The Obsidian Axe
Prelude to the Prophecy
Book One
Written by P Sattler
Cover Art by J Sattler
All rights reserved.
To my wife, Jill, for always believing in me.
To mom and dad.
No part of this book may be reproduced, recreated, or altered without the written permission of the author. Requests can be made by e-mailing [email protected].
ISBN-13: 978-1976421013
ISBN-10: 1976421012
The Prelude to the Prophecy
Book One: The Obsidian Axe
Book Two: The Golden Path
Book Three: The Topaz Way
Book Four: The Crossing of Moons
Book Five: The Breaking Chains
Book Six: The Shifting Sands
Book Seven: The Crystal Tale
The Prophecy Series
Book One: The Crimson Moon
Seven journeys,
Nine destinies,
One event.
"The Spirits are our teachers, listen to them, heed them,
and a mystic will honor the Goddess."
G'Latius StarGazer, Great Philosopher of the Ar'Ko'Nýans
What is it like to be alone in a cold, dark world?
He sat there freezing in the early hours of the morning, his mind racing around the events that had transpired just twenty hours earlier. Once, he had lived in a bustling dwarven city, but now he was a refugee of a lost clan. The smoke still filled his nostrils as he wiped away the tears. He pulled his singed cloak tighter around his body, the winds slicing through the thin canvas cloth, and he struggled to breathe.
He decided to get moving, as the Mýd'Rým[1] Mountains were famous for being unforgiving in the winter. The snow blew in every direction as he braced for the high gusts of wind. The ground was unusually hard, frozen from the decades of below-freezing temperatures, and slick from the buildup of ice. He adjusted his long, high boots and slowly made his way towards the Long Road, located several leagues down the Dragon Pass.
First, he would stop at a nearby dwarven storage hold, where he hoped he might be able to find better clothes and more food. At this late hour, there would be few creatures running about, especially with the cold, but those that did would be brutal monsters of the worst kind. He would have to be careful as he made his way to the hold.
He stretched to grab a surface to climb down a slippery slope, realizing he had taken severe damage from his escape. The pain raced through his hands and up his arms as he winced in agony. Blood oozed out of his wounds but he had to continue, and he cried out in anguish. He dropped down fifteen feet and landed on his feet wrong, heard a cracking sound, and felt a pain shooting up through his left ankle. He fell hard and rolled around, wincing. His tears blended with the blood on his face as he screamed in rage to the world around him.
After sobbing for several moments, and after the excruciating pain subsided, he rolled over onto his right side and began taking in deep breaths. He closed his eyes and focused on his talisman, then began to mutter strange words of arcane power, "Án'twere'dys'regeneratus.”[2]
A soft, white glow began to spread over his body, broken bones began to heal, and the lacerations closed up. He lay still for several moments and then rolled onto his back, looking up into the cold night sky. "Thank you, oh Great Philosophers." He moved into a seated position, pulled from his pack a water skin, and drank heavily from it.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, forgetting the blood that lingered on his long beard. He reached down and rubbed his ankle, it felt just like new, and he adjusted his straps and buttons to block out the elements that sought to end his life. He stood up and began the descent again. Though he knew without a good night's rest, he would not be casting any more magic, but he had to get to the hold.
Somewhere nearby he heard the howl of a Vro’Sado.[3] If there was one, there were others very near, and he knew he had not the strength to combat such a group. His eyes began to scan the cliffs and edges for any sign of a cave. None were in sight, so his only choice was to continue his trek down the mountainside.
He detected another creature closer to his location, and his senses kicked in as his mind began to prepare for an oncoming battle. He slid, fell, and hurled himself down the rough terrain as he struggled to lose the impending danger. As he made it into a clearing, he saw what had been stalking him. A huge ice worm slithered towards the dwarf. He had no magic left, and the only weapons he possessed were his father's Obsidian Axe and an old bronze dagger. He drew the ax, along with the dagger, and primed himself for the charge. Under his breath, he chanted the Song of Death, a ritual performed as they prepared the dead, as he was sure the beast would end him.
The worm dove into the frozen ground, its teeth tearing at the dirt like flesh, and disappeared somewhere underneath. The dwarf watched the ground for protrusions and movement, trying to prevent himself from being surprised when the ground began to give. Diving to the right, he brought the ax down against the chitin hide of the foul worm.
It cut through deep, deeper than the dwarf thought it would, as he brought the dagger around and stabbed the beast in its side. He could feel the blood spraying out of the new wound. He screamed with rage and brought the ax down again hard on the creature's back. More blood gushed as the dwarf fought for his life.
The worm brought its ugly snout around and opened its razor-filled mouth to attack the dwarf. The dwarf jumped away, rolled, and prepared to defend himself. The worm lashed out with its tail and hit the dwarf hard in the chest. Then it raced towards the dwarf with its giant jaws to bite down on its adversarial meal, but the dwarf had other plans. Draegos dodged and ducked, thrusting the dagger up towards the bottom of the worm’s mouth, but the worm turned to prevent the blade’s death strike.
It bit across the right leg of the dwarf, picked him up, and tossed him into the side of a mountain—hard. The dwarf injured from the throw, noticed his leg was cut and broken; he was going to die if he did not figure out a way to beat this worm. He pulled from his pouch a vial and drank it. Just as he finished the flask, the tail from the worm slammed into his head, he saw the vision in his right eye go black and stumbled as he tried to regain his composure.
He felt the magical elixir flow through his veins. He felt like his soul was rejuvenated, as he was able to stand on his good leg, and he watched the beast slither closer. "I swear by the Philosophers that I will not let you take me, you damned infernal beast!" he swore as he prepared for the inevitable. The worm sprang towards the dwarf, who ducked and brought both blades down the exposed underside of the beast, screaming as he drove the blades deep into it and cutting as it passed by overhead.
The worm was dead, and the dwarf was covered by it, the heat from it warming the dwarf as he lay there amazed at his survival. He rolled out from under the beast and noted its long length, he calculated it to be around fifty hands long, and he cut several strips of the meat for a later meal. Then he pulled out his empty vial and filled it with the venom from the beast's teeth.
The dwarf looked at his leg and wrapped it as well as he could. The potion he’d ingested was wearing off, and the poison from the worm was making its way through his veins. He needed to rest, and soon.
You are in the Icy Vale. Just look for the secret door, son.
He looked around as he heard his father's voice. "Dá?" he called out. The icy wind was the only response. Draegos rubbed the left side of his aching head while searching the area for memorable landmarks. He knew the hold was somewhere near.
He reached into his pack and pulled out his talis
man. Holding it up, he spoke some dwarven words, "Án'juyn'beouyn'dach!”[4] Ahead of him, a door began to glow in the side of a hill. He hobbled and pulled himself close to the door. He could not even begin to believe he had made it alive. He propped himself up and uttered the secret words to gain entrance, "Án'buwein'draegos'anhiulian.”[5] The heavy door disappeared, and the dwarf fell inside onto the hard stone floor.
Immediately he sensed something was already there. His eyes adjusted to the dim light and he looked to see if he might catch an image of the unsuspecting guest. He slowly crawled to an open doorway and peeked inside. He saw a fire and lots of wood on it, the room had been searched and trashed, and three goblins stood looking through various trinkets and objects in a pile. The dwarf's rage overwhelmed him.
Screaming as he charged the room of the three adversaries, he brought his ax down the side of one goblin, the dagger up into the jaws of another, and then head-butted the last. As the last goblin fell, the dwarf fell on top of him, bringing his ax and dagger down in a flurry of stabbings and hackings, screaming obscenities as he destroyed the fallen goblin. Somewhere in his mind, he heard a snap and all sense of reality drained away from him.
He awoke with the dead bodies of the goblins laid out around him, but something was different, and he could sense that someone was nearby. He opened his eyes slowly and took in the scene. The first thing he noticed was that his wounds were cleaned and covered. The second thing he noticed was that the goblins had moved; someone had stripped their bodies and laid them in a row near him. Finally, he saw the being responsible for the tasks.
"You are awake. That's good, it means I made it to you in time," the cloaked figure spoke softly. "Don't move yet. Your right leg is broke, and the stitches in your hands will tear. You took quite a beating. Where are you from?"
The dwarf coughed fresh blood up. "I am Draegos, a lone dwarf without a citadel."
His cloaked companion wiped the blood away from Draegos’ his mouth. "You'll be fine but you are going to need at least a ten-day rest before you go fighting ice worms again, or goblins for that matter. You said ‘Citadel,’ which one are you from?"
"Dor'Vienum, the Citadel of Wisdom. My family is the Keepers. Or were." His gaze fixed on the flames dancing in the fire and for a brief moment, he thought he saw his father in them.
"Dor'Vienum, huh? Never heard of the place. Where about does it sit?" the figure asked.
Draegos could hear the voice of someone and knew it was a male, most likely a Sylvan, and that he spoke deliberately. What was he searching for? The dwarf mused.
"It used to sit right in the middle of the Mýd'Rým Mountains, our ancestral lands. We resided in those halls for the last two thousand years." He recollected the memories as he made the statement: his childhood, his apprenticeship, and the war. He turned his face to view his benefactor entirely. His right eye passed no light.
"Some of the damage I was able to fix, but you seem to have earlier damage from something else I could not detect. Were you abused?" the figure asked while making a pot of stew.
The dwarf inhaled the aroma—beef, wild onions, various herbs—and it made his mouth water, and he continued the tale:
"I was born under an auspicious moon. I had…defects…differences from other dwarfs. My father was ashamed, and my mother tried to console me at every turn. I was weak for a dwarf."
"Weak? I am not so sure about that. I don't know too many people who can fight an ice worm and then take out three goblins. Martyrs have a hard enough time," the figure spoke as he moved to finish up the stew.
"I ‘spose you have met a few wanderers along your trek?" the dwarf asked. He went to sit up but the splint around his leg prevented that. His hands hurt but the loss of vision in his right eye was what scared him the most.
"You are damn lucky to be alive actually. That worm got your right eye; you'll never be able to use it again." The figure stood up with a bowl and moved to the side of the dwarf and began to spoon feed him. "I'll help you."
The dwarf raised his left hand and stopped the spoon. "Why? Why would you help me?"
"Because I like a good underdog story," he replied and slid the spoon into the dwarf's mouth. "Now be a good dwarf and eat this stew up, it has strong medicine in it."
The dwarf ate several bites and felt the weight of the world slowly depart his racing mind, his eyelids grew heavy, and soon he was sleeping . . . dreaming . . . remembering.
In his slumber he saw it all again:
The Citadel exploded with such a fiery blast the very ground it rested on split open and swallowed up the fortress. Panic filled the halls as the flames raced along all surfaces of the once-proud structure. The smell of burnt bodies filled the halls of the crumbling foundation, and the screams of the dwarfs echoed in his mind. The last image he would ever see of his home would be one of burning debris and his dead clan members. He screamed out in rage in his sleep, but no one was there to hear him.
The figure sat there, uncloaked and uncovered, watching the young dwarf deal with the trauma he had just received. It would be a long time before he would ever be able to call a place home. The figure took pity on his poor soul.
"It's okay. You are safe," the man said.
The weary dwarf turned his face to see him, his hair soaked with sweat, and he just looked at the human.
"You're a human?" the dwarf asked. He had only ever heard stories of these tall folk, but most accounts held the people as an invading force from thousands of years ago. No one in the Lower Realms of Ar'Ko'Nýa[6] had seen one.
"Today I am." Then he smiled and winked. The dwarf was unsure what to think of the comment and just smiled.
"Today? What are you most days?" the dwarf asked as he chuckled slightly.
"Most days I am a god. Some days I am vindication. And other days I am just a lonely old man who walks the Long Road seeking to help," he said as he wiped the dwarf's brow, refreshing him with a cold, wet rag.
"A Philosopher?" the dwarf asked.
"Someone much higher than that, my friend. Much greater.”
"Do you know the stories of the Ancient Philosophers?" the dwarf asked.
"Do I know them?" The human laughed and continued, "My dear friend, I wrote the stories."
"You're the Old Traveler, aren't you?" the dwarf asked. He spoke reverently. He took in the human with his left eye: his clean but traveled look, his humble demeanor, and his deep blue eyes. The man shifted in his seat and turned his head slightly.
"Would it ease your suffering for me to be so?" he replied. His calm, peaceful eyes reassured the dwarf.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, it would. It would be a spark of hope in a dark point in my life, sort of like an affirmation," he responded.
"Then consider this a gift. I am the Old Traveler, dwarf, and you looked to be in need of some help. I do not help many, for to do so would create an unhealthy need for intervention. But, at the right times, during a season of darkness, I will arrive to provide the light and flame of courage. The pot of stew will keep until you leave, no need to mind it," he said as he stood and prepared to leave.
"You are going?" the dwarf asked, his eyelids once again getting heavy with sleep.
"I am. I have done what I needed to. You will survive, and no one will find you, but now it is your turn. Time for you to find what it is your father told you to seek: the Eyes of Grynix; to awaken the Obsidian Axe. Rest, dwarf. Peace be with you on your journey."
"But I have so many questions." he trailed off into a deep slumber, faintly hearing:
"I have left you one more gift."
The Eyes of Grynix rang through his mind as he drifted into a world of slumber and dreams. As a child, he remembered the tales of the ancient beast known as the Grynix, which had three eyes and resembled a dire bear. Its claws were as sharp as swords, as long as daggers, and could rip through any wall, but did so only when someone stole a relic from the old Ar'Ko'Nýan sites. Dwarfs forbade any excursions into ancient Ar'Ko'Nýan settlements, rem
inding would-be offenders of the punishment handed down by the gods themselves.
They would tell the story to their children, all about an obsidian ax with three stones of power embedded in the handle and shaft, and how it came to be in the dwarven lands. One of the stones was a bloodstone, resting above the obsidian head and inlaid within the wedge. The second and largest was a moonstone, resting on the actual obsidian head and through the neck of the handle. The third was a snow agate, resting under the head and embedded in the shoulder of the ax. The two smaller ones measured two inches wide, and the moonstone measured three. Their powers were simple but powerful with the bloodstone providing healing and even regeneration, the moonstone enhanced magic, while the snow agate provided immunities against cold, and enhanced ice magic. As a whole, the weapon stood for unity and morale while imbuing the wielder with heightened senses, so long as the ax accepted the yielder.
“In the hands of a Martyr or Marauder, it isn't convenient,” his father had told him as a child, “but in the hands of a Mystic it is a powerful relic." They were the only kind words his father had ever said to him before he’d perished.
Draegos dreamt of what happened to the stones after the Ar'Ko'Nýan Wars.
The three Dwarven Citadels had formed a union in the central mountains, forming one of the most powerful armies of the Lower Realm. At the height of the union, the three Citadels challenged all foes and kept the peace. As with all things, time ate away at the security and prosperity, and eventually, they fell to suspicion and treachery. In a ceremony to promote stability, the High King of the Citadels removed the three stones from the Obsidian Ax and gave each Citadel a piece to hold, and that would be the undoing of the Mýd'Rým front.
Draegos awoke, sweat dripping down his brow and face, and wondered how long he had been sleeping. He tested his wounds, gingerly moving to scoop up some stew in a bowl. Carefully, he leaned back and ate the delicious broth stew. The taste of the sweet but gamey meat filled his mouth, and he relished in its delight. His leg still hurt quite a bit, but the cuts on his hands were healing just fine. It was his missing eye that bothered him the most, so he wrapped the right side of his head with some clean cloth, and tying it in the back.
The Obsidian Axe: Prelude to the Prophecy Page 1