A Tale Of Allswen

Hi, my first story on Movella's. Ok, in the fantasty land of Allswen dragons and humans live in harmony but they are driven mad by greed, longing for the most powerful item in all of Allswen. When they finish fighting among themselves they realise their mistakes. This story is set a few hundred years after the fighting.


2. A tale of Allswen - continued

The light streaming through his windows when Fenir woke up quelled all thoughts he had of going hunting. The blizzard had blown itself out, leaving a fresh layer of snow. On the rare occasions he did go, it always started before dawn. He noticed Mabedui sitting by his bed,


“Get dressed.” He said


“For hunting?” Fenir asked, raising his eyebrow.


“For a funeral. A tribe of rogue dragons attacked one of the homesteads under the castles protection. The hearth bringer is one of the dead.” Mabedui said seriously and then tossed him his clothes.


When Fenir reached the dining hall he saw that the funeral party contained no dragons what so ever.


“Where’s Serana?” he asked Acadame Salco.


“In the light of things it wouldn’t be appropriate to arrive with a group of dragons.” He said stiffly.


Fenir groaned to himself, a day of looking sombre for someone he didn’t know. Thinking of the normally hilarious sight of Acadame trying to cling onto the dragon guards –their normal mode of transport he asked,


“How will we get there then?”


“By flytern, you will go in the chariot with the grand high Acadame and the captain of the guard. It will take an hour.” Said Salco.


Great, he thought. He’d been promised hunting but what did he get? An hour crammed next to the people he hated most staring up a flyterns behind. Life couldn’t be better.


Any one else would have enjoyed the scenery, blue mountains rising up out of the ground with swathes of deep green forests creeping up them; broken up by the occasional mirror like glacier or a shining river cascading down the mountain side into the sapphire fjords below. The blizzard had only smothered the tips of the mountains.  As they went further down the mountain, lush alpine meadows filled with horned Hemel cattle appeared, where children Fenir’s aged ran madly, they waved happily when the procession passed them. When they skimmed into more populated areas Fenir could see the Icestone mines and hear the rhythmic crashing as they slowly disembowelled the mountains. It was wild and free but mainly heart achingly beautiful.

                                        But Fenir longed to be above it all, soaring through the air, drunk with delight and freedom. However here he was, crammed between the two men, floating barely an inch across the land.

                               Grand Acadame Ledrun was prattling on and on, about Fenir’s inability to summon an ice wraith – a level fifteen spell. Fenir had to hold his tongue about the impossibility of him ever joining the Rune masters college at fourteen – as Ledrun had done.

                                 When ever he took a breath Skar – the guard master – moaned about his inability to behead the straw dummies with a heavy iron battle axe and about how archers in general were cowards, how true battle was feeling your enemy’s flesh tear open when you swing your axe. Skar wasn’t from the air region; he didn’t know the importance of bows to the mountain people. Fenir was slightly annoyed that Skar seemed to ignore that Fenir had some skill with the short sword.

                                 Soon they skimmed over an icy road and on the horizon Fenir could see the shape of houses. He found them cosy, those little houses with the steeply peaked roofs, the small windows and bright flowers on the window sills. Although the castle was imposing, it didn’t feel homely at all. As the sleigh zoomed nearer he saw signs of the recent dragon attack, cracked windows, chunks of burnt wood on the road, scorched crops in the nearby fields and the largest house (presumably the hearth bringer’s) had a huge chunk missing.

                                    It was strangely quiet in the village, the silence only broken by the occasional weeping. As the chariot slowed to a stop, a small group of armoured men appeared.

“Sir.” Said the senior guardsman. The rest of the village had appeared; they stood silently glaring at the funeral party.

“How many men did you loose?” asked Skar.

“Five out of ten, sir.” He replied.

                                     Fenir frowned, most homesteads this size had a guard of at least fifteen. Mabedui stood next-door to him, scanning the surroundings for possible dangers. They were shown the way to the burial sight. The party walked forward, Fenir could sense the anger in the air from the villagers but he didn’t know why. A man with a large bushy beard and tear stains down his face glared at Fenir with peculiar venom.

                            Fenir moved a little closer to Mabedui, whose flowing robes covered half his face and he held his hand tight on his scimitar. Fenir himself had a dagger, a Steelscale blade with a wolf head on the hilt

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