The Oaken Dagger

“Pour another for the Oaken Dagger!” 

The mead flows freely into glasses held by dirt and blood soaked hands. No one bothered to clean up before arriving lest the merriment of the air subside. If they had instead made the trek to Rosa’s, she would have surely made them wash off, but there are plenty of glasses and barrels with the last shipment of supplies at the campsite. The King, optimistic about the outcome of the battle, made sure to send his men plenty of means to celebrate. 

The eyes of a few of the men bugged upon seeing the stock initially, but the King’s foresight is an exceptional thing, because they lost fewer men than anticipated in today’s clash. Now, each of them is free to drink to their heart's content, but none so much as the Oaken Dagger himself, whose glass has seen more refills at the behest of his brothers in arms than any.

It’s a lucky thing that he’s a mountain of a man, or the sheer amount of alcohol would have done him in. If he had gotten any wounds in the battle, then all the gaiety too may have been his end. But he isn’t revered for no reason, so here he stands without a scratch on him, the living and breathing cause of so little loss of life and limb that day.

On their side, anyhow.

The war isn’t won, but this front is protected for the time being. It is likely that Gilnathar will recall the remainder of their forces to redistribute elsewhere as their need surfaces. Word arrived not long ago that the western front was proceeding in Trabora’s favor, so the enemy would surely want to reinforce their standing there before losing too much ground.

Now is not the time to consider such things. Celebration rings heavy in the vast plain where their hundreds of tents reside. Strategy will come tomorrow. Sigils for the few dead will as well.

“How many times do I need to tell you lot to just call me Sandon?” the Oaken Dagger complains, as he has on many occasions. This time, there’s a jovial quality to his tone and he claps Wells on the back, the man who last said it.

“Sandon hasn’t got any grandeur to it, has it? You don’t knock on God’s door and call him Edward!” Aiken says with a flourish of his arms, spilling his liquid gold along the way. Carden snatches it from his hand, muttering about wasteful pricks before slamming down what little remains. Aiken, loaded as he is, doesn’t seem to notice.

A few of the men drink to that, but Sandon scoffs.

“I ain’t anything close to a God and you know it. I’m just a—”

“A man with a dagger, a sense of duty, and a strong arm!” three men sing at the same time, knowing the words as well as their own names. The one called Tristain speaks up again. “Four daggers, if we’re being precise about it.”

They say that the Oaken Dagger only uses the shorter blades because his arms are long enough to reach his enemies as they are. The truth is that Sandon favored them as a boy when he wasn’t strong enough to carry a sword. He spent longer hours on the training fields than any child had a right to; some would say he should have enjoyed his youth to a greater extent, but to Sandon, that was exactly what he had done. He’s happier with the hilt of a weapon in his hand, just as he had been as a boy. His long built proficiency with that dagger sporting an oak handle is a thing of songs, and down the road, of legends. 

The soldiers drink well into the night, making good use of the libations the King afforded them. Aiken is laid across a log by a fire, passed out before anyone else, which leaves Wells to goad everyone into keeping their glasses full. As though they all turned to bards when the swords went down, they sing the true tales of the Oaken Dagger at the top of their lungs. A good few throats go hoarse.

It’s a night like many Sandon has had before, his victories plentiful. But it’s this one specifically that he vividly remembers now, as he stands on another battlefield on another front. Many of the men are the same, the very battalion simply picked up and moved to the north. Trabora is winning this war, but that isn’t to say that each battle is won in turn, and it’s this front where the hardest fought fights are. But these men are seasoned, and the King feels strongly that if they are to pick up their blades here and now, they will win.

The King’s foresight is not always right. They are not winning. Mind you, Gilnathar is not winning either.

Many of their soldiers are mud bound, but Sandon’s friends are no better. Wells is slain, Carden is fighting with a single arm as the other is stricken lame, and Aiken is not far behind the other fallen; the two arrows protruding from his stomach bear little promise of recovery, of ever seeing a lick of mead again. Tristain is nowhere to be seen, but Sandon has different problems to consider.

He has never seen another man quite so large as he, until now. While size is not the measure of a man in any more ways than just that, it seemed this man too was well practiced.

“The Oaken Dagger,” he snarls, then spits a glob of blood into the dirt, only to be mixed with the crimson life force already stained across the battlefield. For all that Sandon has seen, this amount of blood roils even his insides. “I knew when I heard of your conquests that I would be the one to take you down. There is no one else mighty enough.”

The swing of his axe punctuates the proclamation of how powerful the man thinks himself to be. Sandon can tell from his presence alone that he is the sort which songs are written for as well, only he revels in them. He hears whatever moniker the men of Gilnathar call him over the notes of a war ballad and he beams at the memory of the slaughter he left behind. He doesn’t drink for the prosperity of his people, but for the blood on his hands.

Sandon doesn’t justify the man’s words with a response, silently dodging the attack and dealing one of his own. The slice catches the man’s gauntlet, a resounding clang humming in their immediate space but no further. The men around them were fighting their own battles. Perhaps they each see the hero of their own side in the corner of their eye locked in a match, and think that certainly there isn’t anything to worry about, our hero will win. Only one side can be correct.

“I, Andrith the Iron Built, will be your end. Remember my name!”

“Shut your damn mouth already,” Sandon mutters under the pants of his exertion. 

The reverberation of their weapons hitting one another would be heard miles away if not for all of the noises of war around them. The other fighters give a wide berth to what is clearly a formidable match. Sandon and Andrith constantly step or leap over the bodies of the perished, though Sandon takes more care in avoiding desecration with his heavy footfalls. Conversely, bones crack, whether they are of Trabora or Gilnathar, under Andrith’s stomps.

“No!” Sandon yells as Andrith’s boot is about to come down on Tristain’s head, his fallen brother is clutched in a squabble of his own to fill his lungs with air. But he is not dead yet.

Sandon lunges, gripping Andrith tightly around the middle in a bear hug and they both topple to the ground several feet away. Tristain is safe—if his wounds can be tended to—but Sandon is not.

During the fall, Andrith stuck a dagger through Sandon’s neck. It’s a weapon one wouldn’t expect the behemoth to have, as he would surely find anything large and heavy to be better suited to the weight of his ego. This was because the dagger in question had an oak handle, the dagger belonging to Sandon.

His enemy staggered to his feet then stood tall over the large body of the man who could not so easily stand again.

“Andrith the Iron Built has been your reckoning,” he rumbled.

“Piss off,” Sandon wheezes, though he doesn’t care much for the behemoth. He looks to Tristain. 

His eyes are wide as he witnesses Sandon’s downfall, and though none had seen it before, the man looks near tears. Sandon tries to smile, to offer a last comfort he doesn’t think will help but is all he can muster, then he takes his last breath.

Two songs are written about this very event. In Gilnathar, it’s a victorious tune, with high and loud notes of their warriors conquest. It’s sung when the night has turned dark and the merry are not even close to finished. In Trabora, it goes like this:

Below the shade of the scarlet oak

Lays a body, yes, but a soul unbroke

He'd gut me for only meaning to flatter,

Such was the way of the great Oaken Dagger.

You've heard a tale, or two, or dozens

From brother, neighbor, friend, or cousin.

There isn't a soul in Trabora who hasn't,

Though he'd hate the praise, how very gallant.

The Oaken Dagger swung swift and true,

Saved my ass and all yours too.

From village to valley, his banner flown

A shield to the weak, a king to his own

The Oaken Dagger, steadfast blade,

Unshakeable virtue, unafraid.

He stood for honor, gave his breath,

A hero’s life, a warrior’s death.

Ablaze was the field, burning the skies red,

The dirt sodden with rivers of the dead.

Through arrows and metal, through fury and pain,

He stood for a friend, and he fell unchained

A sword to his breast, but never did he kneel

He gave the chance for his friend to heal.

With buckets of pride, nerves of steel,

Heart of gold, and courage too real.

The Oaken Dagger, steadfast blade,

Unshakeable virtue, and unafraid.

He stood for honor, gave his breath,

A hero’s life, a warrior’s death.

Iron and oak were his life and his end,

For himself, he could have well fended.

For courage may fade, and warriors fall,

But legends my friend, outlive us all.

The Oaken Dagger, never is gone,

His spirit rides with the battle of song.

And when the night is dark and is deep,

Sandon guards his land—he does not sleep.

Tristain lowers his lute, and though any other song may inspire him to turn about the room with his hat held out for any kind soul looking to pay a poor bard for his song, he doesn’t now. Sandon’s memory is not to be used for coin.

He picks up the glass he’d set at his feet and raises it for everyone in the tavern to see. Tears begin to spring to his eyes, but Sandon wouldn’t have wanted him to cry. He would have wanted Tristain to live on with the opportunity he gave to him that day when he saved Tristain’s life. That was all Sandor had wanted, for others to live on. 

“Pour another for the Oaken Dagger.”