Fram and Scatha

I’ve decided to post my creative project.  Feel free to read through it if you are interested, and I would appreciate any feedback on the story.

Fram and Scatha

Fram glanced up at the sky as he saddled his horse.  The afternoon was fading into evening in the village of Éofeld.  He drew his sword and scanned the edge of the shining blade, then sheathed it and shouldered his shield.  He looked over at Dunwyn, his wife, who was tending the garden.

“I will not be gone more than three weeks,” he said.  “These wicked worms have been ravaging our lands long enough.”

“It was not like this back south, was it?” she replied, digging at the soil.

“We have good land here, fertile fields and wide pastures.  There is enough for our people.  And we are free from the menace of Mirkwood.”

“We have traded one foe for another, no less deadly,” retorted Dunwyn.

“We will slaughter the dragons,” said Fram.  “I am setting out for that very purpose.”

“It is a foolish hunt.  You will be killed.”

“How are our people to survive if we do not face these monsters?  I must go.  Where is Fastred?”

“He is in the stable.”

Fram walked over to the stable, and felt the rough-hewn beams he had raised.  Dunwyn watched him enter, then began pulling weeds out of the garden.  She did not say another word to him as he walked out, leapt astride his horse, Stormfola, and galloped away across the rolling pastures toward the mountains.

After some time Fram rode out of the fading twilight under the forest onto an open ridge of jagged rock lining the top of a hill.  There was a red sunset in the sky, and the shadows were filling in the deep valleys.  Fram smelled the pine-scented breeze and looked up toward the snow-capped mountains in the distant haze.  The last light stained their sharp horns burning orange.  

Several miles to the south he could see the warm lights of the village of Éofeld.  The fires were burning in his father’s great mead-hall, and Dunwyn and Fastred were probably just sitting down to dinner in their house.  The lights of more villages glowed softly near the horizon.

Fram turned and rode down into a densely forested valley.  He decided to find a sheltered place to set up camp for the night.  At the bottom of the slope the valley flattened and a small stream ran through it.  There were some fallen boulders forming a rough shelter there.

It was late night in Éofeld.  The soft light of the moon lay across the pastures, and the stars glimmered above.  All the lights were out in the village.  

Fastred woke suddenly to the sound of a wild neigh from the far side of the pastures.  He stood up and walked to the back door, then cracked it open and looked out towards the dark line of trees in the distance.  He froze.

There, towering above the fir-trees on the pasture’s edge, stood Scatha the Worm.  He was the greatest dragon of the Grey Mountains, a plundering terror to the Dwarves and the Éothéod alike.  His scales were silver in the moonlight and a ridge of spines ran down his wingless back.  Scatha boiled with wrath as he gazed at the village.  His eyes glowed orange with fire, and smoke issued from his nostrils.

Fastred ran over to Dunwyn’s bed.  “Mother, wake up!  There’s a dragon out there!”

Dunwyn arose startled and concerned.  “What?  A dragon?  Where?”

“Just on the edge of the fields,” said Fastred quivering.

Dunwyn arose and collected herself.  “Listen to me,” she said.  “You need to run to the Great Hall and raise the alarm.  Your grandfather is sleeping there with his warriors.  Then come back to the stable as quickly as possible.”

“What if the dragon sees me?”

“I need you to be brave,” she said.

Dunwyn watched Fastred run down the street, then stepped outside and peered around the corner of the house.  She could see the enormous dragon crawling across the fields.  His long coiling tail trailed far behind and was still partially hidden by the trees.  His gaze was fixed on the Great Hall.

She dashed across the open space to the stables, and slipped inside.  She laid her hand on Greywind, the fastest horse there, to calm him as she began to saddle him.

A horn sounded from the great hall.  After a short delay more horns replied from the other houses in the village.  The alarm spread and the village began to come alive.  Fastred came dashing down from the great hall, glancing back over his shoulder.  He ducked into the stable door.  Dunwyn beckoned him to be silent.

“Hop on Greywind,” she said.  Fastred climbed onto the saddle, and Dunwyn led the horse to the back doors of the stable.  She unlatched the door, but held it shut and waited.

A splintering crash split the night.  Fastred flinched and turned toward the great hall, but it was hidden by the stable’s wooden walls.  Dunwyn flung open the stable doors and leapt astride Greywind behind Fastred.  They galloped across the pastures.  Over the thunder of Greywind’s hooves Dunwyn heard the shouting of Frumgar’s warriors rallying against the dragon, and more horns blowing.  Scatha roared, then the clash of steel swords on scales and claws on mail rang clear.  Suddenly an orange light blanketed the pasture.  The line of trees ahead appeared bright against the dark sky, and Dunwyn felt the heat of dragon-fire at her back.  Now more distant, the cry of the warriors rallying echoed once again with the crashing and clanging.

Dunwyn and Fastred reached the line of trees, and Dunwyn turned Greywind to look back at Éofeld.  Amid the burning wreckage of the Great Hall, she saw Scatha towering over Frumgar, small figure holding a spear.  Even as she looked, Scatha struck him down and a curtain of fire obscured him from sight.  Dunwyn turned Greywind and they rode off into the forest without looking back again.

Fram awoke from an uneasy dream.  The sounds of men shouting and horns wildly blowing were still whirling in his head, but the peace of dawn lay across the land.  The sky was glowing a soft grey, and the air was still and cold.  Fram felt that something was amiss.  He packed up his camp, and rode back up to the ridge he had crossed.  When he reached the top and looked out over the lands below, he could not believe his eyes.  

The village was destroyed.  The Great Hall lay trampled and ruined, and the smoke rising from the charred houses mingled with the rising vapors from the fields.  The people of the village were gathered in the midst of the smoldering remains.  Filled with horror, Fram rode towards the ruins in haste.

Fram arrived in the town with a heavy heart.  He looked through the crowd of people, and to his relief spotted Dunwyn and Fastred.  He slipped off Stormfola, and dashed over to them.  He seized them in his arms.

“What happened?”

Dunwyn looked at him coldly.  “You were looking for dragons out there while Scatha came to our doorstep.”

Fram could not find a reply.  “Where is my father?” he asked.

Frumgar lay on a makeshift bed in a tent.  His right arm was burned badly, and there were deep gashes across his chest.  His white hair and beard were singed.

“Scatha burned our village,” he said with effort.

“I’m sorry, father.  I was not there to fight him.”

“The dragons lived in this land long before we came,” said Frumgar.  “No land is free.”

“I will slay Scatha.  We will show the worms what happens when they burn our villages.”

Frumgar stared long and hard at Fram.  Then he reached for his spear, which lay at the bedside.  He held it forth.  “Take Erkengar.  You will need it.”

Fram gripped the charred handle.  “Scatha will not live to burn another village,” he said.  “I will hunt him down and slay him.”

“Go, my son, and do not falter.  Farewell!”

Fram rode north out of Éofeld like a storm.  He would make Scatha pay for the splintered remains of the house and stables he had built, and the ravaged fields he had plowed.  Stormfola tore across the pastures and plunged into the forest.

Scatha’s trail was easy to follow.  The great worm had left a pathway of destruction.  The grass was crushed and the trees toppled in his wake, and there were deep ruts in the earth and overturned stones where he had stepped.  The signs threaded a snaking course ever northward into the unforgiving wilderness of the Grey Mountains.

After some time Fram slowed Stormfola to a steadier walk that he could sustain all day.  By the time the sun was up Éofeld had vanished between the green folds of the foothills far behind.  The hills grew steeper and more rugged, and the trees were taller and more ancient.

By mid afternoon, Scatha’s trail approached the edge of a steep gorge.  Frothy water roared through the bottom.  Fram supposed he had come upon the river his people called the Greylin, upstream of the northernmost settlements.

That night Fram camped on the rim of the canyon.  The sound of the rushing water echoed up from the cliffs, and the stars were bright in the clear sky above.

Fram picked up the trail before sunrise the next morning.  There were a number of deer gathered at one point; Scatha was far ahead.  He urged Stormfola to a faster pace.  Fram found that before long the gorge widened into a steep valley.  The mountains towered up larger and larger.  In the distance they were white, but the nearest rugged peaks were only streaked with snow. 

In the afternoon a wild thunderstorm smote the mountains.  Fram rode on through a blinding flurry of rain and hail, and the thunder boomed from the cliffs and slopes on either side of the valley.  After a short time the storm rolled off and left the trail muddy and slippery.

Fram could see that he was gaining on Scatha shortly after the storm.  The great footprints and gashes in the mud were fresh, and there was a foul reek mingled with the refreshing smell of the rain.  

That night was colder, and mists rose from the rain and wandered through the valley in the dark.  The next morning was still and calm, but Fram was on edge as he rode forward once more.  He felt Scatha’s presence near at hand, and occasionally thought he heard the echoing crash of another great spruce or fir toppling at the dragon’s feet.  Stormfola was uneasy and hesitant to proceed, but followed Fram’s stern guidance.  

After some hours, the valley widened into a flat plain edged by trees between steep mountains.  The grey cliffs and rubble slopes lined either side.  Fram paused when he saw a wide archway carved into one of the cliffs with decorative columns cut into the stone on either side.  As he approached he could see what appeared to be Dwarven runes running across the top, and long gashes in the cliff face from the dragon’s claws.

Fram tried to calm Stormfola, who nervously shifted and tried to turn about.  He was unsure of how to proceed; Scatha could be waiting around any dark corner in the cave.  Then again, Scatha might not know anything of his approach and could be sleeping atop a great pile of treasure.

Before Fram had time to make up his mind, he heard a thundering rumble from the mouth of the cave.  Stormfola turned and leapt back just as Scatha’s monstrous head appeared from the darkness.  He crawled out of the opening, his long trailing tail sliding down the steep rubble slope.  Fram maneuvered Stormfola around uphill from the dragon.

“Who are you, and what is your purpose here?” Scatha demanded, coiling around and staring at Fram with a scouring gaze.

“I am Fram son of Frumgar, and I have come to avenge the burning of my village,” shouted Fram.  “You will die for that act.”

“Your people are foolish,” hissed Scatha.  “You cannot subdue the wilderness.”

“This is our land,” said Fram, “and if you will not give us peace, we will fight for it.”

Scatha laughed.  “I plundered the Dwarves, and I raided your villages.  This is my land.”

Fram lowered his spear, and held up his shield.  “Your time is over!”  Stormfola charged down the slope towards Scatha.  Scatha raised himself up and spouted fire down upon Fram, who held his shield overhead.  Scatha roared and spun around, and Fram plunged the spear into Scatha’s tail.  A heavy blow from Scatha’s tail sent Fram hurtling off Stormfola, and onto the sharp rocks.  He pulled himself up, and Stormfola dashed for the cover of the nearest trees.  Scatha swiped at Fram, and knocked him flat on the ground again. 

Fram dropped Erkengar and his shield, and gripped Scatha’s leg with both hands.  He rose up and twisted the massive limb around, throwing it down with enormous strength.  Scatha tottered above, and the stones under his feet broke loose.  He fell and rolled down the slope, landing with a great crash on his side.  Fram seized the shield and spear again, and charged down the slope.  Scatha sent another blast of fire at Fram, and Fram held his shield in front to deflect it.  The heat was a searing pain on his face, and he could see nothing but flames all around.  The blast relented, and he dashed forward again.  He raised Erkengar, and plunged it through the dragon’s soft belly into his heart.  He felt the shaft snap and shatter.

The light flickered and faded in Scatha’s eyes.  He turned to stare at Fram.  “Your strength is great, Fram Frumgar’s son, but your father’s spear faltered just as he did,” he growled.

“My father is avenged!” shouted Fram, but Scatha’s head fell back and his limbs went limp.

Fram climbed the slope to the gateway, and picked up a broken branch kindled by Scatha’s breath.  He looked into the dark opening.  The long Dwarf-delved tunnel ran straight back deep into the mountain.  A foul stench lingered at the mouth.  Fram stepped inside, and walked down the long hallway.  The air grew more humid and stuffy, and soon doorways began opening up on either side.  He could see great black scorches across the walls, and there were tumbled fragments where the dragon had torn down the gates.  There were carvings of Dwarves along the walls, and runes which Fram could not read on either side.  

It was not long before he arrived at the end of the tunnel.  It opened into a great room delved deep in the mountain.  A heap of gold stood in the middle, and there were scattered treasures all around it.  Swords, axes, and mail gleamed dimly in the torchlight.  There were bright gemstones of various colors strewn throughout the room.  Fram could see carefully wrought cups studded with jewels, and necklaces and other jewelry.  He gasped at the extravagant wealth.

A few days later Fram rode victoriously into Éofeld on Stormfola.  He wore a coat of gilded mail, and around his neck hung the teeth of Scatha.  The people cheered as he rode in, and Dunwyn was overjoyed at his return.  

That evening he sat in a tent with Dunwyn and Fastred where his burned house had stood.

“Scatha is dead,” he said.  “Perhaps now we will have some peace from the worms for some time.”

“I am glad you made it back alive,” said Dunwyn, “though you were not unscathed.  Things could have gone ill.”

“I will journey up again in the morning with others, to retrieve the treasure.”

“Did the dragon steal the gold from the Dwarves?” asked Fastred.

“To the victor the spoils,” said Fram.  “The Dwarves did not have the valor to face Scatha.  They fled.”

Dunwyn stared at Fram.  “What are you going to do with the gold?” she asked.

“I am going to build a city,” replied Fram.  “On the wide plain where the Langflood is born of the Greylin and Langwell.  It will have stone walls, and gates and towers.  It will be safer from the plundering dragons.

“For you, Dunwyn, I brought this,” he said, producing a silver necklace of diamonds.  Dunwyn took it and held it glinting in the light, but she did not put it on.

“And for you, my son, I found this.”  Fram handed Fastred a small horn.  It was silver, and there were figures riding horses and Dwarven runes engraved along the sides.

The autumn and winter passed by.  Frumgar had recovered some of his strength, but his right arm did not mend fully.  Fram rode south to begin construction of the city, and the story of his fight with Scatha spread.  The men named the city Framsburg, and Fram’s wealth and deeds won him great renown.  Talk of the death of Scatha spread beyond the land of the Éothéod, and Dwarves conferred in their mountain halls.  

One day the next spring, Fram sat on his high seat in the Great Hall of Framsburg, a towering vaulted stone structure far greater than the quaint mead-hall Scatha destroyed in Éofeld.  To his surprise, his men escorted a party of Dwarves in who had demanded to see him.  Fram stood up and looked down at them.

The leader of the Dwarves introduced himself.  “Greetings, Fram son of Frumgar.  I am called Brúni, son of Flói.”

“Welcome to my halls, Brúni son of Flói,” replied Fram.  “What is your errand here?”

Brúni began hesitantly.  “Many years ago my grandfather, Frár, wandered the dales of the Grey Mountains.  One day he came upon a great valley lined with tall cliffs, and he called it Zigilbizâr.  He began delving a vast hall there, and there many of our people dwelt.  They called it Zigilbizâr-dûm.  The earth was rich, and they had great wealth in gold and precious stones.

“At that time, the great dragon Scatha began to trouble our people, burning the land and tearing down fortresses.  He heard of the great wealth at Zigilbizâr-dûm, and desired it for himself.  He broke in, and devoured the defenders.  Only one of our people, my companion Lofar, lived to tell the tale.

“For a hundred years the dragon Scatha has lain on the hoarded gold of our people.  Now news has reached us that you have slain Scatha the Worm, and freed Zigilbizâr-dûm from his terror.  For that we are grateful.  We now ask that you return our people’s handiwork, the treasures of the hoard, to their rightful home.  For your valor we will leave you one tenth of the spoils.”

Fram frowned.  “You would have us slay the dragons, and then take the gold for yourselves?”

Brúni did not answer.

“Dwarves have no valor!” he shouted.  “One hundred years, and you did not recover Scatha’s hoard.  The gold is mine now.”

“It rightfully belongs to our people,” replied Brúni.

“Rightfully?  Your people could not slay Scatha, but left him to ravage our pastures and villages.  You will have no gold.”  Fram then reached to his neck, and lifted off the necklace of Scatha’s teeth, which he still wore.  “Instead I offer you this gift.  Jewels such as these you will not match in your treasuries, for they are hard to come by.  Your people do not have the valor to win them on their own!”  He flung the necklace of teeth at Brúni.  A fire shouldered in Brúni’s eyes, but he made no reply.  The Dwarves turned and left.

The next day Fram rode out to scout the lands for farming around Framsburg.  He did not return, but Stormfola came into the stable riderless that night.  A man found him dead in the fields the following morning, an Orc arrow in his back.  Some said in whispered rumors that the Dwarves had loosed it, in recompense for his insult.

Dunwyn was stricken with grief.  That evening, she sat with Fastred in their house in Framsburg.

“Why did father die?” asked Fastred.

“Your father was a brave man,” replied Dunwyn.  “But he thought too highly of himself.  He thought he could fight anything.”

“He made a mistake?”

“Yes, he did.  When he killed Scatha he saved our people, but it ruined him.  Remember that.”

“I will,” said Fastred, looking at the silver horn.

~Ulmo