’s hands and up-ending it into his mouth. Once he got a mouthful, he nodded and swallowed. “A fine taste to be sure.”

Bher smiled hesitantly. “Yes Sir, one of the best ever to be - ” He was suddenly cut off as Haurk threw the bottle on the wooden floor. It smashed into a hundred pieces, sending what remained of its contents spewing across the room. Bher gaped breathlessly. “You...You...” He pointed at the floor incredulously, his mouth opening and closing without hardly a noise until at last it dawned on him and his countenance flushed with fierce anger. “That will be ten gold pieces!”

Haurk scoffed. “Please, you pitiful wretch. Don’t mock me by pretending that you have any control here.”

Bher’s fist slammed on the wooden bar table, its old boards cracking. “I mean it, you thief! NOW!” Haurk’s face screwed up in a look of contempt and in a flash he had one hand around the old bartender’s throat and the other around the knife that had sat in his belt. Holding its glistening blade up to the elderly face, its polished tip glistened off the candlelight.

“Do you care to repeat that, wretch?” As quick as a clap of lighting, Godric’s father stood and had his dagger in hand. The move started Godric, but he also drew his dagger and stood beside his father.

“Drop it, Haurk.” His father’s voice was calm, but it came with a demanding tone. “Or I will stab this dagger between your ribs.”

The ragged soldier turned with surprise, dropping Bher in a heap behind the bar. He recovered quickly though and held onto his knife. “Please, as if a ragged villager like you could possibly stick me.” His voice was as arrogant as his countenance, but something in his eyes told Godric that the man was ever so slightly afraid.

Even as this registered in the boy’s mind, Haurk spun, whipping his left hand against the man’s wrist, sending the dagger spinning into a corner, and turned into the man’s exposed chest. His knife hissed through the air and found its target, slicing a deep cut into Godric’s father’s cheek. The older man flinched and reeled at the blow, giving way for Haurk to plant a ferocious kick on the man’s sternum, sending him flying into a table behind.

Godric stood helplessly as Haurk stocked toward his nearly unconscious father. The glistening knife in Haurk’s hand glinted as his hand carried it toward the man’s heart.

The deadly arch’s path was interrupted, however, as the sounds of explosions erupted outside.

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