The Theredin Sagas
Thorde and Mayodin
A Short Story
By
Lorraine Poulter
Thorde stretched. His arms reached skywards, his mouth gaped in a cavernous yawn, showing every one of those evenly spaced teeth. Most of his face was hidden by a tangled white beard; a long thick mane of hair that smothered the flesh of his lower flesh of his round stubborn face. The flesh taht lived above the beard was ruddy, dry, red and around his eyes was wrinkled right up to his forehead. Beneath his horned helmet was a shock of equally grey hair as full and knotted as his beard.
He shook his head and stirred his sluggish mind into wakefulness. He rapidly scanned the stony rock strewn path that wound it way around the desolate mountainside. It was clear.
A cold wind swept past, filled with flakes of snow. He rubbed his frozen hands, wishing his pride had allowed him to wear the wooollen underwear his wife was keen for him to wear. “Don’t want you catching cold,” she said. He brushed her aside.
“The battle will keep me warm.” Thorde said. bracingly. It appalled him to think that should he fall at the hands of Mayodin this day, what indiginities his body would be subjected to. And his spirit could not contain the dread of laughter from his enemy at the sight of winter woollies beneath his chain mail.
The wind howled, carrying on its crest the sounds of the voices in the village below. The cold, stiff armour that covered his chilled body reminded him why he was here. Above his head eager carrion vied for his bones.
Thorde raised his eyes and before him the countenance of Mayodin appeared. His red hair and beard ever red against the dull blue grey of the mountain. Like Thorde, being of the same, if distant lineage, he was short and round. His belly covered in silvered armour, carrying aloft in one hand a sword and in the other a shield.
Thorde froze and bent his knees. He fixed Mayodin with a stare, eyes meeting across the rift of battle, their beings poised to fight. As was the tradition, they had braved the wicked mountain road, had climbed the path of treachery to meet head to head, face to face.
“I see you, Mayodin. “ Thorde roared above the wind. “Are you ready to meet your fate?”
“I see you too, Thorde,” Mayodin called back.
They stood rigid, fixed on each other. The breath escaping in icy clouds. Thorde raised his shield yet did not move. His heart though stout pounded in his chest. The cold sweat of fear was not upon him yet its scent was over him. He did not fear death. He had prepared to meet with the Gods of Oldin in the days previous. He had made his peace with them and had been sent on his way with their blessing. He feared not the act of dying. He feared dishonour.
For years previous Mayodin and Thorde had traded verbal swipes and small incursions across the borders of their lands. Both defying the other, goading each other into the arena of war. Yet neither fully prepared to take that final step into combat.
Thorde bit his dry lip, his face partially hid by the helmet that covered his head and chin wondering how things had come to this.
Unhappy as neighbours, Thorde and Mayodin had provoked each other with petty incursions and theft of lands. Mayodin stole and acre in teh South while Thorde took an hectare. So it had gone on for centuries. Occasionally they had reached the point of all out war, and instead of trading wounds they traded insults. Many.
Mayodin was ill tempered and proud. He ruled his kingdom with tantrums and stomping of feet. His own designated kingdom, crowned upon him on his exile from Theredin as a child. He was the son of Grimm, the then king of Theredin. His rule was marked be war, by vile cruelty to anyone who showed or uttered any dissent. When Thorde as a young adult, the prince in waiting took the chance to usurp Grimm, he wasted no time. In a virtulally bloodless coup, Grimm and his family were driven from Theredin to the Outlands, beyond the murky, swamplands of Theredin. A banishment severe and yet not so severe to the mind of a dwarf. For indeed, despite the bleakness of the land, the harshness of the weather, it was a land rich in mining. Mining, the life soure of every dwarf. Beneath the treacherous fields lay a wealth of precious jewels and minerals ready to be mined.
Years of mining, years of wealth, of taming the wilderness that was their home did litte to appease the anger and humiliation of the manner in which they arrived.
Mayodin was a creature of business. The business of war held no interest for him and he knew little on how to conduct himself in these matters. His rule was governed by endless compromise, by the lack of fire in his blood to defend all her owned and all his people owned. He was spoiled by wealth. He could buy all he needed and he did with much more besides.
However his court were not of his thinking. They sought revenge on Grimm’s departure from Theredin. They were fired by the rage of their forefathers, now either dead or too old to carry through their actions. The younger court demanded their idle king became the dwarf he was destined to be. Even at the cost of his own life.
The removal of Grimm, with no other family, left Thorde in line to the throne of Theredin. And he took the crown with both hands and placed it firmly on his own head. The king.
Here they were. Both caught in the power of the moment, both defiant, both rapt in their prize of winning. For the first time, they were here to battle to the very end. Only one could live.
Thorde raised his sword. He felt its weight to the point of his arms ached. Neither moved.
A shoal of rocks fell from the mountain to the path. Dust rose and shroued them in coarse gloom and for a minute neither had sight of each other. A flash of hope crossed both minds that maybe the other had run from the line of battle. A hope that was dashed on clearing.
Mayodin lunged forward. His voice screaming. His foosteps thundering over the path as though the tiny chap was weighed by something greater, more physical than the task ahead. “For honour!” he roared as he bore down on Thorde.
Thorde caught the weight of the blow with his own sword, not without buckling beneath the strength and power that bore down on him. The impact reverberated down his arms and body.
The clash of their swords brought a flash of brilliant blue light to streak across the sky.
He pushed Mayodin back, who stumbled yet quickly regained his balance. “The honour is mine!” Thorde called back. Thorde swung his sword, crashing against Mayodin’s breast plate. Another flash of light lit up the sky on impact. Mayodin gasped and buckled. He straightened and quickly thrust his sword at Thorde’s helmetted head. Another crash of blue light.
Their footsteps boomed and rumbled across the valley below where rain fell heavily. The villagers gathered their young ones and ran inside.
Thunder roared and lightning streaked.
Theredin Sagas-Thorde and Mayodin ©️Lorraine Poulter 2016
