Blade of Erogrund
Voices of the Dead

Mira’s heart pounded. Every moment gave way to its relentless beating like the ferocious hammering of Dwarven blacksmiths she had grown so accustom to hearing in the forges. It sent a conspicuous tremor through her entire body as she leaned over, crouched on the floor in the row of books.

Naevir again had offered her solace when the rest of the city had proven cold and demanding. The smooth, flowing carvings of the formidable bookshelves cast sweeping blankets of shadow that welcomed her into their swaths of concealment. The sweet sent of aged parchment combined with the ever so small scent of must offered reassurance to her even when her eyes were closed in a desperate attempt to block out the visions of what had transpired.

Whenever she opened them she was faced with the sickening red of the blood that soaked her hands. With her hair fallen around her shoulders it had become difficult to even distinguish the lovely ginger from the ghastly scarlet. It occurred to her in these fragile moments that blood was actually a beautiful color. The way it caught the torchlight while embracing the darkness of shadows was unparalleled. But the beauty was soured as soon as her mind fluttered upon the thought that not a day before it had been coursing through a man’s veins, offering life, vitality, and strength to every one of his limbs. It was like a painting of remarkable beauty, cherished by its beholder until suddenly it was understood that it was only viewed by some irreversibly heinous payment.

Visions swam in her mind of all that had happened. Once the fighting had stilled everyone of whom had ever had practice healing, from apothecary to stable-hand, had been beckoned to the hospital wards.

With all frantic haste they had worked. For hours they had worked until the thick, sickening scent of blood ran thick on the floor and its odor saturated the air. The moans of the dead and dying still called to her from the memories filling her recent thoughts. Even sharper were the ones that could not be saved, the ones so bloodied by their bravery or arrogance that no matter of herb or bandages could stanch the life that seeped from them.

Suddenly she heard footsteps in the aisle, breaking the chains that bound her thoughts.

“Mira,” a soft voice called. “I see you there.”

The cowering girl looked up into the eyes of a small, innocently kind face.

“Samantha,” she replied, unsure of what to say.

The younger girl did not seem to mind the pointless greeting. Instead she stepped carefully, almost gingerly, toward where Mira was crouched and drew her short braid of strawberry blond hair off her concern-ridden face and over her shoulder.

“Are you okay?” Her voice was as delicate as her appearance and her cloudy blue eyes narrowed.

Mira’s first thought was to answer yes, of course, but her mind overcame her will and she buried her head in her hands. “No.”

Samantha dropped beside her, hugging her legs to her chest and leaning back against the cold stone wall. “I know what you mean, I think. There were so many of them.”

The redheaded girl beside her wiped her blood-spattered cheek with what remained of the semi-clean sleeve that covered her left arm. “Yes. It’s more than that though... Each of them were alive yesterday. Their hearts were beating strong and fast, faster even as they went to the very fighting that killed them. How can someone lift a weapon so cold and sharp against another and bring it down with such thoughtless violence?”

The younger girl cocked her head. “I’m not sure I understand. I’m only ten, so that might not be saying much, but I think there was plenty of thought in what happened. High Lord Caeros had planned for quite some time, I imagine, and it is not in the nature of Niron men to throw their lives away without thought. Sobriety, on the other hand,” she said with a small smile and the rolling of her eyes, “is another matter entirely. But not their lives.”

Mira offered no response so Samantha shrugged and continued. “A man can only do what he believes to be best, don’t you think? And if that is taking a sword to another man, who can blame him besides the rest of us who have to clean up the gore.”

The way this girl’s voice maintained its baseless mirth reignited the chills that shook Mira’s blood-spattered frame. That one so young could speak of death so casually was a mystery so great it succeeded in breaking her thoughts of despair.

“How can you say that?” Mira asked quietly. “How do you look at something like that and just move on?”

The frailty in Mira’s voice washed over Samantha’s small frame until her eyes had become glassy. “I’m not sure.... I guess you just get used to it. Nothing like that has happened before, but I’ve helped Mama with her surgeries and Da’ has been hurt on patrol more times than I remember. It’s just there. So you live with it.”

Mira took shaky breath. “I pity you. In our city the only blade that was swung with such confidence was the scythe in the harvest season. We never had to harden ourselves to bloodshed or such suffering as this. There was always the Blue Guard, of course, but they were mere child’s play in comparison to what you are faced with.”

The fog that had fallen over the younger girl’s eyes dispersed with a distant smile. “I should very much like to see a city such as that. Maybe when this is all over you could take me there.

“Oh, I’ve nearly forgotten!” the girl exclaimed suddenly, practically jumping to her feet. “I’m to take you to the Great Hall! Thessi has sent for you.”

The city still lie in the eerie silence that threatened to choke it as one who held their breath in wait of some great event only to find they have fainted and missed it. Each step sang a mournful note for the dead.

That is not to say it was not busy. No, footsteps filled the passages and rang in mournful chorus combined with the drumming of shields falling on their bearer’s shoulders and the clattering of swords against the armor of the guards.

Through Rae-Oiron Samantha led her, past the women who carried those that remained from the battlefield. Still the signs of battle were not shaken from that room. Arrows lie broken and shattered in the thick of dark red that threatened to consume the stones on which the scarlet dried. All the swords and armor had already been gathered or retrieved. Now those unfortunate enough to have been forsaken were taken away with all the graveness that was appropriate for such a grim task. These were the men who stubbornly refused to respond even as they were lain upon the wooden stretches carried by the healers and these were the men who received neither bandage nor potion for their wounds, only a sheet to conceal the sacrifice they had eagerly offered the night before.

Despite the protests of her heart, Mira’s eyes searched the faces of those left on the floor for either Godric’s or Aeis’s familiar face. Both hope and fear rid her mind as her eyes searched the scene, and it was not unnoticed by Samantha.

“Might I ask what you look for? Unless of course,” she added, “you wish not to talk about it?” Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ FɪndNovᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“No it’s not that. I haven’t seen my companion from last night since the fighting began or another of my friends.”

“And you think they fell?”

“I’m not sure. No, I don’t think so. Both are stout of heart and resourceful. They couldn’t have.”

Samantha said nothing, but led Mira up the flights of stairs toward one of the floors she was yet to explore in the city. The younger girl led her to a door where three guards stood, two on either side and one in the center.

“Who are you and what is your business in the Great Hall?” The guard’s voice was harsh and brutally commanding, but Samantha smiled unconcernedly.

“We have been summoned by Lady Sarah to tend to the King.”

One of the guards scoffed, but the captain glared at him. “Check it.” The accompanying soldier shook his head but opened the door and stepped in. Moments later he stepped back out.

“She’s right. Which of you is Mira?” Samantha stepped aside, gesturing to Mira. “You,” the guard said, pointing to her and waving her over. “Sarah requested your presence. Miss,” he continued, addressing Samantha, “my apologies, but you cannot enter.”

The younger girl shrugged. “I understand.” She offered an encouraging nod to Mira and walked off back down the hall.

The guard opened the door behind them and waved for the girl to enter, which she did with little hesitation.

Inside was a vast hall far more beautiful then she had ever imagined. Tall pillars of silver-grey stone arranged in rows on either side of the chamber held the tall ceiling in place with a canopy of limbs that stretched across the roof in juncture with its surrounding to form a glorious lattice-work of smooth stone beams. Gentle chandeliers of the finest silver Mira had ever had chance to lie eyes on hung like gems from the ceiling, bathing the room in light as white and pure as the flowing water at Breaker’s Bend.

It was, however, what transpired in the back of the room that commanded her attention. From where she stood it appeared a large bed had been arranged. It was rather plain in comparison to the elegance of the chamber and was attended by numerous people accompanied by a small rectangular table on which rested a multitude of items, most of which Mira could not make out.

With more than one doubt in her mind, Mira stepped toward the scene and flinched as her footfall sent a startlingly loud echo through the hall.

One of the primary attendants to the bed looked up and beckoned her over frantically. “Come, child! Quickly now!” Even from the sizable distance Mira recognized the soft voice of Thessi, the elderly healer who had been so welcoming to her when she had discovered the infirmary.

Her pace quickened until she stood beside the hunched elderly woman and the several others gathered around the bedside. Included, she noticed as she surveyed those gathered, was a dozing Thain and concerned looking Saracyir. Beside them were several concerned-looking attendants and pages, coupled with more soldiers that solemnly watched. It was only then that she saw who lay in the bed.

Bandages wrapped much of his bare, scarred chest and cloths wrapped most of his forehead, but she still recognized Ennor from where he lay unconscious under the folds of the sheets. His skin was milky white like the fairest parchment in stark contrast to the swath of dark hair that matted his perspiration-covered brow. His square shoulders were largely hidden beneath the bands of cloth but the sickening red that polluted the bandages could not be disguised. Instead it shone with brutal vitality as though mocking the life that it seeped from in order to bring existence to the grotesque art it painted on his wrappings.

A distinct aura of illness is discernible when faced with truth suffering. A scent of thin sweat combined with the perspiration of fear and stress hangs in the room and is furthered by the sight of one in true peril. Be it a trick of the mind, a combination of potent senses that nature has taught mankind to associate with agony, or some reception of senses not yet understood by the perception of humanity no one can definitively declare but still it plagues the bedsides of those who fall under its spell. Just so was the aura that hung over Ennor’s bed as Mira cautiously approached.

“Come child, come, come,” Thessi insisted in a voice scarcely over a whisper.

“What happened to him?” Mira asked in a similar tone.

“An arrow caught him in the shoulder,” Thain answered flatly from beneath his dense, drooping eyebrows. “The bloody cowards couldn’t even stand and fight him one-to-one.”

“Hush,” Saracyir murmured. “There is no use in talking of that now. Let us turn our attention on the healing of the present rather than the regret of past battles. You should retire to your chambers, Thain, the time for battle has passed and still you have not rested. There is little you can do now.”

“You may be correct,” the dwarf answered in the same hushed tone, “but ne’er will I be caught sleeping until I am sure of the condition of this man, be it good or ill.”

Thessi bowed her head after inspecting the bandages while this exchange transpired. “I fear it shall be for ill unless a blessing soon falls upon us. Far too much blood continues to be lost from that wound. All I can think to do has been done. It is not enough.”

“I am sorry, Ma’am, but why is it that you have sent for me?” Mira inquired. “All the skills I possess are yours, yet they are little compared to those you yourself have already used.”

The old apothecary shook her head. “You are of a different knowledge than I, child. Some of what you achieved in my infirmary I could not fathom or devise. If at the present you know of any remedy that may recover this young king, I pray you will employ it.”

Mira nodded slowly and took her place beside the bed to inspect the wounds. Each had been bound expertly, by Thessi no doubt, and clad in all the appropriate poultices for gashes and sores but, just as the elderly healer had said, the patch of red that seeped into the wrappings continued to grow as the king’s skin remained unnaturally pale.

Her thoughts ran from the gates of the city to her own home where her mother had many times bound the injuries of the sick in Dunn. Many a remedy came to mind, though all had been applied or a more potent variation attempted already. Nothing was to be done.

That is, until a voice murmured in her mind. At first it was a lingering doubt, a question that whispered its presence into her innermost thoughts until she could hardly ignore it. As option after option came before her and were denied as a means of healing the king, it continued to grow until it was all she could consider. Seemingly the only solution that remained.

No. I swore. I swore never again, she thought frantically.

But here at last was a chance to use her skill, the skill that had rarely been employed since that morning in Threst. The flickering ember of power that always flickered in her chest threatened to roar at this consideration. She could feel it like a rushing river hungry to be untamed.

With a quivering hand she touched the king’s bandage gently and took a deep breath, feeling the hurt. Somehow she could sense it. She felt the completeness of the pain that had stolen away the young king and the sureness of his passing. The tongues of power burned brighter within her, threatening even as she examined the king to burst out and repair him, to resew the flesh and mend the skin, to remove the bandages and strengthen the muscle....But her doubt bolted the dam that stayed this power. She could not. She would not. Not like that. To Niron and Ecthion how she would heal him but not like that.

“I cannot,” she murmured despairingly. “I do not know how.”

Thessi patted her on the shoulder. “It’s alright, child. It is much to expect of anyone most of all one who has been as tried as yourself. Do not fret, for Fate’s rod has not yet woven the last cord.”

“May it be as you say, wise woman,” Thain grunted. “But I shall retire all the same for if my king’s condition is what it sounds and he must sleep as you say then let it be so. If there is to be any change in his condition, however, I request with all possible seriousness that one should send for me immediately.”

“I will see to it,” Saracyir said kindly.

“Before you go,” Mira asked, a thought rising suddenly to her attention, “what of Caeros? Does he still live?”

Thain’s eyes darkened with all the hostility of a stormy midnight. “Aye, but only that Ennor would wish it to be so. He and all his compatriots that remained.”

“Then they are few,” Mira said, relieved.

“Nay, they are many. At least a hundred men stand in the Lower Halls,” Thain declared grimly. “But the gates are barred and they are watched by Dwarven guards as declared by my very words and will continue to be until the king declares otherwise.”

“Go then,” Saracyir insisted firmly. “Night threatens to fall a second time and still your head has not found solace on a pillow. The guard has been doubled and the gates on every front sealed. There will be neither entering nor exiting the city nor shall we expect any further dissent. Tonight we may rest in peace from the fear of future swords, if” she murmured, taking the wounded king’s hand, “not for the fear of wounds already dealt.”

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