A great cry went up from vale to vale, from sea-shore to sea-shore, in the land of Estria, as news at last reached the great hall of Morcar, of the great sorrow that had swept over the land, at the claws and fangs of Balthrorth. The first fugitives came from the easternmost monastery of Ilkharizon, where the monks lived in isolation away from the rest of the world behind high-walls. Built for them thirty years ago, on the orders of the King Ealdmund, who had imparted it as a gift to defend them from Norse-invasions from the sea, in turn they were to note down and copy all the histories of Estria going back to the age of Cormac Sea-Crosser. Dutiful followers of Saga, the great goddess of scribes and history, sadly their walls and papers of history were of little use in the face of the wroth of the red-winged terror of Estria.
What began with the monks, moved next to the villages to the south and slowly westwards until all the villages, from Glaciathorpe to those but a day or three from Falsveal, namely the villages of Gedham and Aslthorpe.
The cry that poured through the land from the north, to the south, from the mountains in the north-east to the Waldr River in the south and that of the Aven River in the west was such that the whole of the land shook. Of all those in Falsveal none held themselves aloof from the terror and the pain, of those who poured past the gates, or who sent pleas for aid and for Morcar to offer up recompense to Balthorth for having stolen what was his by right; Elena. Somehow, the memory of how it was two girls who had been rescued from the great drake had been forgotten in the terror and violence that now broke out, throughout all the eastern-lands.
“Save us o lord of Falsveal!” went up the cries from outside, inside and all about the gates and fortress of the heir of the Throne-Giver. “Remember thy duty, o lord! Recall thy oath to holy Father Temple, upon the Paragons’ bones to give unto Balthrorth, thy daughters! Remember the lottery!”
This cry was carried inside by Millarth, the black-hearted deacon of Falsveal temple who had agreed to house a great number of the fugitives. Not out of any great sense of compassion, but rather to give the appearance of one who cared for others. His real motive was for others, those faint-hearted and fickle in nature to turn to Morcar and demand that he meet these deeds with a greater sacrifice of his own; namely that of his children. The fact that Millarth still drank the finest of wine, and ate fine venison where those in his halls went hungry save for when the lord delivered food to them, went largely unnoticed the more the days passed.
Each of the hundreds who passed through the gates into the town by the sea, the worst moment lay behind them, with their lost farms and homes. To the monks who poured into Falsveal, the worst lay in their lost libraries and temples, with their possessions of value all going to the nest of the terrible Balthrorth. Where this was the case for all of these people, the worst for Morcar, lay in Millarth’s revelation at noon, six weeks after Elena’s rescue.
“Velantyril has fallen,” Announced the terrible deacon of Falsveal lips curved up in a sneer, one that hardly any noticed so great was their grief. A cry erupted, as he went on to the mounting horror and weeping of ?lffl?d, who mourned already for her deceased kinsmen. “None have survived, as Balthrorth has feasted upon Egnor and all his sons and daughters. The Wyrm has spared but one man; Darryl of Velantyril, who arrived here badly scarred the prior night.”
Morcar did not answer at once, preferring to busy himself with holding his beloved bride- she of the golden hair, holding her as she wept against him. He left his children by her to the care of Elena and Mildburg.
Ealhstan it was who defended of the broken lord of Falsveal, “May we see poor Darryl?”
“No, for he is most unwell,” Rejected Millarth at once, only to add, “The people demand action, milord! It is the return of Elena that has awoken the wrath of mighty Balthrorth- what are we to do but give in to his demands?”
None had an immediate answer none had any wish to resist the persuasive deacon, for he spoke with the voice of one who knew their pain, their fear. He spoke most notably to their own weakness, one in character that though many might well have preferred to die for Elena, they failed to summon the manhood to do just this.
At the sight of such weakness, of such cowardice there awoke in Gwilherm the wroth of his ancestors, of his infancy. This time it was not directed at Morcar, but rather he who threatened Elena, whom he could after having come to know her, he could no more stomach being fed to the destroyer of Estria than he could slay her himself. “No! We shall not do this! You ask ‘what we are to do’ or some such demand, Brother Millarth? Well, to that I say we are to take the fight to he who would devour our daughters, set fire to our fields and to bring tears to the eyes of our subjects! That is what I say, we are to do!”
For some time none answered him, it had after all been some time since such manly, such beautiful speech had been made in the halls of Morcar. A flame was lit thence in the hearts of a great many, sadly though, just as several of the men began to rouse themselves, the tiny flame was blown out by cruel Millarth.
He saw just how dangerous such valour could prove itself to be, and for this reason he could not stomach it, he was after-all as a vulture before a carcass. It was for this reason that he had never tolerated, or supported any of the heroics of Morcar’s sons, all of whom had perished attempting to do what was right; to shield their sisters.
“And how are we to wound Balthrorth, he who has scales more endurable than steel- claws that slash more deeply than the mightiest of swords, fangs the size of men and flames that burn hotter than those thrown down by Ziu in his worst fits of wrath?” The deacon demanded as he raised his arms in a fury, a coward he called up however the name of the sword-god in vain, a gesture that might well have been noted and brought to the attention of all in a heart-beat, under other circumstances. At that moment though, all were distracted by the grandness of the terror that stood before them in spirit, the image called hither by Millarth had all of them hypnotized, and in peril of once again turning upon their lord.
This was worsened by Wigstan who added his voice in support to that of the deacon, “Yes uncle, we must placate the dragon! Less he continues his cruel ravishing of Estria!”
Morcar, his bride soothed opened his mouth to answer, before he closed it only to open it again, as he cast about the hall once again for a protector, feebly asking; “I have given over to his hunger eight sons and nine of my thirteen daughters, along with my sister, and four of her daughters… is that not enough? Will none shield now my Elena, or Mildburg, or any of my other daughters from this terrible fate?”
“You got your daughter back, how dare ye demand more from the rest of us!?” One of the locals who was present snapped back, her voice rising shrilly as she added, “I have lost three daughters also, yet ye did not see me demanding that they be returned though I wished that they would be!”
“Yes!” A clamour of voices arose in support of her, to the joy of Millarth.
“I doubt ye felt half the distress that thy lord has felt since, therefore be silent,” Ealhstan shouted back in response, just as another voice piped up, to the horror of Morcar.
“Father, I am not afraid, I could go instead of Elena,” It was Bada, the six year old daughter of Falsveal and ?lffl?d, with it now for the rest of the family to scream denials.
?lffl?d swooned a little, as did her husband who gaped at his young daughter, with the rest of the men-folk present herewith shamed into silence; as the eldest of ?lffl?d’s daughters’ demonstrated greater bravery and honour than all present had.
“No!” This strangled cry was torn from the heir of Cendric’s throat as he leapt to his feet, having heard enough of the matter. “I have sacrificed enough, as all of ye! We shall follow in Eadwin’s noble example at long last!”
“Yes,” Gwilherm cried upon his feet in an instant also, resolved to strike dead the true killer of his brother, and to fulfill his quest at last. “I shall take up the battle with Balthrorth, I need only new arms and armour.”
At this more people mocked him, whilst others such as Wigstan and Millarth gazed upon him with utter contempt, with the former also mingling a touch of envy. Elena and Mildburg for their part gazed at him with visible admiration, to his great embarrassment. Repressing such feelings, he was proud to have reached the same conclusion as those around him; all was secondary to the death of Balthrorth.
It was not only the ladies of Falsveal who gazed upon him, with visible admiration but her lord. The light of his eyes might well have been that of a father who gazed upon his son, nodding to himself in satisfaction, he turned now to his steward. A plump dark-haired and bearded man dressed in green with dark eyes, by the name of Beorhtsige, who was ever at the elbow of his liege, or seated amongst the huscarls. Lo! He had begun life amongst their midst, and risen as a warrior and man with some considerable memory so that he now stood the sub-monarch to Morcar’s supreme chieftain-status in Falsveal.
He grasped his rival’s arm, and said to him in a voice thick with emotion, “Come, I have more than mere arms and armour prepared for ye noble son of Réaldwaldr.”
The two descended from the grand-hall, to the armoury which was just next to the stables, and it was therewith that Gwilherm was at last given armours that were by ancestral rights the possessions of Falsveal. Intended for Morcar’s eldest son Beorhtric the Good, who had raced off to save his cousin without it, fifteen years prior when the eldest of Morcar’s daughters, Eadgye was sacrificed to Balthorth’s hunger, with the armour a series of steel rings banded together. Of ancient Dwarf-make, by the legendary Dwarven armourer Vultror who was said to have also forged the Dragon-Helm of Aemiliemagne the greatest of kings to have ever walked the lands of North-Agenor. This helm though was no dragon-helm, but a lion one with the helm shaped as though the head of one with another proud feline rearing up from the summit of the helm. The crimson cloak that was thrown over, was one that Morcar had stolen from Eadwin years prior.
“I had desired it for myself, due to the silk which is from Lyonesse… I understand now that, Brigantia intended me to merely keep it for his heir- you, valiant Gwilherm of Réalwaldr.” He pronounced once he and Ealhstan had finished dressing the youth in the magnificent armour, the enchanter having followed the three of them there with a proud if enigmatic grin upon his bearded face.
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“Very becoming,” Ealhstan said with sincere emotion in his voice, as Gwilherm caressed the cloth with a distant and dreamy glazed look in his eyes.
He remembered the cloak well. For he had likewise desired and loved it, from the first also, though in his case he could recall a time when it had surrounded his shoulders, just before Eadwin had ruffled his hair with a grin to their father: The forty-three year old man having laughed himself hoarse until he fell over, this being when Gwilherm was but three years old, just before his death at the hands of Morcar.
“Bah, what warrior would be complete without a proper shield?” Beorhtsige asked with a snort, pulling up from one side of the room, which was filled to the brim with spears, swords and armours, with the shield in question pulled from the wall opposite to the doors.
It was a magnificent buckler of pure Dwarvish-steel. A rounded thing forged centuries prior, by the same Dwarf who had made the ring-mail of the lords of Falsveal. The buckler which was dubbed by Gwilherm the moment he beheld it the ‘Ram-Shield’, had indeed a great golden ram’s head painted onto it, with the rest of the round item being scarlet with silver spiked edges. It was almost as large as a man’s chest and the moment it was fastened onto his arm, he felt a surge of rightness, of pride for holding it.
“This shall protect you from the drake’s fire, next we have a spear of the most unique sort-” Began the lord proudly only to be interrupted by his steward who coughed a little from behind him.
“It is hardly ready milord, I have yet to hear from Valdan the Wolfram, about its’ readiness,” Beorhtsige admitted with his flush spreading all the way to his cheeks, neck and ears.
Valdan was of the Wolfram people, a kind of wolf-men who stood as men might, were of a tough nature, six feet in height and oft had fur the same colours that dogs or wolves might. They were also as muscular and profound in loyalty as the greatest of men and wolves might feel. Theirs was an ancient people, said to have descended from Féavonoé the Divine-Wolf. One of the first beings, he preceded the first demons and gods, and had chosen death and a place in the stars so as to stay close to an ancient Elven-prince.
Valdan for his part was originally from Noren?ia but had forty-years prior, preferred to uproot his family to establish himself at first in Réalwaldr, only to at Morcar’s invitation come to live in Falsveal. A majestic Wolfram who had because he was orphaned, never known his traditional tribe (for Wolframs like most beast-folk were a tribal people), he was raised a blacksmith, and later wed a fellow Wolfram, one from the Louvrar tribe, who had upon her tribe’s destruction to the evil lord, Charles the Futile hidden in the village of Lothrin. From their hiding place in the county of Gulne, they had as mentioned fled to Estria, where more misery had awaited them in the form of Balthorth, so that the couple had buried three daughters, and eight granddaughters, all of whom were chosen as sacrifices.
“Very well, but we must have all in readiness on the morrow,” Ealhstan pressed, drawing a reticent nod from the steward who though he disliked taking orders from any other than his liege, nonetheless accepted the wise counsel of the enchanter.
*****
Gwilherm did not wear the ring-mail everywhere he went, nor did he carry with him the shield at all times. He spent more time in the courtyard, under the tutelage of Beorhtsige who had orders to prepare him, as best he could for what was to come. Ealhstan for his own part kept them company and oft gave directions, mostly recounting old dragon-tales he knew of or reminiscing on his many varied adventures. Other times, he spent his days in the woods, out on a hunt or simply exploring them with Remus, who once again had come to prefer his company over all others. The dog tended to try to go wherever he could, so long as he kept Gwilherm within view, something that suited the noble just fine, at night though the dog tended to stay even closer by his side. Oft-times resting his head upon his lap during the feasts, and at night he slept upon the same bed, snoring so loudly that at times, he woke up the warrior who would then shove him awake. This hardly worked, and only caused the hound to draw closer to him until he was sweltering due to the heat of his fur-coat, and to begin snoring once more when he had fallen back asleep.
All of this bemused the rightful lord of Réalwaldr, who enjoyed the tales of how he had overcome the trolls of Morviarh in the north of Seasonia, or tricked the lord of Cymroth out of his own sword before dropping it in the sea to the south of Cymru. These tales whilst outlandish in nature were a balm to the troubled soul of the harpist.
It was on the ninth day that the worst happened. In the midst of being tutored by the fearsome Beorhtsige in arms, their swords flashing in the ancient dance of iron and steel that had haunted the Lordly-Isle since time immemorial as Bada and the rest of the children of the castle observed. Many were excited, full of admiration for Gwilherm who felt his neck flush with pride at their admiration, as it felt good to be adored in this manner.
Pleased with himself, he did come close to being knocked over at that moment, by his teacher who snorted at him, about lowering his guard. Annoyed, by this attempt to humiliate him, Gwilherm let out a cry of anger and attempted to take a mighty swipe back with his wooden blade, only for it to be slapped aside easily.
“Not that way lad, always with purpose rather than wroth,” He scolded haughtily to the bemusement of the children, as well as that of the newly arrived Mildburg and Elena.
This brought on a new flush of embarrassment to his cheeks, he could not explain it however since the time he had sung the song of Ealdmund in the hall of Morcar he felt all the more conscious of the daughter of his host. The lady had in turn ceased to appear as angry or bitter towards him as before, oft meeting his eyes with a peculiar and amused gleam in her eyes. One that excited and frightened him, which in turn served to amuse Ealhstan and annoy the brother of Eadwin all the more, as he could not understand quite why her looking upon him in that manner and snickering every time she stood in his presence, seemed to always distract him.
He forced himself to remain focused upon Beorhtsige, less he should suffer another rough blow to the left shoulder which had begun to ache terribly, because of all the blows incurred there to-day. Meeting every blow at that moment, with one of his own there was however a great din like thunder that tore his and his tutor’s attention from one another (just as he was on the verge of dislodging the sword hilt from the steward’s hand).
It was a sound that made all pale, brought tears of terror to the children’s eyes (even Bada), and made Ealhstan and Elena tremble. This just before a great pall was cast upon the land of Falsveal, one so great that all torches seemed to extinguish themselves of their own volition, the suns were hidden and there arose in all beneath the shadow of Balthorth a terror unlike any, they had previously experienced.
Much of this fear came not to them so naturally as standing in the shade of such a gargantuan terrible beast. Being inspired in them quite unnaturally, as all those who felt themselves to be in the presence of a dragon were always swept up by either courage or fear. This depended largely upon the nature of the dragon, with few being as evil or full of wroth much of the time as Balthrorth himself.
Men froze where they stood; women burst into tears and children shrieked before they fled indoors or to hide behind their fathers, so full of fear were they. Animals were not indifferent or immune to the effects of the presence of the dragon, as cats, rats and horses hid, shivered and wept bitterly aware as they were of a great evil that was present. Only dogs remained capable of doing more than hiding or shivering, as the majority of them snarled and barked up at the approaching Wyrm, so keen were they to protect their pack and masters. Such being the noble nature of dogs, with this particular animal being the most reviled by evil Balthrorth due in no small part to this virtue of theirs.
His wings beat furiously as he descended upon the plains outside of the great walls of Falsveal, so as to stand before the small town and keep. Staring up at him, in horror, it was only then in the light of day without the shadows of the cavern of Mt-Sorg that Gwilherm fully grasped what it was that he was about to throw himself in combat against.
Majestic and crimson-scaled the great dragon bore the appearance that they are always depicted with; possessing huge bat-wings that were every bit as scarlet as the rest of him. Balthrorth had redder eyes than rubies, his scales scintillating in the suns-light with Gwilherm notably horrified by the fact that the beast easily towered over the highest tower of Falsveal. With the Wyrm measuring at least a hundred feet high, and was as long as that length with a wideness of fifty or so meters. In all he moved more gracefully than a unicorn, more powerfully than any horse or wolf and was far more imposing than the mightiest of kings.
The voice that boomed out of the lips of the terrible beast shook the stones and cliff-side upon which Falsveal rested atop of with a great wail bursting from hundreds of lips. All the courage that had been gathered in the past days, before the arrival of Balthrorth bled thusly out of not only Gwilherm but all those present before the Wyrm. “Morcar of Falsveal,” He thundered with such fury that the heavens themselves appeared to tremble before him, his voice seemed as though it came from some deep cavern. Yet seemed to burn with as much intensity as the most volcanic of molten lava, so that Vladin who was near where Gwilherm stood sank to his knees, mouth agape, as his companion of travels did much the same. “You are guilty of having broken the law- my one law; you have denied me my rightful tribute as well as having stolen from me… what say you?”
It was quite some time before the slightest reply came, as the very stones seemed to wail and tremble before him. When the reply came, it came from Millarth who strode thither from the interior of the castle of Falsveal, his head raised and entire body a-tremble as he addressed the dragon, “O Balthrorth we hear thee, and swear to honour thy law, and shall offer up all that we can if it means we appease thee, could we mayhap offer up not only the eldest surviving of Falsveal’s daughters but also his niece and second to youngest Bada-”
“NEVER!” Morcar exploded bursting forth from the doors of his keep, sword and shield in hand to the amazement of all involved, with none more bewildered than the dragon himself.
“What is this?” the Wyrm demanded as though this were some sort of jest or prank that was in poor taste.
“I should never have agreed to the proposal set by Millarth all those years ago! Should never have betrayed Eadwin! Lo! My people we are not born to slake the lusts and hunger of this beast but to live as we please, thus we must now rise up as one!” None did as bidden by the mighty lord of Falsveal as he charged the dragon looking utterly pitiful in his shrunken form and ridiculous as he leapt forward to challenge the dragon.
“Father no!” Elena called out just as Mildburg burst out with ‘Uncle!’ and ?lffl?d screamed out at him to hurry away but all their efforts to call out to he of the house of the Ram were in vein.
“For Elena and all my other children!” Morcar shrieked as he shattered his sword upon the massive paw of Balthrorth set in the ground, before the walls of Falsveal.
His weapon broke at once, to the amazement of all those present, with all of them holding their breath fearfully as Morcar defied the dragon, who fulminated visibly. “I have shown favour to this one place, have spared it and yet ye do this to me? Spurn my favour? Very well…” And with a single motion of his head he devoured the defiantly screaming lord in a single gulp.
Gwilherm for his part stared and shook, mouth agape as he failed to conjure hither a single thought to aid the old man, whom he had long-since ceased at that moment to despise. To the contrary he had been filled with awe as his mind was awhirl with amazement at the bravery of the other man. He imagined that his father or brother might have attempted such a thing, were they not already dead.
“There, now I demand the return of the single gold-goblet taken from me,” Declared Balthrorth as he wiped at his mouth with the back of one massive paw, “As I have little mercy left for you, I demand six sacrifices now per year… four of which must come from the house of Morcar, one must be male and the last sacrifice shall be from the fields outside of Falsveal. Is that understood Millarth? If thou art to attempt to short-change my honourable self, of any further sacrifices, I shall return to lay waste to all the rest of Estria.”
Without another word, he took flight once more waited for Millarth and Wigstan whom was pulled forward by the deacon, both of whom promised the dragon all that he wished and more. Thus did Morcar perish and thus did his nearest councillors and successors scheme to already undo his brave if futile gesture. Though this was not what remained the longest in Gwilherm’s memory, as he observed the weeping of the women of Falsveal, he remembered the broken sobs of Elena most of all.
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