(no subject)
[Before: the Blasted Lands.]
Forty-seven years ago, Lain Mandragoran -- beloved brother of the king of Malkier, and uncle of the then-newborn Lan -- led five thousand of Malkier's lances into the Blasted Lands to strike against Shayol Ghul. His wife had dared him, and Lain was a proud and fierce man who hated the Shadow with all his heart. Perhaps there was pride in his acceptance of the dare, but mostly it was a Malkieri lord's determination to strike a blow against the Dark One, and destroy at least a portion of his forges and lay waste to the Trollocs' breeding grounds. He and his men rode forth with swords bright and banners flying.
Whatever blows they struck, they died of them. Only a handful of men returned home, all of them wounded terribly. Only two of them survived to see Malkier's fall, hardly a year later; both of them died at Herot's Crossing, with the king and queen at their last stand.
Many blame Lain, in part, for Malkier's death. He was no Darkfriend, all agree, but he was used by them to their purposes. With its full strength, Malkier might have withstood the onslaught; it had fought off similar invasions before. Even with the Borderforts stripped bare by treachery as they were, the heart of the country might have stood fast.
Instead, the crown prince and five thousand of Malkier's best lances lay dead in the Blasted Lands. Malkier was weakened and beset, half her fighting strength gone, and the other Borderland nations were too late to aid her. King al'Akir and Queen el'Leanna sent away those that would go, gathered the rest at Herot's Crossing, and sold their lives bravely.
The Light shine on them, and the Creator shelter them.
The last embrace of the mother welcome them home.
Lan has just found his uncle's grave.
He doesn't return to tell the others. He was scouting straight ahead; they'll catch up soon enough. First --
First he looks.
To stand against the Shadow while iron is hard and stone abides.
These bones are forty-seven years dead. Forty-seven years under this merciless desert sun.
They lie in jumbled heaps, scorched and split by the fires of the Trollocs' cookpots. The skulls of horses and men and Trollocs lie splintered atop each other; it's mpossible to tell which belong together. All of them are hacked and broken, and bleached a dry brittle white. Tangled throughout are the faded tatters of surcoats and breeches and boots. Steel glints in blinding flashes: stirrups, plate armor, chainmail. There's no rain here to rust them.
To defend the Malkieri while one drop of blood remains.
Lan -- even Lan -- misses the banner for nearly a minute. Its crimson fabric is faded to a mottled rust-brown that blends into the thirsty sand, and the edges are so wind-tattered that it barely retains its shape. It's crumpled against a broken heap of rocks and battered armor, fallen into deep folds that obscure the design. Once it was edged with the wide black border that differentiated the heir's banner from the king's, but on three of the four edges that's worn away into an occasional dark flutter. It's only when a stray gust of breeze lifts a corner of the flag that his eyes snap to the moving fabric; his hand is tightening on hilt before he realizes what it is he's seeing.
Not an enemy. Only Lain's banner: the faded, threadbare remnants of the Golden Crane.
To avenge what cannot be defended.
Lan's face is set in harsh planes as he heels Mandarb forward, picking his way around this ambush-hollow.
There's nothing here but him, and the dead.
Forty-seven years ago, Lain Mandragoran -- beloved brother of the king of Malkier, and uncle of the then-newborn Lan -- led five thousand of Malkier's lances into the Blasted Lands to strike against Shayol Ghul. His wife had dared him, and Lain was a proud and fierce man who hated the Shadow with all his heart. Perhaps there was pride in his acceptance of the dare, but mostly it was a Malkieri lord's determination to strike a blow against the Dark One, and destroy at least a portion of his forges and lay waste to the Trollocs' breeding grounds. He and his men rode forth with swords bright and banners flying.
Whatever blows they struck, they died of them. Only a handful of men returned home, all of them wounded terribly. Only two of them survived to see Malkier's fall, hardly a year later; both of them died at Herot's Crossing, with the king and queen at their last stand.
Many blame Lain, in part, for Malkier's death. He was no Darkfriend, all agree, but he was used by them to their purposes. With its full strength, Malkier might have withstood the onslaught; it had fought off similar invasions before. Even with the Borderforts stripped bare by treachery as they were, the heart of the country might have stood fast.
Instead, the crown prince and five thousand of Malkier's best lances lay dead in the Blasted Lands. Malkier was weakened and beset, half her fighting strength gone, and the other Borderland nations were too late to aid her. King al'Akir and Queen el'Leanna sent away those that would go, gathered the rest at Herot's Crossing, and sold their lives bravely.
The Light shine on them, and the Creator shelter them.
The last embrace of the mother welcome them home.
Lan has just found his uncle's grave.
He doesn't return to tell the others. He was scouting straight ahead; they'll catch up soon enough. First --
First he looks.
To stand against the Shadow while iron is hard and stone abides.
These bones are forty-seven years dead. Forty-seven years under this merciless desert sun.
They lie in jumbled heaps, scorched and split by the fires of the Trollocs' cookpots. The skulls of horses and men and Trollocs lie splintered atop each other; it's mpossible to tell which belong together. All of them are hacked and broken, and bleached a dry brittle white. Tangled throughout are the faded tatters of surcoats and breeches and boots. Steel glints in blinding flashes: stirrups, plate armor, chainmail. There's no rain here to rust them.
To defend the Malkieri while one drop of blood remains.
Lan -- even Lan -- misses the banner for nearly a minute. Its crimson fabric is faded to a mottled rust-brown that blends into the thirsty sand, and the edges are so wind-tattered that it barely retains its shape. It's crumpled against a broken heap of rocks and battered armor, fallen into deep folds that obscure the design. Once it was edged with the wide black border that differentiated the heir's banner from the king's, but on three of the four edges that's worn away into an occasional dark flutter. It's only when a stray gust of breeze lifts a corner of the flag that his eyes snap to the moving fabric; his hand is tightening on hilt before he realizes what it is he's seeing.
Not an enemy. Only Lain's banner: the faded, threadbare remnants of the Golden Crane.
To avenge what cannot be defended.
Lan's face is set in harsh planes as he heels Mandarb forward, picking his way around this ambush-hollow.
There's nothing here but him, and the dead.