[Nogrod]

Bregoware

At first, Sythric rode through familiar grounds: there was Dunlaf’s manor, Grotting’s farm was there. He felt an eerie feeling, looking at these places with no living soul at sight. His head was filled with memories of almost everyone whose places he rode by. Young Dunlaf, for instance, had been his friend, until been taken to the March-warden’s guard as a junior trainée, at the age of fifteen. Sythric’s bitterness had been so deep (and Dunlaf’s prideful grin so arrogant), he decided never to talk to him again. That promise of a 14-year old, had kept all these years that had passed: he had never talked to Dunlaf again. Now where was he? Was his family safe? Why had they not talked this over during past years? Sythric’s mood was not getting any better with all these memories passing his head as he rode.

When even the farthest bregowarian dwellings were left behind, he fell into that half-dream – half-reality, that most of the riders fall in, during a long ride. His daydreams began to appear again, in front of his half-open eyes. Before long, he fell to the images of his last battle, about two years ago.

They had been rushing in with highest possible speed to make the maximum impact. There was the thrust his right arm could still remember. The tip of his spear had gone straight through the first orc’s upper chest, coming out immediately from its back, bursting blood all around. The orc had yelled in a high-pitched voice. The cry had mixed with the howls of other orcs and men, with the clash of armour, and the thunder rising from the charging horses. He had tried to wrench the spear free from the orc’s trembling body as his horse kept on pushing forwards. But another orc was reaching out for him, with speed, its’ spear aimed. Sythric had to let his spear go. He barely had time to draw his sword; duck, and swing the sword towards the onrushing one.

He never knew, which one of them had hit first. But there he was, dropped from his horse, his back and left shoulder aching so much he was crying out. The fast approaching figure of the orc got him immediately back to reality. His hands were empty and he saw no weapon around. The orc lifted its blade to finish him off. It was just a leap away from him. Sythric ducked desperately towards the orc’s legs. Just as he got hold of them, something hit his right side with a terrible force. He had had no time to acknowledge the pain this time. He felt the orc falling, while the orc’s iron boot hit his cheek like a bull’s bounce.

Fortunately, he had been the quicker to raise his head and managed to reach for the orc’s sword he saw laying beside them. As soon as he got a grip of the sword, he felt the orc’s fingers around his neck from behind. Desperately he swang the orc-sword, hitting back somewhere to just hit. He had been lucky enough, for the orc’s grip loosenend. He crawled to his knees as fast as he could, the sword in his hand. The orc was trying to rise up just beside him, its’ side bleeding from a fresh open wound. Before the orc had time to come to grips with the situation, he put all his remainig strength into the swing, and the orc fell flat on the ground, its head partly severed.

Coming slowly back to his senses on the saddle, Sythric remembered, that at that very moment, Aethulf had saved his life, running over a third orc that had had been coming on him from behind. It had been a close one. The horse almost run him over while Aethulf was charging it upon the orc, and the orc’s sword went on its way, spiralling in the air, just a feet away from his chest. He was all smeared in blood, only partly his own. There were dead bodies all around, and the wailing of the dying pierced the ear. And he was aching more than he thought he could bear.

Where was brave Aethulf now? Or Hríma who was allways laughing?

Sythric was fully awake now. He began remembering the overall situation. It had been a straight assault: they had rode through the hastily gathered lines of an small orc-party, just 16 orcs, but still it had turned on to a nightmare. They were 11 riders, many among the best fighters around here, but there were one dead, poor Baduth, and six badly wounded – himself included (he couldn’t ride for three months after the skirmish). The small band of orcs had really made a fight! Now there are four youngsters there, trying to make their journey through lands that could hide similar threats. I should hurry, I really should hurry! But simultaneously, he clearly acknowledged, that his hurrying might not be much of a help anyhow...

Just before the sunset, Sythric reached the lowest peaks of Emyn Baël. He took carefully to seeing the landscape. Straight to south-west, there was something that looked like a party of riders. After making some calculations, and remembering the March-warden telling him about the route he had instructed them to take, he felt somewhat assured, that this was the party he would try to join with. They seemed to be several hours in front of him. After walking Thydrë - his dear friend for already some time now - to a small nearby spring, he sat himself down, and carved some dried lamb and bread to eat, with sips of riding-cool wine to accompany them. Was this a breakfast, a lunch or a dinner? It was kind of like being in the Hird again, eating when hungry, resting when tired. No regular habits or timetables. Do what you have to do, when you have to do it.

The last rays of the setting sun made the plains glow that reddish-orange colour that had always caught him. The light and the colour were tense, bright and dark at the same time. There was something almost sublimely beautiful in it, but at the same time, it was kind of spreading out some dark secrets over the land, of a kind, we humans would never understand.