Because i have submitted my story We’ll Keep a Welcome in the Hillside, to a magazine for publication, i can no longer post the rest here. I do appologize.
Daramlhoardd, the brave Elf Lord
Drank deep from his golden cup
Red wine dripped onto his bloody sword
Held fast in his right hand
Dramalhoard, king of the nine great cities, rested on the gem studded hilt of his gleaming sword. A heavy sigh escaped his parted lips. He drank the last dregs of October’s new wine from his golden cup. A few drops escaped and fell onto the gleaming, sharp blade, “Death Bringer.” A scourge and a threat to any enemy that dared challenge his might and his rule. It would take a long mid-summer day to remember the number of heads that had fallen to his sword.
Upon the field of grassy green
Were hewn and broken bodies strewn
Friend and foe alike lay there
Staring blindly at the blood faced moon
The mind, the fast beating heart of this mighty war lord was drunk from the fullness of this victorious day. Wine flowed like water over the great waterfall of Darkwood River among his knights, among his men at arms and among his archers. Hauberk’s that had sparkled brighter than diamonds from mines of the cave Dwarves, when the day had new broken, were stained by the blood of their enemies.
All that was needed now, to make this a time of total perfection, was for his son to stand with him. Stand with him now and share in drinking to as sweet a victory as had ever been won on any field of battle.
Dramalhoard removed the cup from his lips and called as loud as he could, “Karodem, Karodem, come here to me my noble son. Come share a cup of wine with your father. This day belongs to you as well as it does to me.”
No answer was born to him on the breath of the night wind.
The brave heart within his chest paused in its beating. A finger, colder then the fields of ice on the mountains of Traldor inched its way up his spine. He called again, this time the deep voice that had called out so brave and true throughout the long day trembled and broke. Still no answer, he roared, “Silence curs,” to his laughing, joking warriors.
The silence of a midnight grave descended with a heavy weight upon the field of honour. Dramalhoard raised his voice again, this time he called for his steward. “Alderod, Alderod.”
Alderod, cousin of the Lord and faithful steward limped across the gruesome field of death. He walked around the wounded and dying when he could and stepped over them when he couldn’t. His tunic of blue, well padded silk could be seen through the gashes in his hauberk. Alderod’s face was ghost white under the face of the bright, blood faced moon.
Alderod, faithful steward
Approached his lord
“I bring grave news to thee
Thy noble son, Prince Karodem
Is nowhere to be found.
His body lies not with the fallen here
That now sleep forever
Upon this blood soaked ground.