Far away, at a distance bordering on Naurilia, there were nobles who did not believe in Enkrid’s fame. No, rather than disbelief, they thought it might be somewhat exaggerated. When they heard bards singing the Song of the Iron Wall, the song of the knight who stood alone against a thousand, it made no sense at all.
It was said that he raised a flaming sword and drew a line across the ground, and from that line a wall of flame surged up. Though some had composed songs detailing Enkrid’s deeds more precisely, by nature such tales spread best when exaggerated and absurd. That is, a touch of fantasy had to be added.
In an age where public hangings passed for entertainment, such stories themselves were a source of great amusement. Some of those far away half-believed, or believed even less, and only the naive thought Enkrid truly swung a blazing sword of fire—but within the Border Guard, Enkrid’s renown soared without end.
There were those who had stood on the battlefield themselves, and they had families. All of them, every one, raised Enkrid’s name. It was as though they had witnessed the birth of a hero before their very eyes.