#Fjaring the Black-Hand

[delemis]

Rise of the Black Drake

By Fjaring the Black-Hand

(Part 1 in a series)

I was but a lad when the Black Drake’s host arrived at our doorstep. My father, the Jarl of Haustheim, had left with his soldiers three months earlier to join the armies of Arnvall and Karthfryse - a final, desperate effort to bring an end to Durcorach’s steady advance. He’d hoped that the combined strength of three jarls would be enough to bring the reachmen to heel, but that was three months ago, and now both Arnvall and Karthfryse had been razed to the ground. When we spotted those black banners on the horizon, my mother began to weep - The first time I’d ever seen her do so, in my entire life. It filled me with dread.

We weren’t stupid, of course; we knew that something like this would happen eventually, that the reachmen would make some push to wrest the Reach from nordic hands. But we did not expect it to arrive so suddenly, and in such force. Nor did we expect the sheer tactical genius put on display by their leader.  

In those days, the kingdom of the Reach was struggling. Our last king had died in the wars of high succession some eighty years ago, leaving behind no heirs, and all his jarls and thanes had taken up arms to carve his kingdom apart into petty holds and clansteads. For the last eight decades, Haustheim had concerned itself almost entirely with the threat posed by its fellow nord neighbors.

So when we heard the rumors that the reachfolk were beginning to muster, we - in our arrogance - ignored them. What harm could a beaten people do against us? We had tamed this land long ago, forced the weakest tribes into servitude and ground the strongest into dust. The reachmen were a threat that existed at the periphery now, prowling the roadside or launching the occasional raid on some vulnerable farmstead. Sure, the tribes had grown rather quiet as of late, and we had heard that one man amongst them had risen to prominence. We thought that when the time came, we would be prepared for him.

But we were not prepared for the Black Drake. 

In a matter of weeks, all of our assumptions about the enemy had been proven wrong. All at once he was upon us, his army sweeping across our lands village by village, town by town. Some have called Durcorach’s army a ‘horde’, but to refer to it as such is both insulting and inaccurate, for his army was more organized and well-prepared than any we had faced since the fall of the southern potentates. No, the reachmen were marching beneath the banner of a true army, the likes of which had never been seen before. 

One by one, the bravest jarls and chieftains of the Reach marched out to meet the Black Drake upon the field of battle. One by one they were beaten and slain, their holds and steads burned to the ground. By the time we realized that this was no mere slaves’ revolt or crude rebellion, it was already too late; the reachmen had gained the upper hand in a war that we had not even considered it possible to lose.

We knew that without my father’s army, there was no way we could stand up to the combined might of Durcorach’s confederation. Still, me and my siblings were prepared to fight; were it not for what happened next, I am sure that me and my siblings would have gladly fought to the last defending my father’s hold, just as all the other holds before us had done.

But after the Black Drakes’ forces had fully surrounded the walls of Haustheim, it was not siege ladders that greeted us the next day, but a single reachman. An envoy of Durcorach, seeking to parlay. Under normal circumstances I am sure we would have declined, for in those days nords did not treat with reachmen, who they saw as weak and inferior, beastly and elfblooded. Not so any longer-My mother bid the gates opened, and the envoy welcomed inside.

When we received her within my father’s longhall, the Black Drake’s envoy quickly explained to us, in no uncertain terms, that Durcorach’s war was one of extermination against the nord settlers. She told us that our father had died alongside the jarls of Arnvall and Karthfryse, in the weeks before their holds had been burned to the ground. Neither hold had been given the opportunity to parlay, as we were now; they, and most all of the holds and clansteads within the boundaries of the reach, had been razed in retribution for their crimes against the land and its people. As Haustheim existed on the periphery of the Reach, it would be granted the Black Drake’s mercy so long as we opened up its gates to him, submitted to his rule and gave hostages that would ensure our loyalty. This, the envoy explained, was Durcorach’s terms, and he would only offer them once.

My father’s advisors were wary. They warned my mother that the reach-kings’ offer must be insincere, that the reachmen - being possessed of elven  blood - had a natural inclination towards trickery, and so were attempting to enter our hold by way of deception before slaughtering us. But my mother was having none of it. “If there is even a slim chance that their offer is genuine,” She had said, “then we must accept it.” She kept repeating herself until her husband’s advisors relented. We siblings said nothing, simply waited while the adults deliberated. We were not old enough yet to have a place at father’s table for talks like these. Though my older brother Hori had complained about not being afforded the respect of the Jarl’s eldest son, now he was strangely silent. Looking back on it, I think he was afraid. Then again, I think we all were.

So the gates of haustheim were thrown open to the reachling invaders. I still remember seeing him for the first time as he entered through the gates astride that large, black destrier, flanked on either side by a row of wormhide-clad honor guardsmen. He was clad head to toe in armor unlike any I’d ever seen a reachman wear before, black as night and carved with witch-glyphs. A chain of silver hung around his neck, weighed low with the signet rings of slain nordic chieftains. There were too many to count, and I did not care to count them in any case for fear that I might find my father’s there as well. Instead, my eyes were drawn towards his face, towards that long mane of black hair tied in knots, and his face - fair, stoic... Clean-shaven, in a manner that I thought unbefitting of a great conqueror. Still, he had the look of a king; reachman and nord alike stood in awe of him as he and his retinue approached. 

At the foot of the keep, he stopped to address a crowd of reachmen that had gathered in anticipation of his arrival: They were the indentured, household servants and field hands of the hold that had lived under our care since this place was founded. Yet when Durcorach had finished addressing them, speaking to them in a language that I did not know or care to understand, they cheered his name and began to file out of the city gates, leaving to join their own kinsmen beyond the walls. None of their former masters made any move to stop them.

Finally, when all else was said and done, the Black Drake dismounted from his horse and climbed the steps of the keep on foot with a handful of his guards. While my mother waited to receive him at the top of the steps, me and my three siblings stood off to the side, lined up against the wall. I knew that at least one of us would be leaving as a hostage.

When the reach-king finally did reach the top of the steps, my mother knelt. What happened next, I cannot say, for from the distance we stood we could not hear them speak... The Black Drake bid her stand to her feet with a gesture of his hand, and she did, her gaze averted from her husband’s killer. They did not speak long until Durcorach’s hand lifted, and I could feel my heart sink as I saw that he was pointing towards me. 

I spent that night in my mother’s arms, the two of us crying like children. We had been assured that my safety would be guaranteed, so long as Haustheim remained loyal. Still, I cried. Tomorrow, I would be leaving Haustheim as the Black Drake’s hostage, and I did not know when I would be returning again.