Destan
Citizen of Val Hor
Toward the Future, Pursued by the Past
Amelyssan shielded his eyes from the sun. “Ten. Mounted. Heading this direction.” The horadrel’s voice was smooth, his manner unruffled. Still, those who knew him well could discern uneasiness from his creased brow and pursed lips.
And Vath knew him well. The half-troll extended an abnormally-long arm and assisted the elf downward from the jumble of boulders. “Cormicks?”
“Yes.” Amelyssan gathered his robes about him and sat, placing his back to the rocks. He opened his spellbook and thumbed through a number of pages. “I will need time to prepare. We cannot out-run them.”
“These men are like others of their race; they desire gold.” The half-troll spoke of coins as if they were a foreign concept. “May we purchase our freedom?”
Amelyssan pushed hair away from his eyes, never looking up from his tome. “No, friend. We have slain two of theirs, and sent another running. They will take our coins, certainly, but only after they take our lives.”
Vath nodded, wholly unperturbed. “Let me know when you are ready. This is not good land for a fight.”
After a while Vath, also, could discern the blurred line of oncoming horsemen. The Cormicks thundered across the plains, a yet-silent wave of red cloaks and brown horseflesh. Like the turn of a fish within a wave, brilliant silver would occasionally flash – doubtless the mark of sunlight on hauberk or steel cap.
“I am ready.” Amelyssan stood and gingerly replaced his spellbook within his leather rucksack.
“And I am sorry.”
The elf raised an eyebrow. He could not recall having heard Vath apologize. Ever. “Sorry?”
“I am sorry that you are here. With me. I should have made you stay with the others.”
Amelyssan dismissively waved, clucking his tongue. “Yours is not the place to be sorry. No, friend, the Cormicks should be sorry – sorry for holding such hatred in their breasts, sorry for wanting to murder those different than themselves.” The elf scanned the horizon. “These plains are vast, yet the Cormicks covet all of it – each yellow hillock and each brown-curdled tuft. They act for all the world as if others wished to take these things from them; yet none do.”
“You have seen the ways of the Cormicks in your books?”
“No,” Amelyssan shook his head. “I have seen the ways of the Cormicks in the manners of my own people.”
Amelyssan spread his hands. He could see his distraction had not worked, that the half-troll’s eyes remained troubled. When next he spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper. “I am here, Brother Vath, with you – and here is where I want to be.”
Resolve spread across the half-troll’s countenance, turning his boils from amber to crimson. “Come, then,” Vath answered, ominous and low. “Let us seek terrain better suited for suffering.”
Amelyssan climbed atop Vath’s back and the pair set out, heading west and south. The ground passed beneath them, the sun continued to rise, and the air grew unseasonably warm. Vath kept to the lower lands, sprinted along defiles, remained within the folds of the plains whenever possible. Every so often they were forced to crest gentle rises, and – each time – they saw that the horsemen had gained upon them. It would not be long. Now now.
A reckoning was to come, soon – a blood-soaked reckoning here on the grasses of the Weedsea.
***
Vath turned his shoulders southward and loped along a crease in the land. The horseplains gradually rolled upward to either side, and the elf and half-troll soon found themselves descending into a rock-strewn ravine. Sweat seeped through Vath’s pores, his breathing loud and labored. After an hour, perhaps more, they heard the sound of hoof on stone – still distant, but not distant enough. Vath nimbly scampered from one upturned stone to another. The rocks marked the sinuous route of a dry streambed, an enduring scar from past flood-seasons.
Vath stopped.
The valley they had been traversing ended abruptly in a wall of jumbled dirt and rock. The streambed, like a frightened hare, darted off to one side and slipped beneath the grasses – apparently to continue its dry course underground.
Amelyssan climbed from Vath’s back. He looked from the rocky wall to his friend, then from his friend to the northern ridgeline. “Here, then, is where we make our stand?”
Vath was slow in answering. He sucked in mouthfuls of air, hair plastered to his cratered forehead. “This is not a good place.” The half-troll coughed, grumbled deep in his throat, and spat a ball of phlegm the size of a small bird onto the ground. “They can come at us from all sides. Over the lips of this ravine, along the crease we have followed. Most like they have bows, and will need not close us.”
Amelyssan shrugged. “The reach of my fire has a greater range than any clansman’s arrow.” Regardless, they no longer had time to choose better ground. “Let us meet them here.”
“Wait,” Vath murmured. The half-troll scrambled forward toward the pile of stones, brow wrinkled. He looked up. “These stones were not brought here by floodwaters. They were stacked. There are still bootprints in the turf.”
“Stacked?” Amelyssan echoed, not for the first time wishing Raylin were with them. Without hesitation, both Brothers of Olgotha bent their backs and began to pull the stones free. They tossed rocks behind them like a pair of digging gophers, their industry made frenzied by the impending threat. Soon a hole – small, dark, intimidating – became evident. “A cave.”
“Or a den.” Amelyssan rocked back onto his heels, face shining with exertion, and tilted his head to one side. He could not hear the Cormicks, could not hear anything. Perhaps the clansmen had dismounted, knowing their quarry to be close?
Vath stared at the hole - silent, thinking, remembering. Long moments passed. “Come.” With but a single word, the half-troll entered the cave, squeezing his considerable bulk through the narrow opening they had revealed.
Amelyssan followed.
The elf barked an arcane word and light suffused his hand. He extended his arm and stared into the darkness. A tunnel – cramped and narrow, but passable – stretched outward before them. The stones had been pushed to the sides of the corridor, the walls carved by pick and shovel to widen the berth. Footprints marred the sandy turf underfoot; Amelyssan was uncertain how old they might be.
They had an advantage, here, should the Cormicks follow. The passageway was narrow enough to prevent the clansmen from circling them. Numbers would not be so important now, should a fight occur. Amelyssan felt hope, so long dormant, tingle throughout his chest.
They would survive this ordeal. They would reach Val Hor. And their companions.
***
“Shen tu fundin!”
Baden was glad he had left his horse at the base of the foothills, else he may have fallen from the saddle in surprise. The dwarf dove from the trail, axe springing into his hands, and pressed his back against the rock. A brief, heart-pounding moment passed.
Baden chewed on his whiskers as silence reclaimed the land. He had not seen the speaker, had not seen anyone or anything ahead of him on the path. Yet the words had been in the dwarven tongue. Shen tu fundin! Speak or be cloven! It was the common challenge of Axemarch sentries.
Baden licked his lips. “Shen tu fundin, yourself!” Baden rolled to one side, wincing at a sudden pain in his knee, and peered around the boulder. Nothing.
A pregnant pause, and then – “These are Axemarch lands.”
The words were in dwarven, again, and much too fluent to be some rûcken ruse. Baden grinned in spite of himself. “I certainly hope so.”
“Show yourself, dwem.”
Baden frowned with consternation. A damned fool I am! He had thought his riding cloak enough to cover the black armor of Borbidon. Evidently, he was wrong.
Baden lowered his axe, took a deep breath, and stepped onto the path. “I am Baden Dost,” he called to the empty mountain pass, “son of Banidon, Axemarch dwarf and warrior.”
“This name is known to us.” Baden heard rocks skitter and marked the position of the sentries, though still he did not see them. Two of them, side-by-side. They were foolish to reveal their position as they had. “Baden may be many things, but Baden is no dwem.”
“The armor I wear, the shield on my back, the axe in my hands – these are plunder taken from a dwem tomb. I am no more a dwem than you are.”
“Yet,” came the voice, now slightly amused and scornful, “Baden son of Banidon left our Halls. Why is it that he now returns?”
Enough. “Get your ass out on the trail, whelp, where I can see you. And bring your friends.” Baden patted his axe. “Else I will pull you out by your beard.”
Baden heard a chuckle from above and behind him. He looked upward, slightly surprised, and saw a third sentry. The dwarf lowered his crossbow and smiled. “Now, that sounds like the Baden I remember.”
Baden squinted from beneath bushy brows. “You are older than I remember, Katon, though just as ugly.”
“Well met, Baden. Your beard grows white enough, yet you stink too badly to be dwem.”
Katon tied his crossbow to his belt and climbed downward from his perch. Baden waited while the sentries – three of them, all told – converged upon his position. “It is good to be home,” he announced without preamble.
“You should not have left.”
Baden fixed a hard stare on the speaker. “Who are you?”
“Bardo.”
“I know your father.”
“He is dead.”
Baden nodded, genuine sadness in his eyes. “Then – I knew him. He was a good dwarf.”
“And loyal.”
“Yes, Bardo - and loyal.” Baden dragged a hand across his face, wiping away some of the road’s chalk. He could hear the accusation in the dwarf’s tone, and accepted such as what was due. Baden looked toward the third dwarf. “You are Bardo’s brother, then. Tamil, is it?”
“I am.” Tamil shoved a warhammer behind his belt buckle. “I was surprised to see a lone dwem making his way upward along the trail. I am more surprised to see that it is you.”
“Yes,” Baden allowed. “I am surprised myself.”
He studied the dwarven trio – decent armor, good weapons. But they were unmarked by scars, unseasoned by battle – as far as Baden could tell. And they had been little more than dwarf-children when he had left his Halls. Young, very young. And standing the watch – alone - upon the sole approach to the Foggun Maw.
“Tell me of our people.”
“Not here.” Tamil shook his head. “It is not safe. We have a camp in the rocks above. ‘Tis not far.”
“A camp?” Baden grimaced in confusion. “The Halls are near, why not quarter therein? Where is your relief?”
Bardo shared a look with his companions. “We have no relief, Baden.”
“No relief?” Baden looked to Tamil and Katon to judge the truth of the words. “A sentry must share his shift, else he grows lax. I do not understand why-”
“Not here, Baden.” Tamil turned and began to walk upward, along the trail, shoulders bent. “When we are hidden behind rock and mountain, we will talk. Not before.”
Baden stood in silence as he watched the three dwarves begin their ascent. A weight – heavy as the Balantir Cor – descended upon him. He yearned to hear of his people, and yet he dreaded what such tidings may bring.
It was then, of course, that Baden first realized what he had dreaded all along – I am too late. I have come too late.
***
Baden sat quietly, head bent, bearded chin resting upon his fist.
The firepit at his feet remained unlit, yet his eyes smoldered as he stared at the snow-covered kindling. Bardo and Tamil sat near him, each wrapped in wool and huddled in his own thoughts. The lot of them made for a cheerless, soundless, and cold camp.
Ilvar interrupted Baden’s contemplation.
-You mean to enter your Halls?
Of course I do.
-Then why not tell them?
Who?
-The dwarves you have just met, two of which are sitting next to you.
Because they feel shame. And that shame will make them want to accompany me.
-They are as much the sons of Axemarch as you are.
No, they are more. And I would not have their blood on my hands.
-They are old enough-
“Blasted bellows, Ilvar - shut yer hole for a moment!” Baden grumbled and abruptly stood. He began to pace.
“I like you, Ilvar, but never did we marry – dead elf-boys ain’t my type.” Baden kicked the firepit as if he were stoking nonexistent flames. “So stop yer naggin’...please.”
The voice was quiet within Baden’s head.
“Ah,” Bardo stared at Baden, “who are you talking to?”
Baden frowned, red-faced. “Myself. Sometimes I talk to myself. ‘Tis nothing to worry over.”
“If you say so.” Bardo sounded unconvinced. He turned to share a look with his brother, but Tamil was oblivious to their byplay.
“Something is out there,” he whispered. “Watching us.”
Baden drew his axe and stepped between the two dwarves and the dark line of hemlock and spruce. He willed his darkvision to penetrate the shadows beneath their boughs, the murk between their boles. “I see nothing,” he hissed, albeit quietly.
“Nadas nur Orbaru yurnu.” That is because I do not wish to be seen. The words were elven, and yet – Baden understood them!
-Consider it a gift. Though, honestly, the way you treat me-
“Come out!” Baden hefted his axe. “’Tis passing rude to spy on a campsite – even elves should know as much.”
A figure stepped from the shadows. He wore a white, fur-trimmed cloak, white breeches, a white surcoat, and a cap of ivory-colored wool. His boots were long, folded at the top so as to keep the snow out, and – of course – white in color. Even his skin – fair, aquiline, perfect – was pale as the waxing moon overhead. Behind his shoulder rose the nub of a longbow, and a sword hang from a baldric around his waste. When he approached, the snow neither moved nor crunched beneath him.
Baden had seen elves before – had seen how they could glide. But, this one – this one flowed.
“You are Baden Dost.” The voice was perfection.
“And you are an elf – an elf I do not know.”
Bardo stood, axe in hand, whilst Tamil readied his warhammer.
“My mother is elven.” The half-elf dipped his head in a show of respect. “I am Wilan Whitefletch, a huntsman. And I am honored to make your acquaintance, Master Dost.”
Baden chewed his beard. He disliked being surprised, but he disliked fancy words even more. The half-elf seemed…fine. But – hadn’t Aramin? Baden squinted. “How do you know me?”
“As your friends know you,” Wilan replied, palms up and arms spread, “for it was they who bid me find you.”
“What friends?”
“John of Pell. Kellus Varn II. Raylin mac Larren. They travel with the Lathanderite Anar von Girval.”
Tamil placed both hands on his belt. “For what it’s worth, Baden, I know him. He’s been here before. He spoke with King Droggi before…”
…before he died, Baden finished, within his head. Damned near all of ‘em have gone and died.
Wilan seemed to understand the grief in Baden’s features. He lowered his head. “Then our fears are realized; the King in Axemarch is no more.”
Baden was not ready to discuss the matter – certainly not with an elf. Er, half-elf. “Where did you see those men you have named?”
“Outside Lonely Heath-”
“Were they well?” Baden’s interruption betrayed his concern.
“They were.”
“Yet…they were alone? There was no elf, no half-troll?” Baden had hoped Amelyssan and Vath had been able to intercept the route the rest of his friends had taken.
“No, Master Dost. I am sorry.”
***
Baden looked away from the meager flames. “Ah! Look who returns!”
Katon walked toward the light, his cloak draped with snow, face etched with surprise. He stopped at the edge of the firelight and studied Wilan. “Master Whitefletch? But…how did you get here?”
“I was gonna ask you the same thing,” Baden grumbled, a gimlet eye fastened on Katon. “Were you not on watch?”
Wilan appeared embarrassed. He stood. “Come, please. Share our fire. There is danger below, but none close. We are safe here, at least for a while.”
Katon stalked forward, face sheepish, and dropped onto a log that had been rolled forward for such a purpose. He accepted a pewter pot of gruel with grunted thanks and began to stain his beard in earnest.
Wilan crossed his legs and sat upon the ground. “These are hard tidings, friends, to know that King Droggi and his Captains are missing. But missing is not dead, friends, and there is yet hope.” The half-elf swiveled his open gaze toward Tamil. “You said that most of your clan is now within Ironfist Halls?”
Tamil nodded, licking the juice from his fingers. “Aye. Matron Ularta bid us all leave, after the King and his men didna’ come back for a tenday. Most listened to her.”
“But you did not?”
Tamil appeared slightly embarrassed. “The three of us stayed behind. We wanted to wait a bit longer, give ‘em a little more time.”
Baden twirled the ends of his beard between thumb and forefinger. “You disobeyed the Matron. You disobeyed the Dwarf-Mother who speaks with the King’s voice when the King is not present.”
“By forge and fury, Baden,” Bardo answered, “you are not one to lecture us on obedience.”
Baden felt his rage begin to bubble upward, but he quelled it with effort. “I have learned. I have erred. I would not see you do the same.” Baden looked at the upturned faces of the younger dwarves, his gaze stopping on Katon. Something within his face seemed to indicate he agreed with Baden. “Katon, lad. You wish to go to Ironfist?”
Katon looked from Baden to the brother dwarves and back again. “I waited, Baden. I waited with Tamil and Bardo. Ten days, or more, it has been since King Droggi di-…went missing. Me mom is in Ironfist, and me younger sisters as well.”
Baden nodded. He made his voice as soft as he could. “You have done what you thought best, and no harm has come of it. Master Whitefletch heads to Ironfist; you may travel with him on the morrow.”
Wilan’s eyes narrowed. “You do not mean to come with us?”
“No.” Baden shook his head. “My friends bid you find me, and find me you did. And I thank you for bringing me word of their good health. Truly, I do.”
Wilan was not one to argue another man’s motives. “Where do you go?”
“No where.” Baden brushed snow from his thighs, leaned forward, and grabbed his whetstone. “I am where I need to be.”
Tamil was the first to speak after a lengthy pause. “The Halls are not ours anymore, Baden. We have told you – all of us have told you. We saw them with our own eyes.” The young dwarf’s voice grew soft, his face somber. “They are many, and they are foul, and they-”
“-will pay with their heads for staining the cobbles o’ Axemarch.” Baden reached out and patted Tamil’s shoulder. “I left home once, when times were hard. Damned if I’ll be doing it again.”
Bardo pounded one fist into an open palm. “Praise Moradin! We – my brother and I – will come with you.”
Baden stared at the fire. After a long moment, he nodded. “I know you will.”
Katon tossed his bowl into the snow in front of him. “Cave orcs – that is one thing. Bad enough, I say. But…they have a cave troll with them. A cave troll, Baden!”
Baden shrugged. “A mountain troll, I be thinking. A bit bigger, perhaps, than most.”
“No,” Tamil spoke. “I saw it. My brother and Katon did not. It was no mountain troll, friend Baden. Huge, black-skinned, tusked. It wore a necklace…it wore a necklace of dwarven bones.”
Baden spoke with a confidence he did not feel. “All the more reason to kill the bastard.” He stood, the whetstone forgotten. “There is a chance – a small one, I’ll allow – but there is a chance that our King is alive. There is a chance that Axemarch dwarves are – even now – in the deeper mines of our Halls. I cannot turn my back to my home, not a second time, and certainly not with that thought in the back o’ me head.”
Wilan pushed snow onto the embers after a lengthy silence. They watched as the dying fire hissed and spat, and smoke wound upward into the cold air. Dawn was coming. The half-elf smiled. “I will tell your friends of your decision, Master Baden. I will tell them of your bravery.”
Baden shrugged. “Tell them what you will.” He jerked a thumb toward Katon. “Just make sure that dwarf-lad makes it back to his mom. Give Ironfist our thanks, and give Matron Ularta our regards. Tell her…”
Baden looked eastward, uncertain what to say. “Tell her I will come to Ironfist soon enough. I will come with rûcken heads on my belt. I will come with the brothers Bardo and Tamil by my side.” He bent, retrieved his axe and whetstone, and walked from the fire. “Tell Matron Ularta I will come to face my judgment – but I must do this thing first.”
Amelyssan shielded his eyes from the sun. “Ten. Mounted. Heading this direction.” The horadrel’s voice was smooth, his manner unruffled. Still, those who knew him well could discern uneasiness from his creased brow and pursed lips.
And Vath knew him well. The half-troll extended an abnormally-long arm and assisted the elf downward from the jumble of boulders. “Cormicks?”
“Yes.” Amelyssan gathered his robes about him and sat, placing his back to the rocks. He opened his spellbook and thumbed through a number of pages. “I will need time to prepare. We cannot out-run them.”
“These men are like others of their race; they desire gold.” The half-troll spoke of coins as if they were a foreign concept. “May we purchase our freedom?”
Amelyssan pushed hair away from his eyes, never looking up from his tome. “No, friend. We have slain two of theirs, and sent another running. They will take our coins, certainly, but only after they take our lives.”
Vath nodded, wholly unperturbed. “Let me know when you are ready. This is not good land for a fight.”
After a while Vath, also, could discern the blurred line of oncoming horsemen. The Cormicks thundered across the plains, a yet-silent wave of red cloaks and brown horseflesh. Like the turn of a fish within a wave, brilliant silver would occasionally flash – doubtless the mark of sunlight on hauberk or steel cap.
“I am ready.” Amelyssan stood and gingerly replaced his spellbook within his leather rucksack.
“And I am sorry.”
The elf raised an eyebrow. He could not recall having heard Vath apologize. Ever. “Sorry?”
“I am sorry that you are here. With me. I should have made you stay with the others.”
Amelyssan dismissively waved, clucking his tongue. “Yours is not the place to be sorry. No, friend, the Cormicks should be sorry – sorry for holding such hatred in their breasts, sorry for wanting to murder those different than themselves.” The elf scanned the horizon. “These plains are vast, yet the Cormicks covet all of it – each yellow hillock and each brown-curdled tuft. They act for all the world as if others wished to take these things from them; yet none do.”
“You have seen the ways of the Cormicks in your books?”
“No,” Amelyssan shook his head. “I have seen the ways of the Cormicks in the manners of my own people.”
Amelyssan spread his hands. He could see his distraction had not worked, that the half-troll’s eyes remained troubled. When next he spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper. “I am here, Brother Vath, with you – and here is where I want to be.”
Resolve spread across the half-troll’s countenance, turning his boils from amber to crimson. “Come, then,” Vath answered, ominous and low. “Let us seek terrain better suited for suffering.”
Amelyssan climbed atop Vath’s back and the pair set out, heading west and south. The ground passed beneath them, the sun continued to rise, and the air grew unseasonably warm. Vath kept to the lower lands, sprinted along defiles, remained within the folds of the plains whenever possible. Every so often they were forced to crest gentle rises, and – each time – they saw that the horsemen had gained upon them. It would not be long. Now now.
A reckoning was to come, soon – a blood-soaked reckoning here on the grasses of the Weedsea.
***
Vath turned his shoulders southward and loped along a crease in the land. The horseplains gradually rolled upward to either side, and the elf and half-troll soon found themselves descending into a rock-strewn ravine. Sweat seeped through Vath’s pores, his breathing loud and labored. After an hour, perhaps more, they heard the sound of hoof on stone – still distant, but not distant enough. Vath nimbly scampered from one upturned stone to another. The rocks marked the sinuous route of a dry streambed, an enduring scar from past flood-seasons.
Vath stopped.
The valley they had been traversing ended abruptly in a wall of jumbled dirt and rock. The streambed, like a frightened hare, darted off to one side and slipped beneath the grasses – apparently to continue its dry course underground.
Amelyssan climbed from Vath’s back. He looked from the rocky wall to his friend, then from his friend to the northern ridgeline. “Here, then, is where we make our stand?”
Vath was slow in answering. He sucked in mouthfuls of air, hair plastered to his cratered forehead. “This is not a good place.” The half-troll coughed, grumbled deep in his throat, and spat a ball of phlegm the size of a small bird onto the ground. “They can come at us from all sides. Over the lips of this ravine, along the crease we have followed. Most like they have bows, and will need not close us.”
Amelyssan shrugged. “The reach of my fire has a greater range than any clansman’s arrow.” Regardless, they no longer had time to choose better ground. “Let us meet them here.”
“Wait,” Vath murmured. The half-troll scrambled forward toward the pile of stones, brow wrinkled. He looked up. “These stones were not brought here by floodwaters. They were stacked. There are still bootprints in the turf.”
“Stacked?” Amelyssan echoed, not for the first time wishing Raylin were with them. Without hesitation, both Brothers of Olgotha bent their backs and began to pull the stones free. They tossed rocks behind them like a pair of digging gophers, their industry made frenzied by the impending threat. Soon a hole – small, dark, intimidating – became evident. “A cave.”
“Or a den.” Amelyssan rocked back onto his heels, face shining with exertion, and tilted his head to one side. He could not hear the Cormicks, could not hear anything. Perhaps the clansmen had dismounted, knowing their quarry to be close?
Vath stared at the hole - silent, thinking, remembering. Long moments passed. “Come.” With but a single word, the half-troll entered the cave, squeezing his considerable bulk through the narrow opening they had revealed.
Amelyssan followed.
The elf barked an arcane word and light suffused his hand. He extended his arm and stared into the darkness. A tunnel – cramped and narrow, but passable – stretched outward before them. The stones had been pushed to the sides of the corridor, the walls carved by pick and shovel to widen the berth. Footprints marred the sandy turf underfoot; Amelyssan was uncertain how old they might be.
They had an advantage, here, should the Cormicks follow. The passageway was narrow enough to prevent the clansmen from circling them. Numbers would not be so important now, should a fight occur. Amelyssan felt hope, so long dormant, tingle throughout his chest.
They would survive this ordeal. They would reach Val Hor. And their companions.
***
“Shen tu fundin!”
Baden was glad he had left his horse at the base of the foothills, else he may have fallen from the saddle in surprise. The dwarf dove from the trail, axe springing into his hands, and pressed his back against the rock. A brief, heart-pounding moment passed.
Baden chewed on his whiskers as silence reclaimed the land. He had not seen the speaker, had not seen anyone or anything ahead of him on the path. Yet the words had been in the dwarven tongue. Shen tu fundin! Speak or be cloven! It was the common challenge of Axemarch sentries.
Baden licked his lips. “Shen tu fundin, yourself!” Baden rolled to one side, wincing at a sudden pain in his knee, and peered around the boulder. Nothing.
A pregnant pause, and then – “These are Axemarch lands.”
The words were in dwarven, again, and much too fluent to be some rûcken ruse. Baden grinned in spite of himself. “I certainly hope so.”
“Show yourself, dwem.”
Baden frowned with consternation. A damned fool I am! He had thought his riding cloak enough to cover the black armor of Borbidon. Evidently, he was wrong.
Baden lowered his axe, took a deep breath, and stepped onto the path. “I am Baden Dost,” he called to the empty mountain pass, “son of Banidon, Axemarch dwarf and warrior.”
“This name is known to us.” Baden heard rocks skitter and marked the position of the sentries, though still he did not see them. Two of them, side-by-side. They were foolish to reveal their position as they had. “Baden may be many things, but Baden is no dwem.”
“The armor I wear, the shield on my back, the axe in my hands – these are plunder taken from a dwem tomb. I am no more a dwem than you are.”
“Yet,” came the voice, now slightly amused and scornful, “Baden son of Banidon left our Halls. Why is it that he now returns?”
Enough. “Get your ass out on the trail, whelp, where I can see you. And bring your friends.” Baden patted his axe. “Else I will pull you out by your beard.”
Baden heard a chuckle from above and behind him. He looked upward, slightly surprised, and saw a third sentry. The dwarf lowered his crossbow and smiled. “Now, that sounds like the Baden I remember.”
Baden squinted from beneath bushy brows. “You are older than I remember, Katon, though just as ugly.”
“Well met, Baden. Your beard grows white enough, yet you stink too badly to be dwem.”
Katon tied his crossbow to his belt and climbed downward from his perch. Baden waited while the sentries – three of them, all told – converged upon his position. “It is good to be home,” he announced without preamble.
“You should not have left.”
Baden fixed a hard stare on the speaker. “Who are you?”
“Bardo.”
“I know your father.”
“He is dead.”
Baden nodded, genuine sadness in his eyes. “Then – I knew him. He was a good dwarf.”
“And loyal.”
“Yes, Bardo - and loyal.” Baden dragged a hand across his face, wiping away some of the road’s chalk. He could hear the accusation in the dwarf’s tone, and accepted such as what was due. Baden looked toward the third dwarf. “You are Bardo’s brother, then. Tamil, is it?”
“I am.” Tamil shoved a warhammer behind his belt buckle. “I was surprised to see a lone dwem making his way upward along the trail. I am more surprised to see that it is you.”
“Yes,” Baden allowed. “I am surprised myself.”
He studied the dwarven trio – decent armor, good weapons. But they were unmarked by scars, unseasoned by battle – as far as Baden could tell. And they had been little more than dwarf-children when he had left his Halls. Young, very young. And standing the watch – alone - upon the sole approach to the Foggun Maw.
“Tell me of our people.”
“Not here.” Tamil shook his head. “It is not safe. We have a camp in the rocks above. ‘Tis not far.”
“A camp?” Baden grimaced in confusion. “The Halls are near, why not quarter therein? Where is your relief?”
Bardo shared a look with his companions. “We have no relief, Baden.”
“No relief?” Baden looked to Tamil and Katon to judge the truth of the words. “A sentry must share his shift, else he grows lax. I do not understand why-”
“Not here, Baden.” Tamil turned and began to walk upward, along the trail, shoulders bent. “When we are hidden behind rock and mountain, we will talk. Not before.”
Baden stood in silence as he watched the three dwarves begin their ascent. A weight – heavy as the Balantir Cor – descended upon him. He yearned to hear of his people, and yet he dreaded what such tidings may bring.
It was then, of course, that Baden first realized what he had dreaded all along – I am too late. I have come too late.
***
Baden sat quietly, head bent, bearded chin resting upon his fist.
The firepit at his feet remained unlit, yet his eyes smoldered as he stared at the snow-covered kindling. Bardo and Tamil sat near him, each wrapped in wool and huddled in his own thoughts. The lot of them made for a cheerless, soundless, and cold camp.
Ilvar interrupted Baden’s contemplation.
-You mean to enter your Halls?
Of course I do.
-Then why not tell them?
Who?
-The dwarves you have just met, two of which are sitting next to you.
Because they feel shame. And that shame will make them want to accompany me.
-They are as much the sons of Axemarch as you are.
No, they are more. And I would not have their blood on my hands.
-They are old enough-
“Blasted bellows, Ilvar - shut yer hole for a moment!” Baden grumbled and abruptly stood. He began to pace.
“I like you, Ilvar, but never did we marry – dead elf-boys ain’t my type.” Baden kicked the firepit as if he were stoking nonexistent flames. “So stop yer naggin’...please.”
The voice was quiet within Baden’s head.
“Ah,” Bardo stared at Baden, “who are you talking to?”
Baden frowned, red-faced. “Myself. Sometimes I talk to myself. ‘Tis nothing to worry over.”
“If you say so.” Bardo sounded unconvinced. He turned to share a look with his brother, but Tamil was oblivious to their byplay.
“Something is out there,” he whispered. “Watching us.”
Baden drew his axe and stepped between the two dwarves and the dark line of hemlock and spruce. He willed his darkvision to penetrate the shadows beneath their boughs, the murk between their boles. “I see nothing,” he hissed, albeit quietly.
“Nadas nur Orbaru yurnu.” That is because I do not wish to be seen. The words were elven, and yet – Baden understood them!
-Consider it a gift. Though, honestly, the way you treat me-
“Come out!” Baden hefted his axe. “’Tis passing rude to spy on a campsite – even elves should know as much.”
A figure stepped from the shadows. He wore a white, fur-trimmed cloak, white breeches, a white surcoat, and a cap of ivory-colored wool. His boots were long, folded at the top so as to keep the snow out, and – of course – white in color. Even his skin – fair, aquiline, perfect – was pale as the waxing moon overhead. Behind his shoulder rose the nub of a longbow, and a sword hang from a baldric around his waste. When he approached, the snow neither moved nor crunched beneath him.
Baden had seen elves before – had seen how they could glide. But, this one – this one flowed.
“You are Baden Dost.” The voice was perfection.
“And you are an elf – an elf I do not know.”
Bardo stood, axe in hand, whilst Tamil readied his warhammer.
“My mother is elven.” The half-elf dipped his head in a show of respect. “I am Wilan Whitefletch, a huntsman. And I am honored to make your acquaintance, Master Dost.”
Baden chewed his beard. He disliked being surprised, but he disliked fancy words even more. The half-elf seemed…fine. But – hadn’t Aramin? Baden squinted. “How do you know me?”
“As your friends know you,” Wilan replied, palms up and arms spread, “for it was they who bid me find you.”
“What friends?”
“John of Pell. Kellus Varn II. Raylin mac Larren. They travel with the Lathanderite Anar von Girval.”
Tamil placed both hands on his belt. “For what it’s worth, Baden, I know him. He’s been here before. He spoke with King Droggi before…”
…before he died, Baden finished, within his head. Damned near all of ‘em have gone and died.
Wilan seemed to understand the grief in Baden’s features. He lowered his head. “Then our fears are realized; the King in Axemarch is no more.”
Baden was not ready to discuss the matter – certainly not with an elf. Er, half-elf. “Where did you see those men you have named?”
“Outside Lonely Heath-”
“Were they well?” Baden’s interruption betrayed his concern.
“They were.”
“Yet…they were alone? There was no elf, no half-troll?” Baden had hoped Amelyssan and Vath had been able to intercept the route the rest of his friends had taken.
“No, Master Dost. I am sorry.”
***
Baden looked away from the meager flames. “Ah! Look who returns!”
Katon walked toward the light, his cloak draped with snow, face etched with surprise. He stopped at the edge of the firelight and studied Wilan. “Master Whitefletch? But…how did you get here?”
“I was gonna ask you the same thing,” Baden grumbled, a gimlet eye fastened on Katon. “Were you not on watch?”
Wilan appeared embarrassed. He stood. “Come, please. Share our fire. There is danger below, but none close. We are safe here, at least for a while.”
Katon stalked forward, face sheepish, and dropped onto a log that had been rolled forward for such a purpose. He accepted a pewter pot of gruel with grunted thanks and began to stain his beard in earnest.
Wilan crossed his legs and sat upon the ground. “These are hard tidings, friends, to know that King Droggi and his Captains are missing. But missing is not dead, friends, and there is yet hope.” The half-elf swiveled his open gaze toward Tamil. “You said that most of your clan is now within Ironfist Halls?”
Tamil nodded, licking the juice from his fingers. “Aye. Matron Ularta bid us all leave, after the King and his men didna’ come back for a tenday. Most listened to her.”
“But you did not?”
Tamil appeared slightly embarrassed. “The three of us stayed behind. We wanted to wait a bit longer, give ‘em a little more time.”
Baden twirled the ends of his beard between thumb and forefinger. “You disobeyed the Matron. You disobeyed the Dwarf-Mother who speaks with the King’s voice when the King is not present.”
“By forge and fury, Baden,” Bardo answered, “you are not one to lecture us on obedience.”
Baden felt his rage begin to bubble upward, but he quelled it with effort. “I have learned. I have erred. I would not see you do the same.” Baden looked at the upturned faces of the younger dwarves, his gaze stopping on Katon. Something within his face seemed to indicate he agreed with Baden. “Katon, lad. You wish to go to Ironfist?”
Katon looked from Baden to the brother dwarves and back again. “I waited, Baden. I waited with Tamil and Bardo. Ten days, or more, it has been since King Droggi di-…went missing. Me mom is in Ironfist, and me younger sisters as well.”
Baden nodded. He made his voice as soft as he could. “You have done what you thought best, and no harm has come of it. Master Whitefletch heads to Ironfist; you may travel with him on the morrow.”
Wilan’s eyes narrowed. “You do not mean to come with us?”
“No.” Baden shook his head. “My friends bid you find me, and find me you did. And I thank you for bringing me word of their good health. Truly, I do.”
Wilan was not one to argue another man’s motives. “Where do you go?”
“No where.” Baden brushed snow from his thighs, leaned forward, and grabbed his whetstone. “I am where I need to be.”
Tamil was the first to speak after a lengthy pause. “The Halls are not ours anymore, Baden. We have told you – all of us have told you. We saw them with our own eyes.” The young dwarf’s voice grew soft, his face somber. “They are many, and they are foul, and they-”
“-will pay with their heads for staining the cobbles o’ Axemarch.” Baden reached out and patted Tamil’s shoulder. “I left home once, when times were hard. Damned if I’ll be doing it again.”
Bardo pounded one fist into an open palm. “Praise Moradin! We – my brother and I – will come with you.”
Baden stared at the fire. After a long moment, he nodded. “I know you will.”
Katon tossed his bowl into the snow in front of him. “Cave orcs – that is one thing. Bad enough, I say. But…they have a cave troll with them. A cave troll, Baden!”
Baden shrugged. “A mountain troll, I be thinking. A bit bigger, perhaps, than most.”
“No,” Tamil spoke. “I saw it. My brother and Katon did not. It was no mountain troll, friend Baden. Huge, black-skinned, tusked. It wore a necklace…it wore a necklace of dwarven bones.”
Baden spoke with a confidence he did not feel. “All the more reason to kill the bastard.” He stood, the whetstone forgotten. “There is a chance – a small one, I’ll allow – but there is a chance that our King is alive. There is a chance that Axemarch dwarves are – even now – in the deeper mines of our Halls. I cannot turn my back to my home, not a second time, and certainly not with that thought in the back o’ me head.”
Wilan pushed snow onto the embers after a lengthy silence. They watched as the dying fire hissed and spat, and smoke wound upward into the cold air. Dawn was coming. The half-elf smiled. “I will tell your friends of your decision, Master Baden. I will tell them of your bravery.”
Baden shrugged. “Tell them what you will.” He jerked a thumb toward Katon. “Just make sure that dwarf-lad makes it back to his mom. Give Ironfist our thanks, and give Matron Ularta our regards. Tell her…”
Baden looked eastward, uncertain what to say. “Tell her I will come to Ironfist soon enough. I will come with rûcken heads on my belt. I will come with the brothers Bardo and Tamil by my side.” He bent, retrieved his axe and whetstone, and walked from the fire. “Tell Matron Ularta I will come to face my judgment – but I must do this thing first.”
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