Tales From Orin Nodd

By J.C. Witman

A popular Oberron tale told during the first age.

Raindrops fell like glistening crystals from the cloudy gray sky. Cool drops splattered onto the knight’s ill-fitting armor. His youthful face was hidden behind a slotted visor. He stared across the battlefield and spotted his foe. Bulky, well-worn chainmail covered his enemy’s enormous frame. A long battle-ax, held limply by his side, drug along the ground. As his adversary moved towards him with a labored limp, the knight’s blood began to boil.

A wound left by a strike from the enemy’s weapon caused him to hold the hilt of the saber tightly in his gloved palm. The knight ignored his pain as it pierced through his shoulder.

The long, hard-fought battle was coming to an end. Many lay dying, or already dead on the muddy terrain around them. Their cries fell on deaf ears. Only a few soldiers remained from either side. It was not without a great cost, but the battle was about to be won. One last obstacle remained: an enemy who refused to surrender, and mercy was not something he would accept. Despite the ensuing victory, a small voice whispered death is near resoundingly in his inner thoughts.

“Haven’t you had enough?” said his foe gruffly. “I can see it in your demeanor and I know the pain you must feel in your heart. Death may be a welcome release for you.”

He gripped his sword and gritted his teeth. The knight’s anger welled up, overcoming any fear that knocked at the door.

“You deceive yourself by calling yourself a knight.” His foe said with a chuckle. “It is not a title that is easily had, but for you, it will be short-lived.”

“Look around. You have lost,” the knight said. “But you are right about one thing. I am not a knight. This armor is not my own. I am just the son of a woodcutter. The man you killed. I am the brother of the woman you took. The friend of the men you slaughtered. I am a warrior of your creation. Now, I am the man who has become your reaper.”

“Many have come before you,” his enemy said. “Stood where you stand. You will be no different than any of them. There is still a victory to be had while there is breath in my lungs.”

“We will see,” said the knight, steadying his trembling hand.

Raising his ax, the knight’s enemy rushed forward with a blood-curdling cry. Their weapons collided in a fury. The ax fell heavily on the knight’s sword. The knight held his ground before striking his adversary in the side. He fell onto the wet surface of the earth, laying in a bloody puddle before death swiftly took him away.

Turning his face up to the sky. Water dripped into the knight’s visor. He allowed himself to take in the victory. The souls of his family and those whom the invaders murdered would rest easy. If only in his mind.