Sir Elegren Frosela stood the wall,
Silent, steadfast through the twilight’s thrall.
His armor gleamed in pale moon’s light,
A guardian sworn in endless night.
With sword in hand and watchful eye,
He scanned the dark beneath the sky.
But deep beneath the ancient stone,
The cruel breath of war had grown.
The Humans of Myraletch, sly and grim,
Crept as sappers, their work deadly and dim.
With fire, picks, and thunder’s roar,
They shattered the wall’s sacred core.
A tremor roared; the earth gave way
And Elegren plunged in dismay.
His runeblade cracked, his heartbeat ceased,
As silence claimed the battlefield’s feast.
The horn blew clear, the Riders came,
Unicorns swift in King Endar’s name.
Their voices rose, a healing spell,
To mend the broken, save the fell.
“By root and leaf, by star and flame,
By light that heals and none can tame
Restore the soul, mend flesh and bone,
Return the knight to stand alone.”
But magic wrought a bitter fate
The spell returned, but not as straight.
For Elegren rose, a spectral shade,
His shattered bones beneath him laid.
No mortal flesh, no beating heart,
An undead sentinel torn apart.
Yet bound to guard the ruined Vale,
Forever trapped beyond the pale.
He walks alone among the dead,
O’er shards of bone where once he bled.
His own remains, crushed and broken,
A silent testament, unspoken.
Silent whispers stir the air,
The restless dead still cry despair.
No clash of sword, no rallying cry,
Only echoes of the days gone by.
The field lies stained with blood and grief,
No joy remains, no sweet relief.
The ravens feast, the shadows swell,
Upon this vale, a silent hell.
Hush now, soldier, dry your tears,
Though centuries pass and endless years,
The bards shall sing a mournful tune,
Of Elegren beneath the blood red moon
The undying knight who guards the dying.
Though scarred, though broken, bound in pain,
He roams the shattered hills again.
His armor gleams with ghostly light,
A phantom sword in endless fight.
Far in the northern reaches of Kael,
Within the Vale so dark and pale,
The ruined city, dust and stone,
Is all he now can call his own.
His banner flutters, torn and worn,
A symbol of a fate forlorn.
Waiting still for one to rise,
To heed the call that never dies.
The warrior’s call, the vow, the bind
That ties his spirit, locks his mind.
To guard the lost, the broken land,
Till fate releases his cold hand.
Thus sings the wind through shattered lands
Of fallen knights and broken bands,
Of honor lost and battles long,
And the eternal warrior’s song.
© 2025 By Dave Anhorn
Poetry
