Blade of Erogrund

Chapter 19 - Words of Warning

The weather of the next morning brought to fruition the disappointment of the previous night.

All the gloomy storm clouds that had hung like ominous fore-tellers of doom finally released their dark judgment on the desolate cliff city. Rain pounded against the rocky walls in tremendous drops that battered relentlessly as though the very spirits of the storm were trying to rip the fortress to the ground. Lighting arced through the dark sky in binding flashes of cold light followed by earthshaking rolls of thunder, propelling freezing winds that blew carelessly through the halls of the fortress like frigid ghouls.

With each change of the guard men and women came from Iris Ithil and the other parapets that guarded the face of Biren-Larath shaking with cold, wrapped in cloaks soaked to their innermost threads.

Many of the festivities for the ball were already arranged, but they sadly failed to create a mood of any joviality in Godric. Row upon row of candles outlined almost every corridor, their light cast haunting shadows on every wall that flickered like the phantoms of the past that lingered in their stones. Great banners of shimmering green and blue were strung from the walls on wooden pegs that had been inserted into holes drilled into the stone, though each resembled faded shrouds wrapping around the dismal remains of the fortress, both condoning and condemning its desperate persistence to exist.

Or so was Godric's interpretation of the city as he drudged to the Arena. To others, however, an air of excitement built gradually to the formerly dreary people of the city. The ball appeared, despite Aeis's skepticism, to be a rare source of joy for the otherwise dismal city. Unfortunately Godric's bitterness was only furthered by their excitement.

Perhaps the only depression that could parallel this anger was the frustration at knowing he would likely have to speak to Theronin in a matter of minutes, who would doubtlessly succeed in making him feel even worse.

Several people grunted in greeting to him as he passed by. He ignored them reproachfully, each greeting throwing another stick on the smoldering furnace of fury that kindled within him. By the time he had passed through the forges, which sadly failed to warm him by mood or body, he was ready to pick up a hammer and strike one of the cheery, scruffy dwarfs on the top of his head.

After passing through the dark, glowing chambers that rang with the oppressive drumming of hammers on steel, he came to the corridor that led to the Arena.

As usual, few torches adorned the corridor resulting in a shadowy, eerie light that danced across the short walls. Crackling from the torches was drowned out by the battering assault of rain that down-poured unto the practice fields outside, dulling his senses as Godric scanned the corridor and the storm outside for Theronin. Two guards were the only figures he saw standing on either side of the gateway, both dozing in the half-light of the hall.

His footsteps must have served as enough to wake them for as he approached, the left guard snapped to attention under his voluminous cloak. Helmet cocked at a crooked angle on his head that was wrapped in a ragged scarf, the man mumbled to him.

"'Old there lad. No one is allowed in or out yet. What business have you here?"

"Sword training with Theronin," he murmured. Half of him urged that he should lie so the guard would send him away, but he answered before he could decide.

"Mmm, I think we've a message for you." He placed a gloved hand inside his cloak and searched around, further displacing the billowing garment until his face lit up beneath a thick scarf. "Ah, 'ere it is." Bringing out a rolled paper, he handed it hastily to Godric.

In the dim light he could hardly decipher the text. The flickering shadows reduced the runes to wavering darkness that swayed with the flames. The only word he could definitively read was "Naevir".