A Father's Charge

The old dwarf lay swathed in blankets, shivering despite the blazing fire heating the room, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow as his strong fingers gripped the sides of the pallet in an attempt to supress his agony. The healer at his side tended to the wound in his shoulder, a jagged tear that was already turning septic due to the maladies deliberately applied to the orcish arrow that had struck him. Having secured a honey moss poultice to the gash the medic straightened up, "That is all I can do for now, Othraine. The wound will heal but it will be a long and painful process, I fear." The old dwarf nodded as the healer left the room and then lifted his gaze to the warrior standing solemnly at the foot of the bed. "Uthraine, my son, lift your spirits, you wear a countenence so dark it tells that you and not I have been turned to an orcish pincushion!" his expression softened, "Come closer boy, do not grieve, it will take more than a poisoned arrow sprung from the rotten bow of a coward orc to lay Othraine of the Firebeards to rest with the bones of the earth!" Uthraine chuckled gruffly and hunkered down at his fathers side as he was bidden. Othraine struggled into a sitting position, wincing at the pain, then looked long at his son, finally nodding in silent satisfaction he spoke, "You are my first son, my heir, and clansman of our shield guard. You have proven yourself in battle countless times, not least in driving this latest orcish raiding party back from our gates and saving your poor old Dad! Since you came of age you have never filled my heart with anything but the greatest sense of pride and so it is of you I ask this." Uthraine clasped his father's hand, "I humbly thank you father, you have but to name it and it will be done." The old dwarf smiled, "Uthraine, this much you know; before the raid I had pledged my aid to Vunar Ironaxe, he is reforming the Mithril Guard and is calling able dwarves to his banner to protect the caravans along our trade routes in these perilous times. It has been long years since I felt the tread of road beneath my boot and, feeling stirred by his words, I sent word to him; swearing my axe to his cause. But now, alas, I find myself chained to this sick bed! This wound will mean the breaking of my oath unless one will stand in my stead and bear my axe on my behalf. My son, I can think of none so fitting, so able, to keep my promise as you. Will you make this journey and fight this cause for me?" Uthraine bent his head and put his lips to Othraine's hand, "Father you do me too much honour," he said, "You are my lord and I accept your charge gladly, I will carry our family pride and see that your oath is kept, you may trust that I will not fail you. I will serve Ironaxe as I would serve you." "I am certain you will my boy," said Othraine, reaching behind him, "Here, you must take this now, I pass it to you, my son, as it was passed to me by my father and he by his, bear it well." In Othraine's hand was an axe Uthraine knew as well as he knew himself, his father's axe, that had hung at his father's belt since Uthraine could remember. Uthraine lifted it with reverence, "Father, I swear by this axe of our ancestors, I will make you proud." His father smiled, "You already have, Uthraine, many times. Now go, pack your gear, you leave for Thorin's Hall at sunrise."