Prince of Dragons

Chapter 45 - Second chances

Enorwin, prince of the Flaming Lands, was sitting in his tent.

He actually had a chair, now. His father had given him one of the chairs the army had brought with them. The earl had thought it suited nobility to have a chair.

As he wished.

His left arm, the one that had been burnt by that Servant, was covered in blisters and bright red. He'd rolled up the sleeve of his tunic: it hurt too much to leave his arm covered. He hoped it would heal well.

His sword was lying on his bed. He'd had to clean it after the fight. It was clean now. Physically.

That was the object. That was the tool he'd used to kill a person. A real, actual person.

He couldn't keep his eyes off it.

Suddenly, he realised master Wilnasson had been right.

For years, Enorwin had been convinced that his sword was a symbol of chivalry, of heroism, of nobility, justice and goodness. Almost as though it had a life of its own. As though it would be his guide on the path of justice, as long as his heart was in the right place.

He chuckled joylessly. Then he laughed. His sword. His sword! That mere chunk of metal!

Yes, Wilnasson had been right all along. That sword, his sword, was a tool, a cold and simple tool. There was nothing special about it, nothing noble, nothing remotely close to goodness. It was a tool, no more than that, no more than a hammer or an axe or even a sickle, for that matter.

It was cold.

Stop it, he told himself. This isn't getting you anywhere.

If only he'd had something to distract his mind! But as it was, he had no such thing. His books were back home, his friends were elsewhere; he had nothing to keep himself busy.

Nothing, safe for that dismal sword.

He clearly remembered the panic he had felt. Perhaps too clearly. He'd been surrounded by hordes of people all out to kill him. Every moment could have been his last. It had been as though all humanity had fled from the fighters around him, as though they had been reduced to some primeval state in which there was nothing but killing or being killed. And that same state had seized him, held him tight in its vicious claws until the very end.

And from that state, he had killed.

Was it excusable? He'd been defending himself, his earldom and his country, hadn't he? Surely his deeds could be excused? Moreover, more than a few brave knights had actually been praised in the past for doing the same things as he had.

He mused the opening verses of The epic history of Sir Lannhil and Wainur, the Dragon King:

"We heard an ancient story of brave Sir Lannhil's life

Who by his might and glory did end King Wainur's strife

Who freed from tyrants, cruel, the lands of Garowain

And founded through a duel his brother's righteous reign."

How distant those stories felt now. Where had the heroism been on that battlefield? Where the glory? Where, where the chivalry?

The sword was still lying there. It taunted him. "Now please explain to me, Sir Enorwin," it seemed to be saying, "how are you not a murderer?"

He looked away. Tried to keep looking away. But the spiteful blade drew back his gaze. "Murderer, murderer," it seemed to be whispering, "you're a filthy murderer."