Destan
Citizen of Val Hor
And Now the Splintering
Baden never heard them call his name-
-You heard.*
-or perhaps he did hear, but chose to ignore them.
The Axemarch dwarf stood for a long moment upon the bluff, heedless and alone. The Weedsea’s winds pulled his beard into a snapping pennant, brown-black strands the only movement evidenced by the dwarf’s silhouette. Baden stood as quietly and as still as the stone figures flanking the Be’thunn Bruh in his homeland.
“Look at them statues, Baden son of Banidon.” Baden remembered Bellows’ raspy voice, recalled how his father-father’s friend had waddled forward and rapped hairy knuckles upon the stony likeness of a long-dead king.
“There be two things to learn from ‘em, young Baden.” Bellows had held up a bent finger, broken long ago betwixt hammer and anvil. “First - a man’s work shows his mood. Fine statues they are, but gloomy. They show only our people’s sadness, not our strength. See the grim lines in their face? The creases in their brow?”
And years upon years ago, a near-beardless Baden had nodded. The Be’thunn Bruh was a magnificently wide corridor – it marched atop the Dunden Crust from the sweeping entry stairs to the massive silver and iron doors at the end. To either side, every ten paces, rested a statue immortalizing a fallen dwarven hero. In all, it took one nearly ten minutes to traverse its length.
Emissaries from other peoples were nearly always escorted down the memorial hallway. In good dwarven fashion, the pace was slow and methodical. ‘Twas better that way, the Axemarch dwarfkings had always said – better to allow Valudians and Rhelmsmen, Larrenmen and Cormicks, to see the power and grandeur of Axemarch. Let the Men realize Axemarch had been strong when their peoples were yet goatherds, let the Men know Axemarch would still be strong when their white towers had crumbled to dust.
Baden, even as a dwarfchild, had thought the hallway proved but one thing: Dwarves die in battle – often and always.
While being escorted to the throne room, the emissaries’ faces would be soft with awe as they looked into the carved eyes and ran fingers upon the bronze plaques. Many of the dwarven runes had long ago been erased by the hands of time. Even the noblest of all ambassadors would pause at a few of the more noteworthy statues. Some would dip their heads, others would lay some expensive trinket at their base, still more would step forward to quietly kneel. It was all very moving, Baden recalled, and very fake.
For soon these representatives of the various Man-Kingdoms would gain an audience with the dwarfking, and shortly thereafter realize how far Axemarch had fallen, how few were her warriors.
Then, Baden remembered, their once-soft faces would grow hard, and previously courteous ambassadors would depart Axemarch by the same method with different manners. Awe became derision, respect became disdain.
Oh, a few would smile at Baden as they passed under the unseeing eyes of the dead dwarven heroes, but even their faces showed only sadness and regret. Baden had hated these men most of all; dwarves could take scorn, but never pity.
The other emissaries made no pretense to hide their condescension. They would pull their robes about them and sniff as they strode down the Be’thunn Bruh, this time with nary a glance for the sculpted dwarven heroes to either side.
Hells, Baden swore, allowing the painful memories to subside. He opened his eyes and the vision of the Be’thunn Bruh changed to that of a wind-tossed Weedsea. Never was any emissaries them last few years, anyway.
“I said – there be two things to learn from them statues.” Bellows’ voice came floating across the years, startling Baden as he walked downward from the bluff. “The first you know. The second shows how we…”
***
Bellows’ voice faded away within Baden’s head. Try as he might, the Axemarch dwarf could no longer fish the words from within his own pool of memories. Dammit – what did that old anvil-beater say? I canna remember.
-You remember.
Baden stopped suddenly at the base of the bluff. Raylin advanced toward him from the campfire; Baden waved him away. “Speak Ilvar, you pesky little ‘un.” Baden knuckled his forehead in consternation. “If you can see the answer in my raisin-brain, then tell it now.”
-You remember, but you are not ready to recall.
“Oh,” Baden sighed before frowning. “Ilvar, I feel a bit bad ol’ Ippi gobbled you up when he did – you in the prime of childhood and all that. But,” Baden cracked his knuckles, “sometimes I think you warrant a good beating or two.”
-I know.
Baden cocked his head to one side, exasperated. “If you know so damned much about what I be thinking, then tell me what Bellows had said!”
A bowshot away, Raylin and Kellus looked away from Anar and stared at Baden, confusion and concern in their eyes.
-I will not, Baden.
Baden’s eyebrows marched across his forehead to meet above his prominent nose, the countenance of a truly puzzled man. Why not, Ilvar?
-Because you saved my soul, because you are good and kind and gentle. But, most of all, because you have suffered enough.
***
The paladin does not fear them. Is such courage born from faith or foolishness?
Kellus wiped the spikes of his mace with an oilcloth. “Sir Anar, the howling does not trouble you?”
Anar cocked his head as if he had not heard the howling – a ridiculous pose since the sounds tortured the night air. “Of course not, Brother.” Anar sucked juice from his fingers, smiling as always, and considered the half-eaten apple in his hand.
The man was always eating apples, and always tossing the uneaten halves toward the hooves of Cormalakos. Kellus was not one to prompt others, especially if he knew they awaited his prompting, but he made an exception. This time. “Why, then, are you not troubled?”
“Do you know your history, Brother?”
“I know the Catechism of Helm. I know how the gods warred, and how the Drimm once walked the earth. I know of suffering in the past ages, and of blackness in the Rorn.” Kellus surprised himself at his own loquacity. Yet he felt compelled to prove to Anar that Kellus Varn II was more than a novitiate who had lost his faith, more than an errant altar boy who quit believing when believing mattered most. This desire, this need to display his inner mettle, was at once refreshing and shameful. He finished, “I know of the Ages from the Godswar until Demos fell under Apia’s bootheel, and I know how the Pantheon rippled during such times. Even as it ripples now.”
Anar nodded, eyes light and friendly. The paladin studied Kellus for a moment which grew awkward from its length. Finally, the red-bearded Gordian turned his beaming expression toward John. “And what of you, Pellman?”
John looked up from tuning his lyre. He shrugged. “History? I know most of the good stuff.” The bard hefted his instrument, his own faint smile complementing Anar’s grin. “Which is to say – ‘All of that which Kellus does not.’”
Anar laughed and Cormalakos stamped his hooves as if in mirthful agreement. Kellus scowled. “I asked you a question, Sir.”
Anar shot a glance toward his warhorse in feigned admonishment. His laughter soon subsided. “Ah, yes, so you did. And I asked you a question in turn – a response that was neither courteous nor informative.”
Anar stood and paced about the campfire. “These trees once sheltered the host of the Elfking Gryfane. He was a distant ancestor, you might recall, of Belaraphon – the Sorrow Elf of whom you are all intimately familiar.”
“Ul’Daegol,” Baden murmured.
“Ah,” Anar nodded sagely, “I had forgotten. But, yes, you are correct.”
Raylin stopped dry-shaving his cheeks for a moment, dagger held lightly in one hand. “The dwarf is correct about what?”
“Gryfane’s soldiers slew the beast known to some as Ul’Daegol – the Doom Lizard.”
Baden squinted as the wind changed and pushed the fire’s smoke into his eyes. “Aramin hosted us-”
“-within the beast’s ribs. He had hides stretched from bone to bone.” The bard shared a looked with Baden. “Gods, that seems forever ago.”
Raylin expertly flicked his wrist and a final patch of coarse facial hair fell into his lap. “Two moons, it was, since we saw the Witchpriest die on Olgotha Mound.”
“Two moons?” John chewed his lip. “That was during the second tenday of Eleint – what is tomorrow?”
“The last day of Marpenoth.” Anar picked a crackling leaf from the ground and crumbled it between his fingers. “Then winter comes in earnest. ‘Twill be a long one, for certes.”
Kellus set aside his mace. “Sir Anar, if you believe us safe-”
“By the Dawngod, forgive me!” Anar pressed fingertip to thumb to make the symbol of Lathander’s sun. “I rambled onward without answering. Again.”
The paladin shared a guilty look with Cormalakos before continuing his pacing and his tale. “Gryfane led his entire host here, amongst these few glades on the northern Weedsea, when they were being pursued by Gorgashal Talon-hand. For two tendays his elves rested and regained their strength, though the Talon-hand's abominations sniffed and scoured the plains in all directions. Those infernal beasts searched, night and day, seeking to find and slay Gryfance and his weakened followers.”
“But they never found them.”
“No,” Anar looked to John, nodding. “They did not. For some reason, Gryfane’s entire host remained undetected. Many claim it was a miracle, for how else can it be explained?”
“How else indeed.” Kellus’ voice was even.
Anar shrugged, looking once more to Kellus. “Since that time and before such, no evil has set foot within these glades. And Gorgashal was a sight meaner than these wolven, I believe.”
***
The night lengthened.
John watched with the eyes of an artist as the moon disappeared behind a mantle of gray clouds. The illumination, what little there now was, came only from the embers of their fire. The southlander looked about; the faces of his companions – once heavenly in the pale moonlight – now appeared demonic, their countenances stark in black and amber hues.
John shook his head – he was not willing to entertain such thoughts, not tonight.
None of his companions had been ready for sleep, and the past few hours had consisted mainly of silence. Good hours, and a good silence - the type of silence only good friends around a near-dead fire can share. The bard crossed both arms behind his head, leaned back, and let his eyes follow the black boughs above. This glade - whether or not Anar’s story was true – imparted a sense of peace.
John began to hum. Softly, at first. It was an old performer’s trick – an easy way to make an audience cease their own discussions and edge forward to listen. It was a good trick, yes, but not needed. Not now. John increased the volume, gradually, tender as a new father holding an infant dripping wetness and wonder from the miracle of birth.
I could give them courage, John thought, once he knew he had them. I could regale them with tales of heroism, of valiant battles and worthy causes. I could give them strength, and determination, and make them see what we do means much and more in this too-blighted land. I could give them hope – a beacon, a torch, a blinding brand marking an as-yet-unseen goal.
John smiled in the near-darkness. I could give them that, and more. But instead, this night, let me give them beauty.
The bard crafted a cathedral of song, the harmony his flying buttresses, the words his hallowed stones. He sang of southern Valusia, of lands foreign to his companions, so close to his own heart. He showed them the depth of their Isle, their home. He sang of dawns spent sailing upon the Castamere Bay, he sang of sunsets enjoyed from the lofty parapets of Mon Mith.
He sang of a colorful procession featuring the singular beauty of the Luc Valusian Queen and her Reynholt Court, of a dappled meadow untouched by boot or sandal in the midst of the Vanarian Woods, of Cymerian privateers with their wide-brimmed hats and gravity-defying leaps amongst the rigging.
He sang of wayward days and summer evenings, of woodland strolls and banks of fireflies.
In short, he sang of everything, and he sang of nothing.
And when he finished, he received a performer's greatest accolade - silence.
***
John set aside his lute, surprised - and yet not - he had not strummed a single chord. He looked from his friends to Anar. "Where do you take us?"
The paladin took a moment to gather himself. He stood and walked to his warhorse, gently stroking the beast’s snout. "To Lonely Hearth. A small hamlet this side of the Thricebridge. We will spend a night of warmth and safety, then push onward to Val Hor, the White City. There is a man there, Destan the Grim, Fifth Archmage of Val Hor, who will know what to do with you."
Baden spat. “I do not enjoy being a pawn."
John smiled inwardly – he recognized the dwarf’s curtness as the mark of a listener who’s unhappy a song had ended.
Anar smoothed his moustache with thumb and forefinger. "I know, friend dwarf, I know. But a man is forced to do what is right, whether he wish it or not. Destan will tell us what is right."
"Nor do I enjoy having someone else tell me what is right.”
Anar’s characteristic grin was back. "You do not enjoy much, do you, Baden Dost of Clan Axemarch?"
Baden sat up. "I enjoy good mead and good companions and people that speak what they mean and mean what they speak."
“Well struck, son of Axemarch.” Anar patted his horse and rejoined them once more. “Let me, then, speak what I mean."
The paladin gathered a handful of sticks and threw them upon the fire. All watched quietly as the sparks climbed to join the stars. "I will not bore you with the details of the world, 'lest you ask for them. I know we yearn for a sleep now made pleasant from John’s singing.”
Anar sighed wistfully. “Nonetheless, sweeping tides of change flow across of Ostia Prim. Not all of them good."
“I feel as if I have lived within a crypt or a barrow for the past four tendays." John smiled softly. “Speak of the outside world, we beg of you.”
"Very well,” Anar agreed, voice mater-of-fact. “The Patriarch of Genn gathers a huge host of spellswords, slingers, and blood mages - for what purpose no one but the Patriarch seems to know.
“Apia has sent her legions forth in a massive armada to strike Mon Mith. We believe the Imperials seek to reclaim that mighty castle. Moreover, some say the siege is but the beginning of an invasion, a war designed to destroy the Luc Valusian Queen’s army and subjugate her kingdom. Still others believe the Merchant-Prince of Pell, long fearful Luc Valu might soon annex that Free City, may ally with the Apian invaders-"
Kellus interrupted, eyes dark and incredulous, "Do you now claim the entire southlands of Valusia is on the brink of war?”
"More than just the southlands.” Anar’s face was soft though his words were not. “War beckons north of the Jaspar as well. The Cormick clansmen have been meeting with emissaries of Val Hor; they speak of an alliance against the Kingdom of Rhelm. And if the Cormick warriors wish to join Val Hor, then their rivals the Calahen clansmen will certainly join Rhelm. Border skirmishes, uncommon in their savagery and frequency, have already occurred."
"And my clan?" Raylin asked quietly. “What of the Larren?”
"Your chief holds his counsel to himself, friend. The Larrenmen have not entered the fray, nor have they chosen sides. As you know, they nurse their bitterness at losing battles with King Aegor’s hullendurven over certain mining rights.” Anar stroked his beard and regarded Raylin frankly. “Honestly, I do not think your chief has pulled his head from his ass long enough to see that the world is going to hell around him. No disrespect intended."
Raylin shrugged. "None taken. We have always been hunters, not miners. Molarr wishing it otherwise changes nothing."
Anar began to undo some of the braids in his hair. "Ah, what else? The Aradeeti nomads - fierce and independent warriors - flee from their deserts and speak of a return of the Raki horselords. If you know your history,” Anar smiled at Kellus and John, “you'd know that the Raki once filled this very plain with their banners. They nearly destroyed the then-proud Empire of Valudia.”
The paladin set gold hairbands on the ground beside him. “And, as always, rumors persist that the Basilican States may rise in revolt to throw off the Imperial yoke. They have always dreamed of being free from Apia."
Kellus toed a wayward stick back into the licking flames. "And what of the Rorn? What do you hear of the Rorn?"
"The Rorn stirs. The Witchking has gathered his hordes, it is said, and may soon march under black banners not seen since the first Witchking made the land bleed."
"The Witchking?" Baden frowned. "Poridel spoke of the one called Loroth."
"Loroth?” Anar smiled grimly. “No, friend, not him. Had he returned we would be slaves and the world dead. Ever since Loroth was buried in the collapse of the Dezimond, various Rornmen claimed the title of Witchking; there are always a handful of such pretenders, mean-spirited tribesmen bent only on destruction and slaughter. Yet now,” Anar continued, eyes thoughtful, “it appears one of them has managed to murder the competition. It is this one who now claims to be the Witchking of all the Rorn."
I should never have stopped singing. John rubbed his temple. "Genn mobilizes an army, as does the Rorn. Rhelm and Valudia may fight once more. Pell, my city, may ally itself with the Imperial Apians. The clans feud, Basilica threatens revolt. Is anyone not at peace?"
Anar smiled. "My homeland of Gordia remains silent, though not a day passes wherein one tribe does not kill members of another. Such incessant raids and cattle-stealing expeditions might be likened to a Gordian peace."
Kellus leaned forward, grabbed his father’s breastplate, and began to wipe it down. “That was a nice lesson in politics and the foolishness of men, but you say nothing of the Fiendwar. Master Poriden spoke of it – he said such was the true danger."
"And he was correct, in that as in many things. The Fiendwar. It is written in the Twin Prophecies that when Ostia Prim shivers with the boots of armies, the true enemy will arrive in their wake. We fear that as man would fight man, the demons of Loroth will return to take advantage of the splintered nations.”
Anar continued after a weighty pause. “As Poridel might also have told you, Apia is the world's only hope of staving off the hordes of Rorn. If she is engaged in a bloody war with Luc Valu, or if Basilica revolts, or if the Patriarch of Genn marches south - it will be a bad thing for all men regardless of their heritage."
Raylin sheathed his dagger, long forgotten on his lap. "So defeating the demons Ippizicus, Ral, and Baphtemet...these acts did nothing for the cause of good?"
"Not so, friend! They were valiant moves and highly regarded. Perhaps you have delayed the forces of evil, who knows? I have heard that Grun Min and Grun Prim, the twin islands off the coast of Luc Valu, are filled with beasts and demons waiting to launch themselves. Mayhaps those hordes lack leadership thanks to your efforts."
"Mayhaps." Kellus continued to work upon his breastplate, clearly unconvinced. “You believe this Archmage in Val Hor - Destan the Grim - you believe he may have some answers for us?"
“Answers!” Baden threw his hands in the air. “More like he will but give us some other task. Kill this, go here, fetch that."
"Each task, as you call them," Anar answered gently, "gives honor to your clan. As I earlier said, there are not many of Axemarch who remain to do such a thing."
***
And then, suddenly, Baden remembered what Bellows had said was the second lesson to be learned beneath the cold stares of Be’thunn Bruh’s slain heroes. The lesson is not that those dwarves died for Axemarch, but that they lived for it. Together, as a people, united as the Man-Kingdoms never could be.
Baden chewed upon his beard. I never should have left.
The dwarf eyed the Gordian as understanding dawned. "Tell me of my clan, then. All of it. What has transpired in the Halls of Axemarch?”
"Death. Blood." Anar’s manner was both apologetic and blunt. "Shortly after you left, I imagine, the Deepingdelve was filled with the howls of demons and their ilk. The Halls echoed with the dying cries of dwarves. Your people, as you know, lived alone under their mountain, and alone they suffer."
"How badly?” More from habit than conscious thought, Baden wrapped strong fingers around the haft of his waraxe. “How badly have they suffered? Do not mince words."
Anar did not hesitate. "For all I know, you may be the last of Clan Axemarch. We have sent runners to all the dwarven clans; the axes and hammers of your people would be mighty weapons against the demons. In the past Dwarfking Droggi was prompt, if not wholly agreeable, with his replies. Yet, now, no embassy from Axemarch reaches us; our own messengers have not returned."
Baden stood. "If they will not come to you, then I will go to them." I am not the last.
Anar shook his head. "You cannot, Baden Dost. Your companions need you. Here, with them.” Anar motioned for Baden to sit, face kind and eyes gentle. “What could one dwarf accomplish?"
"More than what no dwarves could accomplish." Baden was already armored, as always. He bent to tighten the straps he had loosened for sleep. "Lead my companions to Val Hor, as you said. The mountains of Axemarch are not far from here.”
Baden looked to his companions, and his words were more for them than Anar. “Once I am under the stone I can move more quickly - and quietly - alone. I do not know how I will be received, and would not take any of you with me to such an uncertain fate.” Baden looked once more to Anar. “I will find the answer behind Axemarch's silence, and I shall meet you in the White City within a tenday. You have my word on it."
Raylin stood, brushing burrs and dirt from his breeches. "Do you need a guide, friend Baden? At the very least, I could help you reach the mountains."
Baden jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the east. "Even a dwarf on horseback canna help but see the spires of my homelands. I have been watching them as we crossed the Cormick plains…”
Baden felt uncomfortable, unaccustomed to all eyes being upon him. “In truth, friends, it will be good for me to return for a few days. I miss hearing the stories of my people, drinking the mead brewed within my cavern. Allow me to leave you but for a tenday, and I shall return, ready to face the Witchking himself with a smile splittin' me beard."
I must do it now, before I lose the courage.
-You will never lose your courage.
I’m glad one of us thinks so.
Baden held out a palm toward Anar. “No, no, and no. You canna talk me out of this, Gordian, though your words might sound fine and reasonable.”
“I know.” He stood and murmured softly to Cormalakos before turning to face Baden once more. “Take the piebald mare – she is the least tired of the bunch.”
***
When they could no longer hear the hooves of Baden’s mount, dawn was not far off. The howling had stopped, earlier, though none of them had marked it. John sat in silence as his companions prepared for a fitful few hours of sleep.
He wanted to sing, but, for once, no tune came to him. So he prayed. Gods, know this – if never again do I see Baden, or Amelyssan, or Vath, I still thank you for giving me the short time to learn of them. I am a better man because of it.
And then John, too, rested his head upon his pack. And slept.
* Italicized words preceded by a simple dash “-” should be considered to have been spoken by a possessing spirit, thereby taking place entirely within the character’s head. Thus far, only Baden’s spirit-child Ilvar has been introduced.
Baden never heard them call his name-
-You heard.*
-or perhaps he did hear, but chose to ignore them.
The Axemarch dwarf stood for a long moment upon the bluff, heedless and alone. The Weedsea’s winds pulled his beard into a snapping pennant, brown-black strands the only movement evidenced by the dwarf’s silhouette. Baden stood as quietly and as still as the stone figures flanking the Be’thunn Bruh in his homeland.
“Look at them statues, Baden son of Banidon.” Baden remembered Bellows’ raspy voice, recalled how his father-father’s friend had waddled forward and rapped hairy knuckles upon the stony likeness of a long-dead king.
“There be two things to learn from ‘em, young Baden.” Bellows had held up a bent finger, broken long ago betwixt hammer and anvil. “First - a man’s work shows his mood. Fine statues they are, but gloomy. They show only our people’s sadness, not our strength. See the grim lines in their face? The creases in their brow?”
And years upon years ago, a near-beardless Baden had nodded. The Be’thunn Bruh was a magnificently wide corridor – it marched atop the Dunden Crust from the sweeping entry stairs to the massive silver and iron doors at the end. To either side, every ten paces, rested a statue immortalizing a fallen dwarven hero. In all, it took one nearly ten minutes to traverse its length.
Emissaries from other peoples were nearly always escorted down the memorial hallway. In good dwarven fashion, the pace was slow and methodical. ‘Twas better that way, the Axemarch dwarfkings had always said – better to allow Valudians and Rhelmsmen, Larrenmen and Cormicks, to see the power and grandeur of Axemarch. Let the Men realize Axemarch had been strong when their peoples were yet goatherds, let the Men know Axemarch would still be strong when their white towers had crumbled to dust.
Baden, even as a dwarfchild, had thought the hallway proved but one thing: Dwarves die in battle – often and always.
While being escorted to the throne room, the emissaries’ faces would be soft with awe as they looked into the carved eyes and ran fingers upon the bronze plaques. Many of the dwarven runes had long ago been erased by the hands of time. Even the noblest of all ambassadors would pause at a few of the more noteworthy statues. Some would dip their heads, others would lay some expensive trinket at their base, still more would step forward to quietly kneel. It was all very moving, Baden recalled, and very fake.
For soon these representatives of the various Man-Kingdoms would gain an audience with the dwarfking, and shortly thereafter realize how far Axemarch had fallen, how few were her warriors.
Then, Baden remembered, their once-soft faces would grow hard, and previously courteous ambassadors would depart Axemarch by the same method with different manners. Awe became derision, respect became disdain.
Oh, a few would smile at Baden as they passed under the unseeing eyes of the dead dwarven heroes, but even their faces showed only sadness and regret. Baden had hated these men most of all; dwarves could take scorn, but never pity.
The other emissaries made no pretense to hide their condescension. They would pull their robes about them and sniff as they strode down the Be’thunn Bruh, this time with nary a glance for the sculpted dwarven heroes to either side.
Hells, Baden swore, allowing the painful memories to subside. He opened his eyes and the vision of the Be’thunn Bruh changed to that of a wind-tossed Weedsea. Never was any emissaries them last few years, anyway.
“I said – there be two things to learn from them statues.” Bellows’ voice came floating across the years, startling Baden as he walked downward from the bluff. “The first you know. The second shows how we…”
***
Bellows’ voice faded away within Baden’s head. Try as he might, the Axemarch dwarf could no longer fish the words from within his own pool of memories. Dammit – what did that old anvil-beater say? I canna remember.
-You remember.
Baden stopped suddenly at the base of the bluff. Raylin advanced toward him from the campfire; Baden waved him away. “Speak Ilvar, you pesky little ‘un.” Baden knuckled his forehead in consternation. “If you can see the answer in my raisin-brain, then tell it now.”
-You remember, but you are not ready to recall.
“Oh,” Baden sighed before frowning. “Ilvar, I feel a bit bad ol’ Ippi gobbled you up when he did – you in the prime of childhood and all that. But,” Baden cracked his knuckles, “sometimes I think you warrant a good beating or two.”
-I know.
Baden cocked his head to one side, exasperated. “If you know so damned much about what I be thinking, then tell me what Bellows had said!”
A bowshot away, Raylin and Kellus looked away from Anar and stared at Baden, confusion and concern in their eyes.
-I will not, Baden.
Baden’s eyebrows marched across his forehead to meet above his prominent nose, the countenance of a truly puzzled man. Why not, Ilvar?
-Because you saved my soul, because you are good and kind and gentle. But, most of all, because you have suffered enough.
***
The paladin does not fear them. Is such courage born from faith or foolishness?
Kellus wiped the spikes of his mace with an oilcloth. “Sir Anar, the howling does not trouble you?”
Anar cocked his head as if he had not heard the howling – a ridiculous pose since the sounds tortured the night air. “Of course not, Brother.” Anar sucked juice from his fingers, smiling as always, and considered the half-eaten apple in his hand.
The man was always eating apples, and always tossing the uneaten halves toward the hooves of Cormalakos. Kellus was not one to prompt others, especially if he knew they awaited his prompting, but he made an exception. This time. “Why, then, are you not troubled?”
“Do you know your history, Brother?”
“I know the Catechism of Helm. I know how the gods warred, and how the Drimm once walked the earth. I know of suffering in the past ages, and of blackness in the Rorn.” Kellus surprised himself at his own loquacity. Yet he felt compelled to prove to Anar that Kellus Varn II was more than a novitiate who had lost his faith, more than an errant altar boy who quit believing when believing mattered most. This desire, this need to display his inner mettle, was at once refreshing and shameful. He finished, “I know of the Ages from the Godswar until Demos fell under Apia’s bootheel, and I know how the Pantheon rippled during such times. Even as it ripples now.”
Anar nodded, eyes light and friendly. The paladin studied Kellus for a moment which grew awkward from its length. Finally, the red-bearded Gordian turned his beaming expression toward John. “And what of you, Pellman?”
John looked up from tuning his lyre. He shrugged. “History? I know most of the good stuff.” The bard hefted his instrument, his own faint smile complementing Anar’s grin. “Which is to say – ‘All of that which Kellus does not.’”
Anar laughed and Cormalakos stamped his hooves as if in mirthful agreement. Kellus scowled. “I asked you a question, Sir.”
Anar shot a glance toward his warhorse in feigned admonishment. His laughter soon subsided. “Ah, yes, so you did. And I asked you a question in turn – a response that was neither courteous nor informative.”
Anar stood and paced about the campfire. “These trees once sheltered the host of the Elfking Gryfane. He was a distant ancestor, you might recall, of Belaraphon – the Sorrow Elf of whom you are all intimately familiar.”
“Ul’Daegol,” Baden murmured.
“Ah,” Anar nodded sagely, “I had forgotten. But, yes, you are correct.”
Raylin stopped dry-shaving his cheeks for a moment, dagger held lightly in one hand. “The dwarf is correct about what?”
“Gryfane’s soldiers slew the beast known to some as Ul’Daegol – the Doom Lizard.”
Baden squinted as the wind changed and pushed the fire’s smoke into his eyes. “Aramin hosted us-”
“-within the beast’s ribs. He had hides stretched from bone to bone.” The bard shared a looked with Baden. “Gods, that seems forever ago.”
Raylin expertly flicked his wrist and a final patch of coarse facial hair fell into his lap. “Two moons, it was, since we saw the Witchpriest die on Olgotha Mound.”
“Two moons?” John chewed his lip. “That was during the second tenday of Eleint – what is tomorrow?”
“The last day of Marpenoth.” Anar picked a crackling leaf from the ground and crumbled it between his fingers. “Then winter comes in earnest. ‘Twill be a long one, for certes.”
Kellus set aside his mace. “Sir Anar, if you believe us safe-”
“By the Dawngod, forgive me!” Anar pressed fingertip to thumb to make the symbol of Lathander’s sun. “I rambled onward without answering. Again.”
The paladin shared a guilty look with Cormalakos before continuing his pacing and his tale. “Gryfane led his entire host here, amongst these few glades on the northern Weedsea, when they were being pursued by Gorgashal Talon-hand. For two tendays his elves rested and regained their strength, though the Talon-hand's abominations sniffed and scoured the plains in all directions. Those infernal beasts searched, night and day, seeking to find and slay Gryfance and his weakened followers.”
“But they never found them.”
“No,” Anar looked to John, nodding. “They did not. For some reason, Gryfane’s entire host remained undetected. Many claim it was a miracle, for how else can it be explained?”
“How else indeed.” Kellus’ voice was even.
Anar shrugged, looking once more to Kellus. “Since that time and before such, no evil has set foot within these glades. And Gorgashal was a sight meaner than these wolven, I believe.”
***
The night lengthened.
John watched with the eyes of an artist as the moon disappeared behind a mantle of gray clouds. The illumination, what little there now was, came only from the embers of their fire. The southlander looked about; the faces of his companions – once heavenly in the pale moonlight – now appeared demonic, their countenances stark in black and amber hues.
John shook his head – he was not willing to entertain such thoughts, not tonight.
None of his companions had been ready for sleep, and the past few hours had consisted mainly of silence. Good hours, and a good silence - the type of silence only good friends around a near-dead fire can share. The bard crossed both arms behind his head, leaned back, and let his eyes follow the black boughs above. This glade - whether or not Anar’s story was true – imparted a sense of peace.
John began to hum. Softly, at first. It was an old performer’s trick – an easy way to make an audience cease their own discussions and edge forward to listen. It was a good trick, yes, but not needed. Not now. John increased the volume, gradually, tender as a new father holding an infant dripping wetness and wonder from the miracle of birth.
I could give them courage, John thought, once he knew he had them. I could regale them with tales of heroism, of valiant battles and worthy causes. I could give them strength, and determination, and make them see what we do means much and more in this too-blighted land. I could give them hope – a beacon, a torch, a blinding brand marking an as-yet-unseen goal.
John smiled in the near-darkness. I could give them that, and more. But instead, this night, let me give them beauty.
The bard crafted a cathedral of song, the harmony his flying buttresses, the words his hallowed stones. He sang of southern Valusia, of lands foreign to his companions, so close to his own heart. He showed them the depth of their Isle, their home. He sang of dawns spent sailing upon the Castamere Bay, he sang of sunsets enjoyed from the lofty parapets of Mon Mith.
He sang of a colorful procession featuring the singular beauty of the Luc Valusian Queen and her Reynholt Court, of a dappled meadow untouched by boot or sandal in the midst of the Vanarian Woods, of Cymerian privateers with their wide-brimmed hats and gravity-defying leaps amongst the rigging.
He sang of wayward days and summer evenings, of woodland strolls and banks of fireflies.
In short, he sang of everything, and he sang of nothing.
And when he finished, he received a performer's greatest accolade - silence.
***
John set aside his lute, surprised - and yet not - he had not strummed a single chord. He looked from his friends to Anar. "Where do you take us?"
The paladin took a moment to gather himself. He stood and walked to his warhorse, gently stroking the beast’s snout. "To Lonely Hearth. A small hamlet this side of the Thricebridge. We will spend a night of warmth and safety, then push onward to Val Hor, the White City. There is a man there, Destan the Grim, Fifth Archmage of Val Hor, who will know what to do with you."
Baden spat. “I do not enjoy being a pawn."
John smiled inwardly – he recognized the dwarf’s curtness as the mark of a listener who’s unhappy a song had ended.
Anar smoothed his moustache with thumb and forefinger. "I know, friend dwarf, I know. But a man is forced to do what is right, whether he wish it or not. Destan will tell us what is right."
"Nor do I enjoy having someone else tell me what is right.”
Anar’s characteristic grin was back. "You do not enjoy much, do you, Baden Dost of Clan Axemarch?"
Baden sat up. "I enjoy good mead and good companions and people that speak what they mean and mean what they speak."
“Well struck, son of Axemarch.” Anar patted his horse and rejoined them once more. “Let me, then, speak what I mean."
The paladin gathered a handful of sticks and threw them upon the fire. All watched quietly as the sparks climbed to join the stars. "I will not bore you with the details of the world, 'lest you ask for them. I know we yearn for a sleep now made pleasant from John’s singing.”
Anar sighed wistfully. “Nonetheless, sweeping tides of change flow across of Ostia Prim. Not all of them good."
“I feel as if I have lived within a crypt or a barrow for the past four tendays." John smiled softly. “Speak of the outside world, we beg of you.”
"Very well,” Anar agreed, voice mater-of-fact. “The Patriarch of Genn gathers a huge host of spellswords, slingers, and blood mages - for what purpose no one but the Patriarch seems to know.
“Apia has sent her legions forth in a massive armada to strike Mon Mith. We believe the Imperials seek to reclaim that mighty castle. Moreover, some say the siege is but the beginning of an invasion, a war designed to destroy the Luc Valusian Queen’s army and subjugate her kingdom. Still others believe the Merchant-Prince of Pell, long fearful Luc Valu might soon annex that Free City, may ally with the Apian invaders-"
Kellus interrupted, eyes dark and incredulous, "Do you now claim the entire southlands of Valusia is on the brink of war?”
"More than just the southlands.” Anar’s face was soft though his words were not. “War beckons north of the Jaspar as well. The Cormick clansmen have been meeting with emissaries of Val Hor; they speak of an alliance against the Kingdom of Rhelm. And if the Cormick warriors wish to join Val Hor, then their rivals the Calahen clansmen will certainly join Rhelm. Border skirmishes, uncommon in their savagery and frequency, have already occurred."
"And my clan?" Raylin asked quietly. “What of the Larren?”
"Your chief holds his counsel to himself, friend. The Larrenmen have not entered the fray, nor have they chosen sides. As you know, they nurse their bitterness at losing battles with King Aegor’s hullendurven over certain mining rights.” Anar stroked his beard and regarded Raylin frankly. “Honestly, I do not think your chief has pulled his head from his ass long enough to see that the world is going to hell around him. No disrespect intended."
Raylin shrugged. "None taken. We have always been hunters, not miners. Molarr wishing it otherwise changes nothing."
Anar began to undo some of the braids in his hair. "Ah, what else? The Aradeeti nomads - fierce and independent warriors - flee from their deserts and speak of a return of the Raki horselords. If you know your history,” Anar smiled at Kellus and John, “you'd know that the Raki once filled this very plain with their banners. They nearly destroyed the then-proud Empire of Valudia.”
The paladin set gold hairbands on the ground beside him. “And, as always, rumors persist that the Basilican States may rise in revolt to throw off the Imperial yoke. They have always dreamed of being free from Apia."
Kellus toed a wayward stick back into the licking flames. "And what of the Rorn? What do you hear of the Rorn?"
"The Rorn stirs. The Witchking has gathered his hordes, it is said, and may soon march under black banners not seen since the first Witchking made the land bleed."
"The Witchking?" Baden frowned. "Poridel spoke of the one called Loroth."
"Loroth?” Anar smiled grimly. “No, friend, not him. Had he returned we would be slaves and the world dead. Ever since Loroth was buried in the collapse of the Dezimond, various Rornmen claimed the title of Witchking; there are always a handful of such pretenders, mean-spirited tribesmen bent only on destruction and slaughter. Yet now,” Anar continued, eyes thoughtful, “it appears one of them has managed to murder the competition. It is this one who now claims to be the Witchking of all the Rorn."
I should never have stopped singing. John rubbed his temple. "Genn mobilizes an army, as does the Rorn. Rhelm and Valudia may fight once more. Pell, my city, may ally itself with the Imperial Apians. The clans feud, Basilica threatens revolt. Is anyone not at peace?"
Anar smiled. "My homeland of Gordia remains silent, though not a day passes wherein one tribe does not kill members of another. Such incessant raids and cattle-stealing expeditions might be likened to a Gordian peace."
Kellus leaned forward, grabbed his father’s breastplate, and began to wipe it down. “That was a nice lesson in politics and the foolishness of men, but you say nothing of the Fiendwar. Master Poriden spoke of it – he said such was the true danger."
"And he was correct, in that as in many things. The Fiendwar. It is written in the Twin Prophecies that when Ostia Prim shivers with the boots of armies, the true enemy will arrive in their wake. We fear that as man would fight man, the demons of Loroth will return to take advantage of the splintered nations.”
Anar continued after a weighty pause. “As Poridel might also have told you, Apia is the world's only hope of staving off the hordes of Rorn. If she is engaged in a bloody war with Luc Valu, or if Basilica revolts, or if the Patriarch of Genn marches south - it will be a bad thing for all men regardless of their heritage."
Raylin sheathed his dagger, long forgotten on his lap. "So defeating the demons Ippizicus, Ral, and Baphtemet...these acts did nothing for the cause of good?"
"Not so, friend! They were valiant moves and highly regarded. Perhaps you have delayed the forces of evil, who knows? I have heard that Grun Min and Grun Prim, the twin islands off the coast of Luc Valu, are filled with beasts and demons waiting to launch themselves. Mayhaps those hordes lack leadership thanks to your efforts."
"Mayhaps." Kellus continued to work upon his breastplate, clearly unconvinced. “You believe this Archmage in Val Hor - Destan the Grim - you believe he may have some answers for us?"
“Answers!” Baden threw his hands in the air. “More like he will but give us some other task. Kill this, go here, fetch that."
"Each task, as you call them," Anar answered gently, "gives honor to your clan. As I earlier said, there are not many of Axemarch who remain to do such a thing."
***
And then, suddenly, Baden remembered what Bellows had said was the second lesson to be learned beneath the cold stares of Be’thunn Bruh’s slain heroes. The lesson is not that those dwarves died for Axemarch, but that they lived for it. Together, as a people, united as the Man-Kingdoms never could be.
Baden chewed upon his beard. I never should have left.
The dwarf eyed the Gordian as understanding dawned. "Tell me of my clan, then. All of it. What has transpired in the Halls of Axemarch?”
"Death. Blood." Anar’s manner was both apologetic and blunt. "Shortly after you left, I imagine, the Deepingdelve was filled with the howls of demons and their ilk. The Halls echoed with the dying cries of dwarves. Your people, as you know, lived alone under their mountain, and alone they suffer."
"How badly?” More from habit than conscious thought, Baden wrapped strong fingers around the haft of his waraxe. “How badly have they suffered? Do not mince words."
Anar did not hesitate. "For all I know, you may be the last of Clan Axemarch. We have sent runners to all the dwarven clans; the axes and hammers of your people would be mighty weapons against the demons. In the past Dwarfking Droggi was prompt, if not wholly agreeable, with his replies. Yet, now, no embassy from Axemarch reaches us; our own messengers have not returned."
Baden stood. "If they will not come to you, then I will go to them." I am not the last.
Anar shook his head. "You cannot, Baden Dost. Your companions need you. Here, with them.” Anar motioned for Baden to sit, face kind and eyes gentle. “What could one dwarf accomplish?"
"More than what no dwarves could accomplish." Baden was already armored, as always. He bent to tighten the straps he had loosened for sleep. "Lead my companions to Val Hor, as you said. The mountains of Axemarch are not far from here.”
Baden looked to his companions, and his words were more for them than Anar. “Once I am under the stone I can move more quickly - and quietly - alone. I do not know how I will be received, and would not take any of you with me to such an uncertain fate.” Baden looked once more to Anar. “I will find the answer behind Axemarch's silence, and I shall meet you in the White City within a tenday. You have my word on it."
Raylin stood, brushing burrs and dirt from his breeches. "Do you need a guide, friend Baden? At the very least, I could help you reach the mountains."
Baden jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the east. "Even a dwarf on horseback canna help but see the spires of my homelands. I have been watching them as we crossed the Cormick plains…”
Baden felt uncomfortable, unaccustomed to all eyes being upon him. “In truth, friends, it will be good for me to return for a few days. I miss hearing the stories of my people, drinking the mead brewed within my cavern. Allow me to leave you but for a tenday, and I shall return, ready to face the Witchking himself with a smile splittin' me beard."
I must do it now, before I lose the courage.
-You will never lose your courage.
I’m glad one of us thinks so.
Baden held out a palm toward Anar. “No, no, and no. You canna talk me out of this, Gordian, though your words might sound fine and reasonable.”
“I know.” He stood and murmured softly to Cormalakos before turning to face Baden once more. “Take the piebald mare – she is the least tired of the bunch.”
***
When they could no longer hear the hooves of Baden’s mount, dawn was not far off. The howling had stopped, earlier, though none of them had marked it. John sat in silence as his companions prepared for a fitful few hours of sleep.
He wanted to sing, but, for once, no tune came to him. So he prayed. Gods, know this – if never again do I see Baden, or Amelyssan, or Vath, I still thank you for giving me the short time to learn of them. I am a better man because of it.
And then John, too, rested his head upon his pack. And slept.
* Italicized words preceded by a simple dash “-” should be considered to have been spoken by a possessing spirit, thereby taking place entirely within the character’s head. Thus far, only Baden’s spirit-child Ilvar has been introduced.
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Most of any or all criticism/compliments that I had in mind have already been mentioned, or I've forgotten it over the course of my 2-day reading during spare time at work. 
