Sins of Our Fathers II - New Art Uploaded - 1/25
Destan
Citizen of Val Hor
Chapter II
Baden took stock of the situation: seventeen dwarves, seven serviceable crossbows – all of them of the dwarven kind*, eight hauberks, nine shields, two maces, twelve axes, and perhaps three score of unshattered bolts. Nearly the whole lot of it was bloodied, of course, but cleanliness was far down on the list of Things to Worry About. The accounting of gear did not include his or Tamil’s possessions…or the equipment upon the corpse of Bardo.
For Bardo, Tamil’s brother, had fallen but moments before Baden had slain the cave troll.
Baden closed the gate that had served as entrance to his kinsmen’s prison. The muffled groans he had ignored on the way to meet the cave troll were, in fact, sounds issuing from his brothers. He had thanked Moradin seven times that he had decided to investigate the noises prior to leaving Axemarch. Doubtless he would thank the Forge Father seventy more.
Nineteen of us, all told.
- You will get them home.**
I'll sure as hell try, Ilvar. I s’pose 'home' is Ironfist, now, for there ain’t nothing but death and stink here.
Baden shared a look with Tamil. The young dwarf was doing surprisingly well considering he had just lost his brother. Most like it ain’t sunk in yet. “’Tis your call, Tamil. We can try to bring him if you want.”
Tamil shook his head, eyes red from unreleased grief. “We have a journey ahead of us, and one that…that would be easier done without my brother.”
“Then let us bury him in the manner of the firdundurven.”***
Baden, Tamil, and two hand-picked dwarves helped situate Bardo’s body within a narrow fissure in the cavern’s wall. The rock was loose thereabouts, and would fall easily. Which, of course, was the point.
Tamil silently accepted one of the maces. “May your skin be ever ruddy from the glow of the forge, and may your beard grow below your knees.” Simple words, old words. Tamil struck the wall once, twice, three times. The rock collapsed, sealing Bardo’s corpse in a rocky tomb, the only indication of his resting place a finger-thin crack near the floor.
Baden nodded, once. “Now, let us move. Tamil, you take rearguard. I’ll be in front.” Baden surveyed the dwarves they had rescued. “Keep the wounded in the middle, stay tightly packed. We move as one.”
***
Baden collapsed onto a bank of snow, his chest heaving with exertion. The snow was red and white around him, littered with the bodies of hobgoblin ambushers. He looked around, spotted Tamil, and stood. There was no time for rest.
“We lost three, Baden.” Tamil's tone held a hint of accusation.
Baden pushed past Tamil without reply, marching through snowdrifts toward the assembled dwarves. For a long moment he stared at the three corpses. Baden did not know the dead warriors, but recognized their faces. They had been beardless when he left. They were not beardless now. May Moradin forgive me.
“You. What is your name?”
“Murbann.”
“Next time you pop a cork and feed a healing potion to one who is down, make damned sure he's still living. Them vials do nothing for one already dead. Do you understand?”
Murbann’s expression was a mixture of anger and shame. “I understand.”
“Good. You can help bury them.”
Baden had no time to coddle hurt feelings. Some lessons were better learned hard. To tell it true, Baden was angrier with himself than the young dwarf. He had neglected to place any flankers to either side of his small force. The hobgoblins had surprised them, and three had died because of it.
“One of the hob’s I killed had extra horseshoes in his pack. Another of ‘em had fodder.” Baden squinted toward the precipice frowning upon them from above. “Most like them hobs staked their ponies in the passes above. Tamil, take two, and find their mounts. See that stand of spruce yonder? Meet us there.”
The march from Axemarch to Ironfist was proving difficult. Too damned difficult. The bitter cold of the Balantir Cor did little to slow his dwarves, but even dwarven bellies needed food. And food was scarce. The hobgoblins’ ponies would be a welcomed blessing. The beasts could carry their wounded and – more importantly – could be eaten.
Baden idly wondered if Anar would be upset they had eaten his borrowed horse. Probably not, Baden allowed, the Lathanderite seems a man who knows necessity.
Baden sighed as he watched Tamil and two others disappear into a nearby crevice. He walked toward a slight rise in the ground and kicked at the snow. “Here. We will bury them here.”
Then, without another word, he set to chopping the ground with Borbidan’s axe. His men soon joined him, the land quiet other than the sounds of their labor.
***
King Thodorr of Clan Ironfist was a short dwarf. The face above his beard was as craggy as the hillside outside his Hall, his eyes two pieces of coal. He had lost the front of his nose to a cave orc’s scythe, the wound making his face appear flat as shale. He would be intimidating to look upon, Baden thought, if not for his smile.
“Baden Dost, is it not?”
“Aye, Your Majesty.” Baden dipped his head. “Thank you for allowing us the hospitality of your Hall.” Baden thought there were probably other words – formal words – he should be saying. But he had never been one for ceremony, and knew them not.
“I remember your father. He had traveled here a number of times.” Thodorr stepped to one side to better reveal the pillared hall behind him. “My son is away, else he would be here to welcome you as well. I trust the thanks you offer me extends to him.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Baden was unsure what the Dwarfking meant by mentioning his absent son, but that did not dent his gratitude. “Ironfist has been a fast friend of Axemarch in these troubled times.”
Baden was about to say more, but remembered his men. “I have wounded-”
“I know. My people are attending your hurts. Eat, rest.” Thodorr’s smile faded somewhat. “Ularta, Matron of your clan, has spoken of you. She has had much to say.”
Baden remembered Ularta – an old, bent dwarf. His mother had never liked her. “I believe I should meet with her, Your Majesty.”
“Of course, of course.” Thodorr smiled once more. “But she has asked that we save your tale for a council, and has requested I convene a moot this very evening.” Thodorr’s eyes softened. “I know you are weary. Will you be able to attend, or should I delay the matter?”
Delay, by the gods. “I will attend, Your Majesty.”
***
Baden felt, for the first time in a long while, embarrassed. He was surrounded by the pomp of dwarven nobility, and he felt crude and base in comparison. He had washed the grime from his face and hands, combed the burrs from his beard, polished the armor and axe of Borbidan…but such things did little to make him feel comfortable.
Baden knew, without a doubt, that there were those at the council who marked him a traitor. A coward. He had departed Axemarch against the wishes of his Dwarfking Droggi. He had left behind his clan, not knowing his fellows would soon be overrun by the blackness of the Deepingdelve.
Had I known, I would never have left.
- They know this, Baden.
Do they, Ilvar? I see acceptance only in the faces of the Ironfist dwarves. Those of my own clan stare at me as if I were rûcken.
- Not all of them.
Bah! This is to be a fight, Ilvar. There be no axes and hammers, but a fight it is all the same. I must be on my best behavior. I swear it to you – I will be on my best behavior.
Baden nodded respectfully toward Dereth Droggison, son of the missing – dead? - Dwarfking of Axemarch. Dereth’s mood was concealed behind a young and bushy beard, but his eyes were not nearly so cold as some of the others.
Ularta, in particular. Baden returned her gaze evenly. He had seen too much, endured too much, to wilt under the glare of a spinster. I have half a mind to knock that look off your wrinkled snout, you old prune-
- Easy, Baden, easy.
Ilvar, now is the time when you shut yer trap.
Baden made his way through the throng of spectators, bowed low to Dwarfking Thodorr, not quite so low to Matron Ularta, and made his way to stand behind the only empty chair. The others were already seated around a great, circular table. “Uh…may I sit, Your Majesty?”
Thodorr smiled. “Please, Master Dost.”
Baden felt like a schoolchild surrounded by teachers. He reached out to set his axe on the table, thought what such a move might imply, and instead leaned the weapon against his chair. He sat straight, then leaned back, then sat straight again. He began to sweat. For the love of mead, will someone please speak?
Thodorr did. “Thank you for coming, all of you. Your Grace, the benediction, please.”
Odon Hammergarden, Moradin’s Word, stood. His voice was sonorous and pleasing and asked for the Forge Father to grant divine wisdom to the assembled moot. It was a long prayer, and Baden was thankful for it; it gave him time to frame his words. Baden was unsure whether the council would be aimed at learning what little he knew, or whether they would accuse him of…
Thodorr nodded as Odon reclaimed his chair. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
The Ironfist Dwarfking looked to Baden. “I believe we should begin by asking you to relate your recent…adventures.”
Baden nodded. “I returned to Axemarch but a tenday or more ago. Alone. I was met by three dwarves – Tamil, Bardo, and Katon.”
“Tamil and Katon we have seen. But, I ask you, where is Bardo?” Ularta’s voice was both wheeze and screech.
You know he’s dead. “He is with the Forge Father.”
Dereth frowned. “This would go easier if we saved our questions until after he's finished, no?”
So Baden told his tale. He told of the chance meeting with Wilan Whitefletch. He told of his climb down the mineshaft, of the fight with the cave troll and its minions. He spoke of Bardo’s and Tamil’s bravery. At the end of his recounting, Baden named those dwarves who had fallen to the hobgoblins, and asked that their names be remembered by both Axemarch and Ironfist.
He told his story, but not that of his companions from Olgotha. For some reason, he did not feel it wise to mention John and Kellus and those other non-dwarves he had befriended.
And, finally, he was finished. In all, Baden took only a few minutes to recount days of hardship.
***
Thodorr looked around the table. “It seems Master Dost has rescued many of those who might otherwise be dead. He has done what he could to return our folk to the shelter of Ironfist." The Dwarfking paused. "For this, he should be commended.”
Dereth nodded. “Indeed he should. And the rest of us, to our shame, should question whether we fled our Halls too quickly. Could we have saved more than Baden's fourteen, had we stayed but a few more days to fight? I say again - leaving as we did, when we did, was an ill move.”
“Really, Droggison?” Ularta barked, eyes narrow. “Would you have all of us enslaved as these few were? I ordered the clan to depart so that Axemarch might yet endure. And have we not?”
“Endured, yes - I will give you that. But at what cost?" Dereth's face was red, but his words lacked conviction. "Where is our honor?"
Baden hated to come to Ularta’s defense, but felt he must. “Sire," he addressed Dereth, "forgive me, but there were many tracks leading from the Deepingdelve into our Halls. Tamil, Bardo, and I fought but one such group – doubtless there are more.”
“Let them be as numberless as the peaks, friend Baden, yet still it shames Axemarch to run from our warrens like gophers from wildfire.”
Baden knew he needed to tread carefully; he recognized Dereth as a friend to his cause, but the dwarf was yet young. His enthusiasm needed to be tempered. “I know, sire, I know. Yet leaving a battlefield, only to pick better ground, is not cowardice.”
Ularta sneered. “You are quite familiar with leaving the battlefield, are you not?”
So it was out. Baden felt a weight taken from his shoulders.
“I should not have left Axemarch, Matron, if such is what you imply. I know that, now."
“Had you remained,” Ularta pressed, undeterred, “we may yet be sitting in our own Halls, rather than coming to King Thodorr like beggars for alms. Perhaps our Dwarfking would yet be with us. Perhaps-”
“I doubt,” Odon interrupted in a gravelly voice, “one axe would have turned the tide.”
Ularta scoffed, “We will never know, will we? Dwarfking Droggi and his loyal warriors never returned.”
Thodorr raised his hand for silence. He drummed thick fingers on the stone table. “Ularta, you are Matron in Droggi’s absence. Your word is the word of the Axemarch clan, until such time Droggi returns or Dereth is confirmed in his title. What say you to the news our friend Master Dost brings?”
Ularta sat back, clearly relishing her role. “I say only this: this dwarf, Baden, fled from our clan when he was most needed. He did not heed the orders of his Dwarfking-”
“The wishes of his Dwarfking,” Dereth corrected.
Ularta did not pause. “Should this dwarf wish to recoup some of his lost honor, he will accompany Axemarch as it returns to reclaim our home.”
Baden realized he had been holding his breath. At Ularta’s latest words, he exhaled loudly, the wisps of his beard blowing outward. “I want nothing more than Axemarch dwarves living in Axemarch Halls…”
“Yes?” Ularta smiled, eyes glinting and hard.
“But we are not ready.” Baden’s voice was firm. “Axemarch is not ready. Not yet. I look about. I see only the faces of the young and the old. We have lost many, lost our best warriors, and I would not see us lose more.”
Dereth sat upward. “We are young, aye, but we are determined. I think, should you have the opportunity, you would be impressed with our skill.”
“I do not doubt your skill, sire,” Baden agreed in a softer tone, “and least of all your determination. But I tell you – I tell all of you – that Axemarch cannot be reclaimed. It is beyond us.”
“What if the axes of Ironfist aided you in this endeavor?”
Baden’s eyes widened. He looked to Thodorr. “You have done much and more for my clan, Your Majesty, but…but you should look to your own Halls. There is a man in Val Hor, Destan by name, who was in contact with Dwarfking Droggi. There is evil afoot, amassed and organized, and it threatens more than just Axemarch. I fear your axes will be needed to defend Ironfist lands, and soon.”
“So we are to listen to some human from Valudia?” Ularta looked about the chamber, delighting in the gruff mumbling of the assembled onlookers. “Tell me, would you have Axemarch beholden to the Three Popas?”
Baden bristled. “There are things you – and I – do not yet understand. We must learn-”
“Do not tell me what I understand and what I do not, shirker!” Ularta stood. “It was not I, but you, who fled our Hall. I watched as Dwarfking Droggi asked for you to remain. I watched as you gathered your pack and walked beneath the Foggun Maw. You speak of cowardice-”
“I speak of truth!” Baden thundered, knuckles white as he gripped the arms of his chair. He no longer looked at Ularta – his words, when next they came, were for the Axemarch dwarves standing in the shadows of the meeting hall. “I left you. I did. But I am back now. I have seen much. We dwarves are too quick to discount the advice of others, too readily do we ignore the humans of the lowlands-”
“Again, you speak of listening to some Valudian-”
Baden reached down, grabbed his axe, and slammed it atop the stone table. In all, the move took little more than the blink of an eye. “Matron Ularta…ifyouwouldbesokind, I should very much like to finish one of my goddamned sentences without you interrupting.”
- ‘Best behavior’, indeed.
***
Baden glowered at Ularta, hand still wrapped about the haft of Borbidan’s axe. “I know a thing or two about war, Matron. If you order these dwarves to return to Axemarch, you order them to their graves. And – yes! – I would go with them. I swear by my beard I would be the first to step into the blackness.”
Baden removed his hand from his weapon. He looked about the chamber once more. “We dwarves have always been good at dying, haven’t we? But, should we die, let it be for reasons other than we were ordered to do so. That thinking has got us nowhere – nowhere! – in thousands of years.”
“It has made us who we are.” Dereth’s voice was soft.
Baden glanced, not unkindly, as the young son of his missing liege. He wanted to say much – so much – but it would take days and months, not moments.
Baden’s reverie was interrupted. Someone was pushing through the press of bodies surrounding the meeting table.
Tamil stepped forward, framed in the breach, still bedecked with the blood and soot of travel. “I cursed the name of Baden Dost, and all those who would leave Axemarch. This you know. Better to have an Axemarch dwarf die in Axemarch, I have said, than to have an Axemarch dwarf live in Ironfist. This, too, you know.”
The crowd grew loud, rough, many voices lending support to Tamil's assessment. Ularta’s head bobbed up and down in agreement.
Tamil continued, ignoring the murmurs. “My brother Bardo was killed but a tenday past. He had followed Baden Dost into the mines beneath our Halls. It was a foolish thing to do.”
Ularta raised a palsied hand. “Do not let your conscience be troubled, young Tamil. Bardo’s spirit now rests with the Forge Father.”
“Indeed,” intoned Odon, frowning at Ularta's apparent usurpation of his priestly role.
“But,” Tamil continued, unabashed, “it was a foolish thing he had wanted to do. It was a foolish thing I had wanted to do. Then…then when the rest of you had left, when our Dwarfking did not return, I elected to yet stay. I did not listen to the Matron, nor did my brother and Katon. We have paid for our disobedience with our blood, and Bardo paid with his life.”
“You are forgiven,” Ularta stated magnanimously. She did not look at Tamil, but rather at the crowd behind him.
“That may be, and I thank you for it,” Tamil answered, “but I am not standing here asking for forgiveness. Rather I am standing here asking that you – all of you – listen to what Baden has to say. He has seen the bootprints in the sands of our mine shafts, not you. He has smelled the rûcken flesh in the lower warrens, not you. And I say - if Baden Dost says Axemarch cannot now be reclaimed…then Axemarch cannot now be reclaimed.”
“What?!” hissed Ularta, surprise and anger warring across her face.
But her words, feeble and shrill, were drowned out by the roars of agreement from the crowd. Dwarves who had feared to speak their mind ‘lest they be branded coward were suddenly loud in their opinions.
- Why can’t you talk like that?
Must be my charisma.
Thodorr let the tumult continue for a number of moments before, finally, he removed his ceremonial helm and rapped it upon the table. “Enough!” the Ironfist Dwarfking called. “Quiet, friends, quiet!”
The volume receded. Thodorr looked to Ularta. “You have heard Master Dost’s recounting. What say you?”
Ularta’s face was a mask of barely suppressed rage. Indignation dripped from her pores. Baden hardly recognized her as a dwarven woman – she appeared sinister.
Ularta spat. “Axemarch will remain here. We shall remain so long as Your Majesty allows us to sup and sleep in his Halls.”
Thodorr nodded. “You are always welcomed, Matron, as are your people.”
“But…” Ularta held up a bent finger. “One who betrays Axemarch must serve his sentence. This dwarf, Baden Dost, has betrayed our clan. He betrayed our missing Dwarfking, he betrayed me, he betrayed all of you. There is nothing lower than a traitor, as the Forge Father teaches.”
“Indeed he does,” Odon, once again, agreed without emotion.
“Then, as Matron of Axemarch, I hereby decree Baden Dost to be nil-thain. Axemarch shall not return – yet – to its Halls, but neither shall Baden Dost be of Clan Axemarch. Let him wander this world amidst the humans he likes so much, just as his spirit shall wander this world upon his death.”
And, with that, the moot ended.
***
From the journal of Baden Dost:****
10th day of Uktar, 1366 DR
Once again I find myself traveling away from dwarven lands, this time perhaps for good. I am nil-thain, clanless - a punishment imposed upon only the worst of dwarves…An outsider would not understand. My friends would argue that I chose to venture out amongst the humans and I have thrived there; nil-thain is only a name, they would say. It means nothing to anyone who isn’t a dwarf.
But they do not understand. To be nil-thain is not only to be shunned by dwarves who live, but also shunned by dwarves who have died. The spirits of my forefathers will not seek out my soul upon my death. Without this guidance my soul is doomed to walk Ostia Prim forever - eternally searching for a way to enter Moradin’s High Forge that is forever denied me.
This is the true significance to the punishment and it weighs heavy on my heart.
***
* There are certain crossbows in our campaign, fashioned solely by dwarves, that are a bit deadlier (and a great deal heavier) than heavy crossbows of the core rules. The crossbows Baden had assembled were of this variety.
** Readers may or may not recall that Baden is possessed by the spirit of an elf-child named Ilvar. A hyphen is the syntax used to indicate when Ilvar is speaking telepathically to his host.
*** There are three strains of dwarves on the Valusian Isle. The clans of the Balantir Cor, such as Baden’s Axemarch, are comprised of stondurven, or mountain dwarves. In the southlands are a race of hulldurven, or hill dwarves. Finally, there are the white-haired and black-skinned dwem, called delve dwarves or dark dwarves. Dwarven lore claims that all races sprang from the same stock in the days when Moradin shaped the mountains atop the bodies of the Dead Child-Gods. This ancestral race is known as firdundurven, or First Dwarves, in the dwarven tongue.
**** From time to time I will include snippets from Baden’s journal. Baden is played by Josh (fronstrune here on the boards), and Josh has kept a meticulous and detailed journal of the campaign since his battle with the cave troll. As I’m sure other DM’s can attest, there’s nothing quite so helpful as having a record of the players’ perspective of past encounters. The journal has helped me numberless times in the past, when preparing new adventures, as it lets me know just what the players know…and what they don’t.
Baden took stock of the situation: seventeen dwarves, seven serviceable crossbows – all of them of the dwarven kind*, eight hauberks, nine shields, two maces, twelve axes, and perhaps three score of unshattered bolts. Nearly the whole lot of it was bloodied, of course, but cleanliness was far down on the list of Things to Worry About. The accounting of gear did not include his or Tamil’s possessions…or the equipment upon the corpse of Bardo.
For Bardo, Tamil’s brother, had fallen but moments before Baden had slain the cave troll.
Baden closed the gate that had served as entrance to his kinsmen’s prison. The muffled groans he had ignored on the way to meet the cave troll were, in fact, sounds issuing from his brothers. He had thanked Moradin seven times that he had decided to investigate the noises prior to leaving Axemarch. Doubtless he would thank the Forge Father seventy more.
Nineteen of us, all told.
- You will get them home.**
I'll sure as hell try, Ilvar. I s’pose 'home' is Ironfist, now, for there ain’t nothing but death and stink here.
Baden shared a look with Tamil. The young dwarf was doing surprisingly well considering he had just lost his brother. Most like it ain’t sunk in yet. “’Tis your call, Tamil. We can try to bring him if you want.”
Tamil shook his head, eyes red from unreleased grief. “We have a journey ahead of us, and one that…that would be easier done without my brother.”
“Then let us bury him in the manner of the firdundurven.”***
Baden, Tamil, and two hand-picked dwarves helped situate Bardo’s body within a narrow fissure in the cavern’s wall. The rock was loose thereabouts, and would fall easily. Which, of course, was the point.
Tamil silently accepted one of the maces. “May your skin be ever ruddy from the glow of the forge, and may your beard grow below your knees.” Simple words, old words. Tamil struck the wall once, twice, three times. The rock collapsed, sealing Bardo’s corpse in a rocky tomb, the only indication of his resting place a finger-thin crack near the floor.
Baden nodded, once. “Now, let us move. Tamil, you take rearguard. I’ll be in front.” Baden surveyed the dwarves they had rescued. “Keep the wounded in the middle, stay tightly packed. We move as one.”
***
Baden collapsed onto a bank of snow, his chest heaving with exertion. The snow was red and white around him, littered with the bodies of hobgoblin ambushers. He looked around, spotted Tamil, and stood. There was no time for rest.
“We lost three, Baden.” Tamil's tone held a hint of accusation.
Baden pushed past Tamil without reply, marching through snowdrifts toward the assembled dwarves. For a long moment he stared at the three corpses. Baden did not know the dead warriors, but recognized their faces. They had been beardless when he left. They were not beardless now. May Moradin forgive me.
“You. What is your name?”
“Murbann.”
“Next time you pop a cork and feed a healing potion to one who is down, make damned sure he's still living. Them vials do nothing for one already dead. Do you understand?”
Murbann’s expression was a mixture of anger and shame. “I understand.”
“Good. You can help bury them.”
Baden had no time to coddle hurt feelings. Some lessons were better learned hard. To tell it true, Baden was angrier with himself than the young dwarf. He had neglected to place any flankers to either side of his small force. The hobgoblins had surprised them, and three had died because of it.
“One of the hob’s I killed had extra horseshoes in his pack. Another of ‘em had fodder.” Baden squinted toward the precipice frowning upon them from above. “Most like them hobs staked their ponies in the passes above. Tamil, take two, and find their mounts. See that stand of spruce yonder? Meet us there.”
The march from Axemarch to Ironfist was proving difficult. Too damned difficult. The bitter cold of the Balantir Cor did little to slow his dwarves, but even dwarven bellies needed food. And food was scarce. The hobgoblins’ ponies would be a welcomed blessing. The beasts could carry their wounded and – more importantly – could be eaten.
Baden idly wondered if Anar would be upset they had eaten his borrowed horse. Probably not, Baden allowed, the Lathanderite seems a man who knows necessity.
Baden sighed as he watched Tamil and two others disappear into a nearby crevice. He walked toward a slight rise in the ground and kicked at the snow. “Here. We will bury them here.”
Then, without another word, he set to chopping the ground with Borbidan’s axe. His men soon joined him, the land quiet other than the sounds of their labor.
***
King Thodorr of Clan Ironfist was a short dwarf. The face above his beard was as craggy as the hillside outside his Hall, his eyes two pieces of coal. He had lost the front of his nose to a cave orc’s scythe, the wound making his face appear flat as shale. He would be intimidating to look upon, Baden thought, if not for his smile.
“Baden Dost, is it not?”
“Aye, Your Majesty.” Baden dipped his head. “Thank you for allowing us the hospitality of your Hall.” Baden thought there were probably other words – formal words – he should be saying. But he had never been one for ceremony, and knew them not.
“I remember your father. He had traveled here a number of times.” Thodorr stepped to one side to better reveal the pillared hall behind him. “My son is away, else he would be here to welcome you as well. I trust the thanks you offer me extends to him.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Baden was unsure what the Dwarfking meant by mentioning his absent son, but that did not dent his gratitude. “Ironfist has been a fast friend of Axemarch in these troubled times.”
Baden was about to say more, but remembered his men. “I have wounded-”
“I know. My people are attending your hurts. Eat, rest.” Thodorr’s smile faded somewhat. “Ularta, Matron of your clan, has spoken of you. She has had much to say.”
Baden remembered Ularta – an old, bent dwarf. His mother had never liked her. “I believe I should meet with her, Your Majesty.”
“Of course, of course.” Thodorr smiled once more. “But she has asked that we save your tale for a council, and has requested I convene a moot this very evening.” Thodorr’s eyes softened. “I know you are weary. Will you be able to attend, or should I delay the matter?”
Delay, by the gods. “I will attend, Your Majesty.”
***
Baden felt, for the first time in a long while, embarrassed. He was surrounded by the pomp of dwarven nobility, and he felt crude and base in comparison. He had washed the grime from his face and hands, combed the burrs from his beard, polished the armor and axe of Borbidan…but such things did little to make him feel comfortable.
Baden knew, without a doubt, that there were those at the council who marked him a traitor. A coward. He had departed Axemarch against the wishes of his Dwarfking Droggi. He had left behind his clan, not knowing his fellows would soon be overrun by the blackness of the Deepingdelve.
Had I known, I would never have left.
- They know this, Baden.
Do they, Ilvar? I see acceptance only in the faces of the Ironfist dwarves. Those of my own clan stare at me as if I were rûcken.
- Not all of them.
Bah! This is to be a fight, Ilvar. There be no axes and hammers, but a fight it is all the same. I must be on my best behavior. I swear it to you – I will be on my best behavior.
Baden nodded respectfully toward Dereth Droggison, son of the missing – dead? - Dwarfking of Axemarch. Dereth’s mood was concealed behind a young and bushy beard, but his eyes were not nearly so cold as some of the others.
Ularta, in particular. Baden returned her gaze evenly. He had seen too much, endured too much, to wilt under the glare of a spinster. I have half a mind to knock that look off your wrinkled snout, you old prune-
- Easy, Baden, easy.
Ilvar, now is the time when you shut yer trap.
Baden made his way through the throng of spectators, bowed low to Dwarfking Thodorr, not quite so low to Matron Ularta, and made his way to stand behind the only empty chair. The others were already seated around a great, circular table. “Uh…may I sit, Your Majesty?”
Thodorr smiled. “Please, Master Dost.”
Baden felt like a schoolchild surrounded by teachers. He reached out to set his axe on the table, thought what such a move might imply, and instead leaned the weapon against his chair. He sat straight, then leaned back, then sat straight again. He began to sweat. For the love of mead, will someone please speak?
Thodorr did. “Thank you for coming, all of you. Your Grace, the benediction, please.”
Odon Hammergarden, Moradin’s Word, stood. His voice was sonorous and pleasing and asked for the Forge Father to grant divine wisdom to the assembled moot. It was a long prayer, and Baden was thankful for it; it gave him time to frame his words. Baden was unsure whether the council would be aimed at learning what little he knew, or whether they would accuse him of…
Thodorr nodded as Odon reclaimed his chair. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
The Ironfist Dwarfking looked to Baden. “I believe we should begin by asking you to relate your recent…adventures.”
Baden nodded. “I returned to Axemarch but a tenday or more ago. Alone. I was met by three dwarves – Tamil, Bardo, and Katon.”
“Tamil and Katon we have seen. But, I ask you, where is Bardo?” Ularta’s voice was both wheeze and screech.
You know he’s dead. “He is with the Forge Father.”
Dereth frowned. “This would go easier if we saved our questions until after he's finished, no?”
So Baden told his tale. He told of the chance meeting with Wilan Whitefletch. He told of his climb down the mineshaft, of the fight with the cave troll and its minions. He spoke of Bardo’s and Tamil’s bravery. At the end of his recounting, Baden named those dwarves who had fallen to the hobgoblins, and asked that their names be remembered by both Axemarch and Ironfist.
He told his story, but not that of his companions from Olgotha. For some reason, he did not feel it wise to mention John and Kellus and those other non-dwarves he had befriended.
And, finally, he was finished. In all, Baden took only a few minutes to recount days of hardship.
***
Thodorr looked around the table. “It seems Master Dost has rescued many of those who might otherwise be dead. He has done what he could to return our folk to the shelter of Ironfist." The Dwarfking paused. "For this, he should be commended.”
Dereth nodded. “Indeed he should. And the rest of us, to our shame, should question whether we fled our Halls too quickly. Could we have saved more than Baden's fourteen, had we stayed but a few more days to fight? I say again - leaving as we did, when we did, was an ill move.”
“Really, Droggison?” Ularta barked, eyes narrow. “Would you have all of us enslaved as these few were? I ordered the clan to depart so that Axemarch might yet endure. And have we not?”
“Endured, yes - I will give you that. But at what cost?" Dereth's face was red, but his words lacked conviction. "Where is our honor?"
Baden hated to come to Ularta’s defense, but felt he must. “Sire," he addressed Dereth, "forgive me, but there were many tracks leading from the Deepingdelve into our Halls. Tamil, Bardo, and I fought but one such group – doubtless there are more.”
“Let them be as numberless as the peaks, friend Baden, yet still it shames Axemarch to run from our warrens like gophers from wildfire.”
Baden knew he needed to tread carefully; he recognized Dereth as a friend to his cause, but the dwarf was yet young. His enthusiasm needed to be tempered. “I know, sire, I know. Yet leaving a battlefield, only to pick better ground, is not cowardice.”
Ularta sneered. “You are quite familiar with leaving the battlefield, are you not?”
So it was out. Baden felt a weight taken from his shoulders.
“I should not have left Axemarch, Matron, if such is what you imply. I know that, now."
“Had you remained,” Ularta pressed, undeterred, “we may yet be sitting in our own Halls, rather than coming to King Thodorr like beggars for alms. Perhaps our Dwarfking would yet be with us. Perhaps-”
“I doubt,” Odon interrupted in a gravelly voice, “one axe would have turned the tide.”
Ularta scoffed, “We will never know, will we? Dwarfking Droggi and his loyal warriors never returned.”
Thodorr raised his hand for silence. He drummed thick fingers on the stone table. “Ularta, you are Matron in Droggi’s absence. Your word is the word of the Axemarch clan, until such time Droggi returns or Dereth is confirmed in his title. What say you to the news our friend Master Dost brings?”
Ularta sat back, clearly relishing her role. “I say only this: this dwarf, Baden, fled from our clan when he was most needed. He did not heed the orders of his Dwarfking-”
“The wishes of his Dwarfking,” Dereth corrected.
Ularta did not pause. “Should this dwarf wish to recoup some of his lost honor, he will accompany Axemarch as it returns to reclaim our home.”
Baden realized he had been holding his breath. At Ularta’s latest words, he exhaled loudly, the wisps of his beard blowing outward. “I want nothing more than Axemarch dwarves living in Axemarch Halls…”
“Yes?” Ularta smiled, eyes glinting and hard.
“But we are not ready.” Baden’s voice was firm. “Axemarch is not ready. Not yet. I look about. I see only the faces of the young and the old. We have lost many, lost our best warriors, and I would not see us lose more.”
Dereth sat upward. “We are young, aye, but we are determined. I think, should you have the opportunity, you would be impressed with our skill.”
“I do not doubt your skill, sire,” Baden agreed in a softer tone, “and least of all your determination. But I tell you – I tell all of you – that Axemarch cannot be reclaimed. It is beyond us.”
“What if the axes of Ironfist aided you in this endeavor?”
Baden’s eyes widened. He looked to Thodorr. “You have done much and more for my clan, Your Majesty, but…but you should look to your own Halls. There is a man in Val Hor, Destan by name, who was in contact with Dwarfking Droggi. There is evil afoot, amassed and organized, and it threatens more than just Axemarch. I fear your axes will be needed to defend Ironfist lands, and soon.”
“So we are to listen to some human from Valudia?” Ularta looked about the chamber, delighting in the gruff mumbling of the assembled onlookers. “Tell me, would you have Axemarch beholden to the Three Popas?”
Baden bristled. “There are things you – and I – do not yet understand. We must learn-”
“Do not tell me what I understand and what I do not, shirker!” Ularta stood. “It was not I, but you, who fled our Hall. I watched as Dwarfking Droggi asked for you to remain. I watched as you gathered your pack and walked beneath the Foggun Maw. You speak of cowardice-”
“I speak of truth!” Baden thundered, knuckles white as he gripped the arms of his chair. He no longer looked at Ularta – his words, when next they came, were for the Axemarch dwarves standing in the shadows of the meeting hall. “I left you. I did. But I am back now. I have seen much. We dwarves are too quick to discount the advice of others, too readily do we ignore the humans of the lowlands-”
“Again, you speak of listening to some Valudian-”
Baden reached down, grabbed his axe, and slammed it atop the stone table. In all, the move took little more than the blink of an eye. “Matron Ularta…ifyouwouldbesokind, I should very much like to finish one of my goddamned sentences without you interrupting.”
- ‘Best behavior’, indeed.
***
Baden glowered at Ularta, hand still wrapped about the haft of Borbidan’s axe. “I know a thing or two about war, Matron. If you order these dwarves to return to Axemarch, you order them to their graves. And – yes! – I would go with them. I swear by my beard I would be the first to step into the blackness.”
Baden removed his hand from his weapon. He looked about the chamber once more. “We dwarves have always been good at dying, haven’t we? But, should we die, let it be for reasons other than we were ordered to do so. That thinking has got us nowhere – nowhere! – in thousands of years.”
“It has made us who we are.” Dereth’s voice was soft.
Baden glanced, not unkindly, as the young son of his missing liege. He wanted to say much – so much – but it would take days and months, not moments.
Baden’s reverie was interrupted. Someone was pushing through the press of bodies surrounding the meeting table.
Tamil stepped forward, framed in the breach, still bedecked with the blood and soot of travel. “I cursed the name of Baden Dost, and all those who would leave Axemarch. This you know. Better to have an Axemarch dwarf die in Axemarch, I have said, than to have an Axemarch dwarf live in Ironfist. This, too, you know.”
The crowd grew loud, rough, many voices lending support to Tamil's assessment. Ularta’s head bobbed up and down in agreement.
Tamil continued, ignoring the murmurs. “My brother Bardo was killed but a tenday past. He had followed Baden Dost into the mines beneath our Halls. It was a foolish thing to do.”
Ularta raised a palsied hand. “Do not let your conscience be troubled, young Tamil. Bardo’s spirit now rests with the Forge Father.”
“Indeed,” intoned Odon, frowning at Ularta's apparent usurpation of his priestly role.
“But,” Tamil continued, unabashed, “it was a foolish thing he had wanted to do. It was a foolish thing I had wanted to do. Then…then when the rest of you had left, when our Dwarfking did not return, I elected to yet stay. I did not listen to the Matron, nor did my brother and Katon. We have paid for our disobedience with our blood, and Bardo paid with his life.”
“You are forgiven,” Ularta stated magnanimously. She did not look at Tamil, but rather at the crowd behind him.
“That may be, and I thank you for it,” Tamil answered, “but I am not standing here asking for forgiveness. Rather I am standing here asking that you – all of you – listen to what Baden has to say. He has seen the bootprints in the sands of our mine shafts, not you. He has smelled the rûcken flesh in the lower warrens, not you. And I say - if Baden Dost says Axemarch cannot now be reclaimed…then Axemarch cannot now be reclaimed.”
“What?!” hissed Ularta, surprise and anger warring across her face.
But her words, feeble and shrill, were drowned out by the roars of agreement from the crowd. Dwarves who had feared to speak their mind ‘lest they be branded coward were suddenly loud in their opinions.
- Why can’t you talk like that?
Must be my charisma.
Thodorr let the tumult continue for a number of moments before, finally, he removed his ceremonial helm and rapped it upon the table. “Enough!” the Ironfist Dwarfking called. “Quiet, friends, quiet!”
The volume receded. Thodorr looked to Ularta. “You have heard Master Dost’s recounting. What say you?”
Ularta’s face was a mask of barely suppressed rage. Indignation dripped from her pores. Baden hardly recognized her as a dwarven woman – she appeared sinister.
Ularta spat. “Axemarch will remain here. We shall remain so long as Your Majesty allows us to sup and sleep in his Halls.”
Thodorr nodded. “You are always welcomed, Matron, as are your people.”
“But…” Ularta held up a bent finger. “One who betrays Axemarch must serve his sentence. This dwarf, Baden Dost, has betrayed our clan. He betrayed our missing Dwarfking, he betrayed me, he betrayed all of you. There is nothing lower than a traitor, as the Forge Father teaches.”
“Indeed he does,” Odon, once again, agreed without emotion.
“Then, as Matron of Axemarch, I hereby decree Baden Dost to be nil-thain. Axemarch shall not return – yet – to its Halls, but neither shall Baden Dost be of Clan Axemarch. Let him wander this world amidst the humans he likes so much, just as his spirit shall wander this world upon his death.”
And, with that, the moot ended.
***
From the journal of Baden Dost:****
10th day of Uktar, 1366 DR
Once again I find myself traveling away from dwarven lands, this time perhaps for good. I am nil-thain, clanless - a punishment imposed upon only the worst of dwarves…An outsider would not understand. My friends would argue that I chose to venture out amongst the humans and I have thrived there; nil-thain is only a name, they would say. It means nothing to anyone who isn’t a dwarf.
But they do not understand. To be nil-thain is not only to be shunned by dwarves who live, but also shunned by dwarves who have died. The spirits of my forefathers will not seek out my soul upon my death. Without this guidance my soul is doomed to walk Ostia Prim forever - eternally searching for a way to enter Moradin’s High Forge that is forever denied me.
This is the true significance to the punishment and it weighs heavy on my heart.
***
* There are certain crossbows in our campaign, fashioned solely by dwarves, that are a bit deadlier (and a great deal heavier) than heavy crossbows of the core rules. The crossbows Baden had assembled were of this variety.
** Readers may or may not recall that Baden is possessed by the spirit of an elf-child named Ilvar. A hyphen is the syntax used to indicate when Ilvar is speaking telepathically to his host.
*** There are three strains of dwarves on the Valusian Isle. The clans of the Balantir Cor, such as Baden’s Axemarch, are comprised of stondurven, or mountain dwarves. In the southlands are a race of hulldurven, or hill dwarves. Finally, there are the white-haired and black-skinned dwem, called delve dwarves or dark dwarves. Dwarven lore claims that all races sprang from the same stock in the days when Moradin shaped the mountains atop the bodies of the Dead Child-Gods. This ancestral race is known as firdundurven, or First Dwarves, in the dwarven tongue.
**** From time to time I will include snippets from Baden’s journal. Baden is played by Josh (fronstrune here on the boards), and Josh has kept a meticulous and detailed journal of the campaign since his battle with the cave troll. As I’m sure other DM’s can attest, there’s nothing quite so helpful as having a record of the players’ perspective of past encounters. The journal has helped me numberless times in the past, when preparing new adventures, as it lets me know just what the players know…and what they don’t.
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