Rhionne BW XXXIII

BWXXXIII Rhion’s vision “You have separated the sword Grimwir?” asked a middle-aged, swarthy man, who was clearly battle hardened.

“Yes my Lord,” came the response from an enormous, muscle-bound man dressed in thick leather and holding before him a scabbarded sword. So tall was Grimwir that he stooped to keep his head free of the canvass ceiling several feet above the older man. The open fur-lined canvass door flapped in the wind behind the giant, blowing smoke from the lit brazier, to the right, around the tent erratically.

“Let me see,” said the first man who was dressed in a black ermine robe and silk tabard, indicating a tall, oak table to his right, which was pushed to the edge of the grey canvass wall. On the table was a tall elegant lamp that provided the bright yellow light that filled the space. The giant turned and, barely reaching out, lay the sword down reverently.

“Please take it from its scabbard Grimwir, I need to consider how to deliver our Lord’s last wishes.”

“Yes my Lord Valourin,” answered the giant as he drew the hilt and raised the scabbard to spill the broken blade gently onto the table. The three pieces glowed in the lamplight: the golden, gem-encrusted hilt, and the two highly-polished, razor sharp sections of what was a great sword. The hilt bore the symbol of Bavarik’s Lineage – the rampant horse – carved in white gold, and elvish runes (that Rhionne could read easily enough) twisted and turned along the blade:

To hold and to keep – honour, love, life;

To give what is due –respect, reward, punishment,

All bounded by tolerance and forgiveness.

This counsel of Athena guides and sustains you.

The scabbard, laid to one side, was adorned with a shimmering lightning bolt that ran its length. Again, elvish words glowed in the light:

The father holds, sustains, keeps and binds his family through love.

“So,” the older man mused, “The Hilt, formerly of the Holy Avenger itself, must go to our Lord’s most loyal Banner Man – Mercantire Carass. It must be re-forged and continue to bear the name Fastlaw.” Valourin paused and touched the hilt, wrapping his hand around it he lifted and examined it carefully before speaking again, “Grimwir, you are to re-forge this with elven steel?” without waiting for a reply, the warrior continued, “Copy closely the original blade as we need to ensure our enemies believe it to be the original, first wielded by Imrahir, descendent of Bavarik and Castellan of Sutur.” The giant nodded, eyes fixed on his liege and the hilt. Valourin too seemed unable to take his eyes from the sword’ handle and, turning it over, spoke just loudly enough for Rhionne to hear, “Surely this is too great a treasure to leave to an unknown elf…but then, that might be the reason…”

As if startled by some realisation, Valourin laid the hilt down quickly but carefully, pausing again and staring at the table on which the broken sword lay, as if he had taken refuge in some deep reverie. A long moment passed before Valourin began to move, even to breathe. He traced a path along the remainder of the sword with his forefinger, now speaking clearly to the huge man as his hand settled in the first part of the blade, “This piece is for Astorin, it was close to the Hilt and will have some of its powers. He will be of great value to Amorsland in the times to come.”

Valourin, at last tore his eyes from the table regarded the giant, “The last piece I will take up in the fight against our bitter enemies,” he said triumphantly, as if just having decided the matter. “Can you also forge these swords – for Astorin and me?” he asked hurriedly as if making up for lost time.

“Of course my Lord, it will take a few days to complete all three.”

“And you will need the help of gnomes to ensure that the dweomer is contained, I presume?”

“Yes, Lord Protector, Menelae is with us – you may recall him? The Gnome who helped Walorin with the special dweomer at Yarlug; he is a relative of Orodruin himself and great friend of Ichshoos, whom you know well.”

“Thank you Grimwir, I do recall Menelae; you are right, he was of great assistance.”

“What shall I do with the Scabbard, my Lord?”

“Ahh, that should go to Yorinksen; leave it with me, I will take it to him.”

“As you wish, my Lord,” the giant bowed deeply and backed out of the tent.