The Banishing Blade

“There weren’t always dragons in the valley, in fact there was nothing. In the time before, there was only the salted water of the oceans across the face of Terra-Arna, but then came the dragons. They brought forth The Rushing Mountains out of the oceans, and birthed the very lands and fields that we stand upon. When they were finished washing away the water, raising the mountains, and molding the earth, the dragons came to rest in the great valley – The Life Forge. In that valley they gave birth to all the creatures great and small and sent them across the continent to live and be fruitful. Then one by one, the five great dragons fell asleep, and one by one they awoke and flew across the world from whence they came, for all but one – Sigur the Rested. When the dragon awoke it found that it was alone, and trapped for a great tree had grown upon it’s back. Sigur’s wings were entangled in the roots of the Drekatré and was buried in the earth. At the foot of the tree, Sigur’s head lay. From Sigur’s mouth came the peoples of Terra-Arna: Maður, Álfar, Dvergar, Risastór, and Hrökkáll. . . Orin, are you listening boy!”

“Yes, Uncle Dorn, I am listening to your rambling as always. . .”

“How dare you boy, you may be my brother’s son, but you are yet my squire!”

“Only until I am knighted before the Drekatré.”

“Aye, but only if you survive your great task before that.”

“Isn’t that why I have you, Uncle?” Orin laughs.

“I’m preparing you for it, I cannot do it for you! The task given to you at the great tree can only be completed by you and you alone. These are not some late night tellings given by some wet nurse, they are the history of our people, and the key to your survival in this world. Why things are, how they came to be, and how we might divert the next war. If you do not learn. . .” Orin interrupts; Dorn grows silent.

“And to each Sigur gave unto the peoples of Terra-Arna a gift and a curse, just as he was gifted and cursed. To the Maður he gifted wisdom in age and cursed with death, as Sigur could not die, but could not live. The Álfar were gifted immortality and cursed with immortality, as Sigur lived forever but saw all things die. The Dvergar were gifted with the eyes and hands for creation and cursed with greed, as Sigur created life, yet coveted it too deeply. The Risastór were gifted great size and strength, but cursed to carry the mountains upon their backs; as Sigur with all his strength could not free himself from the Drekatré. And the Hrökkáll were gifted the magics of the dragons, but were cursed with the hatred for all things good; for all Sigurd’s magic could not free him, and as he loved his children he loathed them so, as they were free and he was not. And thus Terra-Arna knew war, and was shattered into the five realms. . . How was that Uncle?”

The one eyed warrior stares at him and grumbles, “I’m glad that something stuck between your ears, boy. Now come, The Life Forge is over the next hill.” Dorn flicks the reins of his horse and gallops ahead of the troop of Maður pikemen.

Orin pats the side of his blond mare and whispers in her ear, “Come Flýti, let us lay our eyes upon the great tree before uncle.” The mare snorts and breaks into full gallop. The mare and rider speed by Dorn on his black war horse spraying him with mud in their wake.

“So it is a race you want then, boy? Come Stríð, let us remind him of his youth!” The black war horse whinnies deeply before breaking into a gallop. “Your steed is fast, but she is a mere pony compared to Stríð!” In a moment, Stríð and Flýti are neck and neck. The black beast towers over the blond mare, but she does not let up. Flýti crests the hill, Orin shouts in splendor before abruptly being knocked from his horse by Dorn. Orin looks up from the ground, to find the cold steel of Dorn’s broadsword at his throat. “Remember, basking in one’s own glory is when they are at their weakest,” Dorn says sternly.

Orin diverts his eyes in shame.Dorn breaks in to laughter, “But it was a race well won! Well done!” Dorn sheathes his blade, dismounts, and raises Orin to his feet. Orin looks from atop the hillside, and is in awe of the size of the valley and of the tree at its center.

“By Sigur, it is more a crater than a valley. And is that the Drekatré?”

“Aye, that is the tree that holds our creator captive.”

Despite the light of the noon sun, the canopy of the Drekatré shades the valley three leagues in each direction. Surrounding the foot of the tree is a citadel in the shape of a pentagonal star. “And that is the first strong hold in existence, Stjarna. In Stjarna the people’s of Terra-Arna come to worship in peace. Each point of the citadel is dedicated to one of the five peoples, and there we shall find refuge in the great hall. At the center lies the mouth of Sigur, and there you shall be given your task.”

“If my task was to beat you in a race, they should knight me on the spot,” Orin laughs.

“There have been few beasts that have outrun Stríð. I wonder if she is not a descendent of those horses gifted with the wings of eagles.”

Orin pats Flýti on the neck, “What do you say girl, do you think you can fly? If you can it will be our little secret.” Flýti nays and shakes her mane. Dorn and Orin are joined by their entourage of guards. Orin and Dorn mount; the troop proceeds onward down into The Life Forge and into the shade of the Drekatré.

The troop marches beneath the dark shade of the Drekatré. Overhead, the once blue sky has been blotted out. Specs of sunlight shine through the dense canopy mimicking the night sky. The ancient branches creek and moan beneath their great weight. They pass thatch houses, open fields of grain, and orchards of ripe fruit. Orin looks on in wonder at the unfamiliar faces tending to the fields and trees.

“It is a sight indeed, is it not?”

“Aye, never have I seen such fair faces.”

“They are Álfar.”

“Álfar, here? Should they not be in The Undying Isles?”

“You shall see many faces here, boy. For some of them you are just as strange a sight, but then you are a strange sight even back home,” Dorn laughs.

“Your tongue has such bite, Uncle. Yet at times I wish that you would bite your tongue instead,” Orin and Dorn laugh together.

The troop comes to a stop at the entrance gate of Stjarna. Upon the towering marble gate is engraved the story of creation and Sigur. A pikeman steps forward and blows a horn announcing their presence. A voice calls down from the guard-post above the gate.

“Hark, who sets foot upon these hallowed grounds!”

“Bear witness to the coming of General Dorn from the Kingdom of Úlfur of the realm of Maður and his nephew Orin of the same,” the pikeman calls back.

“And what business does the great General have in Stjarna?”

Dorn calls out, “My nephew has come of season, and it is time for him to be assigned a great task. He seeks to be knighted in the eyes of Sigur at the foot of the Drekatré!”

“He is of season, yet you speak for him? Step forth boy and speak your business as all who enter must be known to us!”

Orin calls out, “I am Orin son of Ólafur, and I speak for myself! I have come to be assigned my task and become a knight of the five realms!”

“So be it! Open the gate!”

The marble gate swings inward. Dorn, Orin, and the troop enter the gate and are greeted by Stjarnan guards. The guards proceed to disarm the group.

“Uncle, what are they doing?”

“Only the guards are armed here, Orin. It is to ensure that peace stays between the realms here, do not take offense to it.”

Orin unbelts his longsword and relinquishes it.

“But what of you? Are you not a knight?”

“Aye, I am a Knight of Úlfur not a Knight of the Five as you will be.”

“There is a difference?”

“Did you not know this?”

“No. . .”

“Ah, so the truth of your ignorance is revealed. Come, I will explain more, but first feast your eyes upon the communion of the five realms.”

Orin and Dorn guide their horses as they step forth into the inner city of Stjarna. Orin is struck in awe of the bustle inside the towering walls. Voices in tongues that he has never heard, faces that he has never seen, and persons of extraordinary size both in shortness and in tallness walk the streets. Vendors call out to strangers to buy their wares. Smoke rises and clangs echo out from the Dvergar forges. A Risastór of massive size pulls a cart laden with bricks while carrying a barrel of ale in either arm. They pass a stage where a male Álfar and female Maður perform a play, while a sharp tooth Hrökkáll casts mist across the stage from their fingertips.

“In this place you will find no better food or drink, and no finer steel from which to make a blade or strong shield. As a Knight of Úlfur I fight for the safety of our kingdom and realm; as a Knight of the Five, you will guard the unity of Stjarna and ensure that none attempt to sully this place with bloodshed. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Good.”

Orin and Dorn pass through another gate and enter into the Maður bailey of Stjarna. At the center of the bailey is a high grass mound. On top of the mound is the great hall.

“Behold my boy, the burial mound of the first unnamed king of the Maður and the great hall atop it. Now let us eat.”

The Great Hall of Maður is filled with cheerful drunken voices of Maður men and women. The smell of malt beer and warm meat fills the air. A band of bards play their instruments and sing of battles won, tragedies of love and loss, and adventures of named heroes.

“One day they will sing songs of me, Uncle.”

“Aye, and what would they sing of? Mucking the stalls of my steed perhaps?” Dorn laughs.

“I am serious. I want to be like you and father. My name cast into our history until Sigur’s release and the oceans wash away Terra-Arna.”

“Aye, and may that day never come.”

“Do you think that Sigur will awaken to give me my task?”

“Unlikely boy. The Dragon has not awoken since he sent Bjorn the Strong on his quest and was never heard from again, and that was hundreds of years before my time.”

“I thought Bjorn was in your time, Uncle?”

“Are you calling me old, boy?”

“Does iron rust?” Dorn and Orin’s eyes meet in playful anger until they break into laughter. A bard calls out over the crowd.

“Did I hear mention of the tale of Bjorn the Lost?” The great hall erupts in cheers then dulls to silence as the band begins to play.

‘Twas time before in the age of war

When the era of peace had yet to come

From the fray of war there came a Maður

Who bared the name of Bjorn

Bjorn was large and born of war

He struck fear into the Hrökkáll

His axe was heavy and his hands were strong

His hair was gold and braided long

‘Twas time before in the age of war

When the era of peace had yet to come

Bjorn the Strong knelt before the Drekatré

Sigur awoke and spoke to thee

“Bjorn go forth and retrieve for me

The Blade of Banishing”

‘Twas time before in the age of war

When the era of peace had yet to come

Bjorn set forth upon his quest

Across The Lands of Barrenness

To the halls of the Dark Hrökkáll King – Veikur

Battle ensued between the two

Blades were crossed and blood was drew

Both were tired in the end but Bjorn would win

Bjorn cut the sword from Veikur

Then ran him through with the blade of blue

Tempered in the blood of the Hrökkáll King

The Banishing Blade was Born

‘Twas time before in the age of war

When the era of peace had yet to come

The Hrökkáll King fled in pain

Bjorn was to return again

But, Bjorn was lost along the way

And, so too was the blade of blue

So came the time of peace

Sigur Sleeps

Until the blade is needed once more

So came the time of peace

Sigur Sleeps

Until the blade is needed once more

Dorn stokes the fire in his and Orin’s sleeping chamber. The stone hearth soaks in the heat of the flame, shadows dance upon the walls. Orin sits on a bed blanketed in furs.

“Are you warm enough, boy?”

“Yes. . . ”

“Good, this maybe the last you sleep in a warm bed with a full belly for quite some time. One’s great task is never easy. The will of Sigur, for what it’s worth, deems it so.”

“Uncle. . .”

“What is it?”

“Why did you not become a Knight of the Five? Stjarna seems much to your liking.”

“Well. . . We all have our duties. My first duty is to Úlfur, its King, and my kin. Second, I may know a lot about the teachings of the time before, and of Sigur, but I do not necessarily agree with them. The dragon is our creator, but that is all he is to me and it is not his will that determines my life, it is my own. So, I chose another way. Has it been to my liking? Not always, but it is my path.”

“I did not know I would be leaving Úlfur when I pledged fealty before Sigur and the Drekatré.”

“I will tell you this, becoming a Knight of the Five is one of the highest honors in all Terra-Arna, even the Hrökkáll deem it so. Your father would be proud Orin, doubt not.”

“Would he be?”

“He would.”

“I do not know if I can look beyond his death, and feel for the Hrökkáll.”

“My boy, no one is asking you to feel anything. But it will be your duty to act with fairness.”

“But, they are evil.”

“As we are to them. Lest you forget, Sigur cursed us all. Even the dead curse the living. My hands have taken many of their lives before this time of peace. When I walk through the market I can feel their eyes look upon me and see me for the monster that I am. To our people I am a hero, to others I am a beast. Even the story of Bjorn can be told as a tale of heroism or terror. You will know what I mean when the time comes when you must take a life. Even a Knight of the Five must unsheathe their blade. To save a life may mean to take a life, that is the duality of knighthood.”

“Thank you for your teachings, Uncle.”

“You have honored me by being my squire, and I would hope to have a son such as you. If your task ever requires my assistance, send for me, I will never turn you away.” Orin nods his head. “Rest now, and in the morning we will learn of Sigur’s will.” Orin turns over in bed; Dorn sits quietly in front of the fire smoking a pipe.

Dorn hears Orin sing in his sleep,“Sigur sleeps until the blade is needed once more.”

Orin woke before the rooster’s crow. He sits alone in the great hall mulling over a bowl of cold porridge. He was rested, but the night’s dreams fade from memory as he prepares himself for the events of the day. He had fixated on this day since he was a child, but Dorn’s words replayed in his mind. Was he becoming a knight for his own sake or was it apart of Sigur’s will? Would he be able to complete his great task? The chamber door opens. Dorn enters the great hall and sits across from Orin. The old warrior looks upon his nephew.

“How you have grown, Orin. You remind me much of your father in appearance and quality. Strong and honest. But, like your father I can see all your worries in a glance. Let us hear it. . .”

“What if I fail?”

“Even Bjorn could not complete his task, yet we still celebrate him for he brought forth an age of peace, even in failure.” Orin nods his head. “Come, I know of something that will set you at ease.”

Orin and Dorn descend into the tomb below the great hall guided by torch light. “This is the Tomb of the Nameless King and is a resting place for many of our heroes from the time before. They will see your quality and bestow upon you a gift to aid you in your task.” Orin grabs for Dorn’s torch, Dorn pulls it away. “Only in darkness will they come to you.”

Orin steps into the pitch black of the tomb. The sound of his footsteps echo off the stone walls. He comes to a stop as a will-o’-the-wisp of white light slowly appears in front of him. Orin walks toward the glowing spirit orb. With each step the light glows brighter. When in arms length, he reaches out to touch it. The spirit flows around him, enveloping his body in a heavenly warmth.

“Uncle, do you see this?”

“Only you can see the spirit that has chosen you! Trust it, and let it guide you!”

The spirit ceases its flow, and begins to float down the hall of the tomb. Orin follows close behind. The spirit comes to a stop over a stone coffin adorned with a poem:

Hail!

To the Nameless Lord

His body lost to a burning scourge

But, his armor rests and waits to be worn

By the next wolf-born

Hail!

Orin pushes the stone lid aside and peers into the coffin. A pair of glowing yellow eyes stare back at him. A voice escapes the coffin, “Who dost disturb my slumber? Speak thy name or be gone!”

“I am Orin son of Ólafur.”

“Who art thy people and what kingdom dost thou hail from?

“I am of the Maður and hail from the Kingdom of Úlfur.”

“So, Orin son of Ólafur of the Kingdom of Úlfur, why hast thou awoken me?”

“I am to embark on my great task by mid-day, and have come to seek help from my ancestors.”

The wisp floats between Orin and the yellow eyes and emits a twinkling chime. “ I see. Thou hast chosen at last? So be it. . . Don me boy and I shall make you a legend!” Orin’s eyes open wide as the light of the wisp glows bright revealing the treasure hidden within.

Dorn waits at the mouth of the tomb. He stairs into pitch and sees two yellow eyes approach from the darkness. “Orin, what beast have you awoken boy? Orin!” Orin steps in to the light of the torch clad in an ancient armor made of steel and fur. Orin is cloaked in the pelt of a black wolf. The head of the wolf is draped over his shoulder showing its fangs and bright yellow eyes. Dorn smiles. “A Knight of the Five indeed!”

The mid-day sun shines through the canopy of the Drekatré into Sigur’s courtyard. The dragon’s head is yoked by the tree’s sprawling roots. The remainder of the dragon is hidden beneath the earth. Sigur’s green scales reflect the light of the sun, his teeth glint like freshly sharpened swords. His large eyes are closed. His nostrils flare as his deep breaths rumble the stone stage that his head rests upon. Surrounding the stage is a crowd of worshipers that have come to see those who will be granted a great task. A flute plays as five clergymen clad in white march into the courtyard and onto the stage. They stop before the sleeping dragon, bow, and say a blessing upon their creator. The clergymen turn and address the crowd.

“Blessings to all who stand before us today, and blessings be upon Sigur the Creator.”

“Blessings!” The crowd replies in unison.

“May peace ever remain in Stjarna! May The Life Forge ever bring forth bountiful harvests to all the peoples of Terra-Arna.”

“Blessings!” The crowd replies.

“As seasons come and pass, the Season of Fealty is upon us once again. For all those who wish to swear themselves before Sigur and be given their great task, come forth!”

Two Álfar, a Dvergar, a Risastór, a Hrökkáll, and Orin emerge from the crowd. Dorn watches from afar. The crowd whispers as Orin steps upon the stage garbed in the ancient Maður armor. Orin’s footsteps make no sound, as if he were a shadow. The hair of the fur cloak sways as a light wind passes. The eyes of the wolf-head on his shoulder appear to dart back an forth observing its surroundings. The wolf-head speaks to Orin, “Much has changed in my slumber, yet I am glad to see that the winged beast is still chained. Yet, why dost thou swear fealty before the creature of the abyss?”

“Quiet,” Orin whispers.

“None can hear me boy, lest I wish it. . . Do not tell me that this creature has poisoned thy mind?” Orin grabs the wolf’s mouth.

“Silence beast!” The wolf grows quiet.

Orin stands before Sigur and a clergyman. One by one, the task takers are addressed by a clergyman, “Do you relinquish thy allegiance to your kingdom?”

“Aye. . .”

“Do you relinquish thyself unto the Will of Sigur and swear fealty to the peace of Stjarna?

“Aye. . .”

“Will you accept the task however great or small that Sigur give unto thee, and see it to completion or die trying?”

“Aye. . .”

“Then kneel and swear thy fealty, receive thy task, and go forth!”

One by one the task takers kneel, “I swear!” The clergyman then turns and faces Sigur before turning around and ordains them with their tasks.

“I will not allow thee to swear to this wretched creature,”whispers the wolf.

“And do you, Orin son of Ólafur swear thy fealty?” Asks the clergyman.

“Aye.”

“Then kneel.” Orin kneels, the clergyman faces Sigur.

“The dragon does not speak to them!” The wolf laughs in Orin’s ear, “it sleeps still. . . Dost thou hear me worm! Dýr the Wolf speaks unto thee! There is yet one in this land who remembers thy foulness! May you forever sleep, filth!” The lid of the dragon’s eyes stir and open, “Thou art no creator, only a liar! A deceiver of simple minds!” Orin grabs the wolf’s mouth, but it is too late. The clergyman turns to address Orin, behind him the dragon’s head raises ever slightly off the stage. The crowd gasps in awe and kneels before their creator. The clergyman turns, falls in shock, and clamors aside. Orin diverts his eyes to the ground. The yellow eyes of the wolf and the red eyes of the dragon meet. Rage filled smoke billows from between Sigur’s fangs like that of a stoked oven. The wolf and the dragon exchange hidden words before Sigur acknowledges the crowd.

The heat of Sigur’s breath can be felt throughout the courtyard as the dragon speaks,“One thousand years have I’ve been trapped in this yoke. My wings bound by earth and root. Twas two-hundred years since I last awoke, and thy greatest hero was tasked in freeing me. Yet, here I lay bound still in the light of Bjorn’s failure, and the peoples of Terra-Arna are still at war. Thus, I command the task takers before me to go forth, and bequeath unto me Bannsblað - The Banishing Blade. Return and cut me from my bindings, so that I may be free to bring peace across the lands. What say you?”

“Hail!” Orin and the task takers say in unison. The crowd cheers in splendor, and parade the chosen heroes from the courtyard. A clergyman speaks to Sigur as the last of the parade leaves the courtyard.

“Great Creator, I swear myself to you upon your awakening, how may I serve you?”

“Meat. . . Bring me meat!”

Orin and Dorn sit upon their steeds outside the gate of Stjarna. A pikeman lashes a saddlebag of provisions to Flýti. “A spectacle that was indeed. Never in all my years did I think I would hear the dragon speak, though it seemed as if he was provoked to do so. . . That armor may have stirred up something from the time before, perhaps?”

“You are rambling again, Uncle.”

“Perhaps I am,” Dorn laughs, “Ah, yes. . . And one last gift before we part.” Dorn passes Orin a cloth wrapped parcel. Orin pulls away the cloth to reveal a sword with a star pommel. Orin pulls the sword from its scabbard, the blade shines in the light of the sun. “A blade fit for a Knight of the Five. It is made from the strongest Dvergar steel and is sharper than Sigur’s fangs. May it serve you and keep you safe.”

“Thank you, Uncle.” Orin embraces Dorn one last time.

“Remember my boy, Stjarna is a place, but Úlfur will always be home.” Orin nods. Dorn calls the pikemen to him, “Onward to Úlfur, onward to home!” Orin looks on as Dorn and the troop disappear into the distance.

The wolf-head speaks,“Thy uncle is perceptive and wise. Why didst thy not tell him of me?”

“There are a great many things my uncle will believe, a talking wolf-head may not be one. I still cannot believe it wholly.”

“There are a great many things thy will come to see and believe with thine own eyes as our journey goes forward.”

“Many things already have. . . What do I call you?”

“Dýr.”

“Tell me then Dýr, what do you know of The Lands of Barrenness?”

“I know thou art not prepared for such a place.”

“Then prepare me.”

“Then goest we must, to the highest peak in all Terra-Arna – Mount Fjall. There thy will be granted the strength of the Risastór.”

“So be it,” Orin whips the reins, “Onward Flýti to Mount Fjall!” The horse bursts into a gallop toward the snow covered peak in the distance.