by Tiger Hebert
“The dwarven hold of Dar Mar’Kren has withstood every enemy attack in its history,” started the commander proudly before Kyarl burst in.
“If you attempt to withstand this enemy’s assault, you will be history. Master Dwarf, I understand the pride you have for your people and your legacy, but are you prepared to let that same pride leave them to the slaughter?” interrupted Kyarl.
“What would you have us do, herald?” barked the dwarf.
“Allow us to help you lead your people away from here, swiftly. We will take you west where you will be welcome in our home in Tempour. You will find refuge there. The elven survivors have already migrated there as well after the fall of Trellion,” answered Kyarl.
“What do you take me for? You think we are naught but fools, stranger? Long have my people withstood the mightiest of threats, only to watch our foes dash their bones upon this rocky bulwark, just like the Korgs of old. Even the feared Jendari broke upon these walls!” shouted Ronnick.
“The Jendari? The Jendari would have slaughtered you and your people, and you know it, Commander. If that orc hadn’t come to your rescue, your forces would have been wiped out, and there would have been no remnant to defend the Mar’Kren! You of all dwarves should understand that the free people of Aurion must stand together against the forces of evil, no matter when or where they come from. Or has your memory of that day faded in your old age?” snapped Kyarl.
Ronnick’s countenance remained dark, but the pride fell from his face as he remembered. After a moment of silence, he replied, “You would invite us out from the safety of our stronghold to have us chased down and slaughtered in the fields? Is that your plan?” A gentle hand stretched out and settled on the commander’s right shoulder.
“Ronnick,” said a familiar calm voice, “it is time for the council to meet again.”
Ronnick turned to see Dominar standing at his side.
“Kyarl, from your reports, how much time do we have?” asked Dominar in an even-keeled voice.
“Our scouts have said that their riders could be here by sunrise on the day after next. Their foot soldiers are probably another day behind them,” informed the messenger.
“Thank you. We will convene the council now. We will return to you, here in the courtyard, when the matter is settled,” said Dominar as he smoothly handled the situation.
Dom gave a small smile to Ronnick and a gentle nod of his head, gesturing for him to follow his lead. Then he slowly lifted his left arm above his head and snapped his fingers a few times; at his signal, nearby dwarves raced off to signal the council to meet again.
As the two dwarves of influence disappeared into the belly of the mountain fortress, the ruckus and commotion of the courtyard came to life again. Nal’drin remained behind in the wake of the departure of his newfound friend.
Taking a deep breath, the tall human got low as he leaned into the wagon, urging the heavy steel-laden cart through the crowd and out into the fresh air of the courtyard.
“Torin, Jondin, a hand please,” called out Nal’drin as the cart reached the center of the outer court. “I need you to begin distributing these to those healthy enough to take up arms.”
Without saying another word, the young leader spun to his right and quickly marched to the far end of the courtyard, near the exit of Dar Mar’Kren. Nal’drin eagerly approached the emissaries of the Unveiled Eye.
Nal’drin stood eye level with the slayers, studying their faces in the pause before he spoke. “You have seen firsthand the work of the Zenari?” he questioned.
“Indeed we have, and it is far worse than what you have seen. You and your people are fortunate to have so many escape with their lives,” replied Kyarl.
“So who are you guys? Some kind of watchmen or something?”
“We are…emissaries…of the Brotherhood of the Unveiled Eye,” answered Kyarl.
“Brotherhood of the Unveiled Eye? What does that even mean?” asked the young king.
“We are the keepers of the Fate Scrolls, an ancient order sworn to the protection of the prophetic writings of the Seraphim,” stated the slayer stoically.
“What are the Fate Scrolls, and who are the Seraphim?” asked Nal’drin.
“The Seraphim are beings from a lost age. Before they vanished, they left behind a series of prophecies, warnings about things to come in the later ages. Those prophecies have been collected through the ages by various peoples, like your hosts the dwarves,” answered Kyarl.
“So the writings of the Gorn Tor…” tried Nal’drin.
“Elbath, the Gorn Tor Elbath,” finished Kyarl. “The answer is yes. Much of what is written on those walls comes from the Fate Scrolls.”
“And you have these scrolls?” asked the inquisitive young king.
“Many of your questions will be answered once we are safely in Tempour, sire. None of these things will matter, though, if we do not get you and your people out of here. Make no mistake, the black dragon and his army are coming, and they will lay waste to this place,” responded Kyarl as he cut off the line of questions.
“I am sorry. There just seems to be so much that I don’t know. Scrolls, dragons, seraphim, gods,” grumbled the young man in frustration.
“There is plenty of time to learn about scrolls, dragons, the seraphim, and God. If you leave with us, it will be early, so you best get some rest tonight,” suggested Kyarl as his companions still remained silent.
The vagabond king nodded in silent agreement. He had so many questions, but it was already getting late. He had not planned to depart so soon. He needed to gather his things and help his people do the same. Even if the dwarves were not coming, he knew that his people would be leaving in the morning. He wasn’t able to quiet his mind, but he kept his mouth shut as he busied himself packing up his things and instructing his people to do the same.
Meanwhile, deep inside the mountain, the council of elders convened in the council chamber. All seventeen of the long beards sat around the circle as they debated their own fate. The council was split, and no consensus was formed. Dominar contended for his people to heed the warning and to flee while Ronnick and others were determined to stay.
“Have any of you actually seen the devastation left in the wake of a dragon? Hmm? Anyone?” Dominar inquired. “This is no small matter and not one that we can afford to allow our pride to misguide us on. Dragons are as cunning as they are cruel, and their might is incomparable. The strength of our people is no match for this wyrm.”
With a deep voice, Zorin boldly interjected, “Then we will call upon the Strength of the Mountain!”
“Yes!” came a chorus of shouts from the elders. “Awaken the giant!”
“I hold the Strength of the Mountain in reverence, but he cannot stand against the shadow drake,” answered Dominar reluctantly.
Outraged at this, a cascade of voices cried out, “Blasphemy!”
“You make the Strength of the Mountain a god, yet you call me the blasphemer? You are either hypocrites or fools,” snapped Dominar indignantly.
Then a calm voice added, “Perhaps we are a bit of both, my friend. If we stay, do we stand any chance against the dragon and his army?”
“No, King Dorn,” Dominar responded, “we do not. It would be perilous against a fire drake alone, and this monster is something far more sinister. This blackened wyrm has seduced and twisted the minds of the people of Zenari. If we stay here, our home will become our tomb.”
The stark reality of the situation hung over them like an ominous cloud, and only after a few minutes had passed did the silence break.
“I think this settles the matter in my mind. Those with families will depart in the morning with the humans for Tempour. If any without families wish to remain, they have my blessing,” declared the king.
“This has always been my home. No one will force me from my home,” barked Ronnick defiantly.
“Then you will die here, my friend,” answered Dominar with glossy eyes and a saddened and soft-
spoken voice.
Some of the council members made their intentions known; others remained speechless as the final council of Dar Mar’Kren was adjourned. After saying good-bye to each other, the dwarves departed the chamber for the last time.
It was settled. They would leave at daybreak. The dwarves were anything but nomadic. Rather, they were predictable, steady, unchanging. For almost seven hundred years, they had called these earthen halls their home. Not many of their kind ventured too far beyond the reach of the Mar’Kren Mountains, aside from a few expeditions. Dominar was one of the few that had, but then again, the Ancient One may have broken the mold when He made ole Dom. Their settled lifestyle created a bit of a challenge for the evacuees because they were not a mobile people. They did not have horses, mules, or bulls. Their human counterparts certainly brought a small stable of horses with them, but the dwarves didn’t even have wagons for them to pull. They did have some small pushcarts, but their capacity was quite limited, and they really were not designed for use outside of the stone halls of Dar Mar’Kren, with their tiny smooth wooden wheels.
The dwarves that were leaving would have to pack light, taking only the things that they could carry for the most part. Prized possessions and family heirlooms had no place on this journey; it was about survival.
In the still darkness of the early morning, dwarf men, women, and children quietly milled about, preparing for departure. Each and every one of them, aside from the children, hung axes from their belts, and they slung their loaded packs onto their backs. Many of them took long deliberate looks as they said good-bye, contemplatively gazing upon the statues lining the stone-paved streets, the flaming stone braziers, and the ornate runes carved into the very halls of their home under the mountain.
Even the men—in fact, particularly the men—felt the weight of the moment. Even the legendary traits of the dwarves, their hardness and resilience, took a bow in this moment, as streams of untapped waters sprang forth from places long locked up. Many of them knew that they would probably never see these halls again. More importantly, they knew that they would never see some of these faces again.
The regiment of dwarves that chose to remain behind made preparations for the defense of Dar Mar’Kren. Weapons, food, and drink were gathered to the courtyard. Iron balls the size of a man’s fist were piled high into the wooden handcarts until they nearly toppled over. The carts were then pushed to the battlements atop the walls overlooking the outer passage. Quietness and a great burden rested heavily upon the brow of all their people.
Nal’drin roused his people in the gray predawn hour. They began loading the surviving wounded into the few wagons that had made the escape. The few supplies that remained were loaded alongside them. The horses were loaded, first the women and children. The young leader made his rounds, ensuring that all of the able-bodied men and women were at least armed with something. Many of their number carried swords or spears while some only had knives or hatchets. It wasn’t much, but if the Zenari chased them down, they would need some way of defending themselves.
Dominar slowly walked away from his family, back toward the entrance of the dwarven hall. He met the steely blue eyes of his old acquaintance and said, “You do not have to do this. This mountain can take care of itself.”
“This has been our home for six hundred and ninety-nine years and my own for more than a hundred and sixty. That has never changed for me. We—I belong here,” replied Ronnick.
“It does not have to end here, my friend,” pleaded Dominar.
“It doesn’t? Perhaps not for you, Dom. You have reasons to carry on,” grumbled Ronnick as he looked off in the distance at Dominar’s family. “The elves have lost their homes, and the men of the plains have lost theirs too. And the dwarves are next? No, it does end here. It will end for those that would run us from our home. We will take them with us.”
“There is a wave of darkness that is washing over the land, and when it hits, it leaves nothing but devastation in its wake. Even the full might of our people could not withstand the force of this evil, not alone,” argued Dom.
“If this soon-coming darkness is about to cover the land, then facing it head-on is the only honorable thing to do. And if my end is what it costs to stand against this tidal wave of wickedness, then it is a price well paid,” declared the commander.
“I admire your heart, but this price is one that you cannot pay! Even if you give your life up in direct opposition to the dragon and his army, it will not change anything. You have read the Gorn Tor Elbath! You have studied the prophecies!” shouted Dominar in desperation.
“Indeed I have. And I have waited long enough to know that there is no cure for this wicked world but for men of courage to stand against it,” answered Ronnick quietly as the hopelessness of his heart was exposed.
Dominar tried one last time by saying, “We still have hope…”
Soberly Ronnick replied with, “I lost the strength to hold on to hope a long time ago. Perhaps it is time for someone who still has that strength left to lead our people. Good-bye, old friend.” That was it. With his head hanging and his eyes on the ground, Ronnick walked away until he disappeared into the mouth of the mountain.
“I must agree with him,” came a familiar voice from behind him.
Dominar was caught off guard and was slightly startled when he heard the voice. He turned to see who it was, and his eyes met a friendly smile.
“Dominar, I also hold onto the hope of a brighter day. But as long as there are dwarves to defend Dar Mar’Kren, then it is my duty to fight alongside them. You understand,” stated King Dorn.
“I do, my king,” said Dominar in a broken voice as moisture blurred his vision.
“Dominar, your loyalty to me and your undying hope and trust in the promises found in the Gorn Tor Elbath serve you and, more importantly, our people well. As king, I confidently confer to you the guardianship of our people. You will act in my stead as the steward of our people,” declared the king as he stretched out his hand.
With eyes wide with surprise, Dom slowly shook his head in disbelief as he watched the stubby pale fist of the king unfold in front of him. Resting in the cupped palm of his hand was the golden signet ring of the dwarven kings.
“My k-king…” stammered Dominar, battered by conflicting emotions.
“Take it! Lead our people. Now go, swiftly! The sun is risen,” interrupted King Dorn as he pointed to the changing sky.
Dominar looked to the sky and saw the changing colors, and when he turned back, the king was gone. There was so much to process, and old Dom felt overwhelmed, but now was not the time. He quickly slid the oversized golden ring onto his right hand, the hand of power and authority. Then he ushered his company of dwarves and men out of Dar Mar’Kren.
Amber hues began to breathe warmth and life into the gray skies. The sun was rising; a new day, a new era was dawning, not just the on the dwarves and the men of Nashia but on all of Aurion.
17 Prophecy
Soft rays of sunlight snuck into the quiet room and caressed the face of the king. He was awakened by the warmth. He opened his eyes and stared at the stone walls and stone floors. He rubbed his eyes, as if it had the power to change what he saw. It was not a dream. He was a world away from the place they used to call home. Trellion was no more. Where is home now?
It was one of the many questions that flooded his yawning mind. He hoped that the day would bring answers, perhaps even clarity. Then as he tried to clear his mind, a salty-sweet aroma teased him. It was not a familiar scent, but the allure was strong. Tua’Liluon rose from his bed and wrapped the clean brown robes around his long frame. The plush material was not much to look at, but what it lacked in style, it made up for in comfort. He slid his feet into a pair of similarly fawn slippers, and he slipped out of the room.
Just a stone’s throw away, the hall bustled with activity as the tables were prepared for breakfast. Wooden bowls full of fruits and breads decorated the tables. The settings were all
laid out. The silverware sat on a varied array of stylish and colorful plates. It was odd because everything was so dark and drab, and then there was the fruit and then these plates. They breathed life into the cold dwelling that seemingly consisted of just stone and wood. It was ironic. It was brilliant.
“Where are the biscuits?” the little old man shouted. “I’m hungry. Let’s get this show on the road!”
“Settle down, or you’ll be gettin’ no biscuits a’tall,” fired back the round little lady in the kitchen.
“Sophie, you wouldn’t!” he said with a hint of trepidation in his voice.
“If you keep rushin’ me, you’ll get nothin’,” she replied with a matter-of-fact look and nod.
Then she disappeared from his line of sight as she waddled back into a different part of the kitchen. The old man stared, as if he were in a trance, through the large window-like opening into the kitchen. Through it, he could see the boar roasting near the flames in the large brick oven. The sweet smell was tantalizing, and the mouth beneath the gray whiskers watered in anticipation.
“What is that absolutely delightful aroma?”
The old fella was startled a bit before he turned to see that Tua’Liluon had been standing behind him. The smile returned to the face of the diminutive man.
“Good morning, King! That smell is the finest glazed bramble boar this side of Aurion,” he boasted.
“When do we get to try this glazed bramble boar, Sir Duncan?” he asked with a friendly smile.
“As soon as Sophie gets my biscuits!” shouted Duncan in her direction.
Her chubby cheeks popped into the kitchen window long enough for her to stick her tongue out at her husband. He simply chuckled at her response.
“She’s a good cook and a better woman,” he told the king with a grin.