by Ben Marshall
Having lowered his arm once more the stranger continued to walk towards the camp, seeming to pay little heed to the frantic actions as Morambeth moved to join his men who had formed into the basic ranks they had been practising over the past week. Swordsmen positioned to protect the archers from this unknown warrior, the Valinian rebels marched slowly towards him. Holding his arms out to his sides in a gesture that clearly showed he intended no direct violence, the stranger continued to advance.
“Stay where you are, or suffer the consequences of entering our domain!” called Rothil in both Valinian and Common, but the stranger continued to ignore his demands. By now there were just a few metres separating the rebels and the unknown soldier, who was quite clearly a powerful mage, causing the ill-trained members to believe he was truly defenceless without the time required to make another incantation before they could strike. Pressing forwards with the intent of forcing him to yield, the soldiers were incredibly surprised when two scimitars appeared in the hands of the attacker. The speed with which he had drawn them from under his cowl was truly remarkable, as where the blades themselves with blue flames dancing along their edges. The action had also pulled back the edges of his garment, revealing silver chain mail under a surcoat of dark red with gold trim and an eagle’s head emblazoned in the centre. Rothil knew that symbol, his mind cast back to several times in his past when he had been told of the Coming, and a great general who had freed the Valinians from their foul enslavement to the Dark Lord. Could this be the warrior? The general had been an Elven pureblood, so it was not unreasonable to assume that he still walked the lands. Little had been heard of him since the start of the Age, yet that was not a reason to doubt that he may be who he appeared.
The initial shock of the appearance of the enchanted blades now dissipating, the foremost members of Morambeth’s force began to advance to within striking distance of the warrior who might or might not be the Elven general, their blades held ready to attack. Though his face was fully immersed in the deep shadows cast by the hood of his cowl, the warrior seemed to be regarding the display with a kind of amusement, as if the pitiful display of bravado was an unfortunate joke.
With wild cries, the warriors attacked, but stopped in shock as the scimitars turned each weapon aside, the stranger moving with speed that would have been thought impossible had the men not seen it for themselves, and they were thankful that Morambeth called for them to halt, motioning for them to move back. Scimitars held defensively before him, the stranger watched Rothil move to the front of his men, apparently unarmed.
“Are you the legendary Katchanga?” asked Morambeth in awed tones with a look of admiration upon his face. The stranger nodded in verification of his identity.
“Indeed I am, Rothil son of Baloran.” The Elf’s voice was unlike any ever before known; even the rumoured tones of the Elven race were vastly different to the warrior’s. Though as musical in nature as the Elven language, it bore none of the connotations. For, while the Elven race was rumoured to remind a listener of softly flowing water when they spoke, Katchanga’s voice brought to Rothil’s mind images of slow-moving molten rock, blending the musical tones with a hard, almost brooding darkness.
“My voice contains a remnant of my haunted past, young Half-blood,” Katchanga responded, seeming to sense the rebel’s surprise at the contrast between his tone and that of the Elven heritage he clearly bore. “Now, I digress from the reason why I have approached your camp.”
“And why have you sought me out, General? Seeking to aid my people as you did once before?” The Elf responded with a laugh, casting into Morambeth’s mind images of rocks tumbling into the molten mix.
“The situation is not the same, and therefore I am not at liberty to engage in such pursuits as you desire of me. I have come instead to warn you of the consequences of your actions.”
“Warn me about what consequences?” Rothil raised an eyebrow as he regarded the Elf he had grown up hearing the exploits of.
“You have seen today how ill-prepared your men are for an attempt at seizing power. Though it is obvious you do not intend to engage your enemy at this time, I can tell that you will never have the desired conditions for your machinations to know success.”
“Why do you say that, Noble Sir?” Hints of anger were creeping into Morambeth’s voice, as he knew that what he heard was true although it made a complete mockery of his vows.
“Because the army of Camentar continues a bloody battle against the fertile lands of Berinan, and as such they are receiving training at a level your own force shall never know. The Men you lead shall always be outnumbered by superior troops, and any attempt at any time will be little more than a suicide march.”
At this revelation, the soldiers gathered around the two eminent warriors began to mutter, and a quick glance was all their leader required to tell that, after that speech, there would never be any regaining them in his army.
“What would you have me do? I cannot simply bury my head and allow the persecution of my people to continue unchallenged!”
“No, no you can’t, but you shall never end this by attacking even if Fate should grant you success against the overwhelming odds. Even if you are successful, Camentar will send more men, for their ruler could never accept such a defeat. If you are successful, the entire Valinian race shall be dealt death by your foe, so what will you have gained?”
“Honour and freedom!” called out one of Rothil’s officers, and he was promptly faced by Katchanga.
“And you would have your family slaughtered for the sake of honour and freedom, two things you can’t take with you when your foe seeks vengeance through the death of your faction?” The officer glared defiantly at the legend that stood before him, before finally dropping his gaze as he realised the absurdity of what he had said.
“You still haven’t answered my question, my lord,” stated Rothil, still silently fuming that he would never be able to fulfil his oaths, “what am I to do?”
“Wait. There are more twists along the path of a man’s destiny than can ever be counted. Nature has granted me the knowledge to see that the time will soon come for you to earn your freedom and honour, without resorting to perpetuating a war that can only ever end one way.”
“When will that time be? How will I earn those things?” The questions flowed swiftly from Rothil’s lips, but Katchanga merely sheathed his scimitars, the blue fire ebbing as the blades drew closer to their scabbards.
“You shall learn when the time comes. I shall say it shall happen soon, but you and I both know that our time frames are different, and who can say for certain at which time a man will reach the crossroads of Fate, for they cannot tell at which speed he travels.”
Without another word, Katchanga brought his hands together, and the opened wall began to groan once more. Turning their heads to face the camp perimeter, all the men watched with awe as the opening was sealed, leaving no trace of the power that had been unleashed. Rothil turned back to face the Elf, feeling another question burn the tip of his tongue, but saw only insubstantial mist where the idol of his youth had been standing, leaving not a footprint to mark his presence.
Part 2 - Enemies Old & New
Six Strangers
15th August, 1190
This is most impossible! For nearly five centuries the Kuhiar have been believed extinct, their tunnels now home to the mountain beasts and the increasing numbers of orcs. Indeed no record exists of any Kuhiar surviving the assault by the Giants of Fire.
Yet today, as I paused for rest at the foot of the mountains, beside the waters of the Kharag, I saw with my own two eyes the body of a Kuhiar. Dead, to be sure, yet at most its life had passed with the onset of summer. It had fallen to orcs, and by the state of it, fairly close to our Hall. What is going on?
I have rechecked the books of Lore, and cannot believe my error. While no record exists of survival, also it is seen that no record exists of the end. All that is revealed in the texts is that the Hall of Shadow
was overrun, but then nothing. It hardly seems possible that the Kuhiar would join with the giants, yet they seem so odd to me anyway that I cannot judge the state of things. I shall continue the studies, and hope that light may yet be shed on the matter.
17th August, 1190
A further four bodies have been found drifting down the Kharag, but it is impossible! I have checked and re-checked all maps, and nowhere along the riverside lands is there record of a settlement besides the Hall I reside in. Only the clan Doomhammer ventured this far to the West. In fact, the nearest recorded Kuhiar clan is a full 300 leagues to the East before I even begin to calculate the distance north. I say again that what is happening is impossible!
As if that were not oddity enough, we have now acquired two travellers who have sought our hospitality as the sun sank behind the peaks. Though this can hardly be construed as strange in its own right, what with the Human merchants that seek us from Barid and Lebruskt (for so they name their lands), what is abnormal is that neither is a tradesman. If you can believe this, for I surely cannot, they call themselves “Archaeologists”! Apparently they come to the ranges seeking the “Lost Race”, as they call the Kuhiar. One is of Mannish kin, more I cannot say for he speaks seldom, but he bears many similarities to the Lebrusktan horsemen. The other, would you believe it, is an Elf of the Enchantments! Of all the Elven nations, a Fire-wielder has sought out the Hall of Clan Doomhammer.
I can scarcely believe my fortune! The Loremasters of the Fire-wielders are among the most renowned in all the lands! Perhaps this “archaeologist” can shed light on my problem, before the orcs reach our territory. Scouts have been sent out by the venerable Brietrin, but have found no sign of our foe save the black-fletched shafts protruding from the Kuhiar corpses. It is almost as if some presence has set itself against us, masking its movements with magical devilry.
18th August, 1190
It would seem that a new faction of orcs has risen to the surface, for we have found several of the humanoids dead in a crude and thoroughly ineffective barracks. They appear to have been met by resistance from the Kuhiar, and paid the price for the deaths they have caused recently. The symbol branded upon the orc-scum chests is unlike any I have ever known, for it appears to be a man-like creature with 4 curved horns. No such creature exists to my knowledge, so I assume that the horns are part of a helmet. I have found no record of orcs ever wearing helmets before, so either this band has found itself a smart leader (unlikely) or they have come under the dominion of a power the likes of which we Dwarves have never known. If that should be the case then may the Gods be merciful, for we shall soon join them if the band should come to our Hall.
I have shown the marking to the Fire-wielder, who has requested that I call him Lonariel, and he is as confused and perturbed as I am. However he has revealed to me some light on the appearance of Kuhiar within the ranges once more. It would seem that the assault by the Giants forced them into exile, and so they followed us into the West of the Mountains. He claims that the reason they disappeared from knowledge is that they believe the fall of their home to be down to trusting the other clans. Apparently they believe that they were betrayed by their kinsmen, and so have forsaken all ties with us proper Dwarves. I know the Kuhiar are…odd, but I never thought I’d see the day when a nation of Dwarven heritage would believe us to forsake our own. It’s a pity, because the Kuhiar were damn fine crafters. In fact my Grandfather’s sturdy armour is Kuhiar-wrought, and even after nearly two centuries of neglect it still retains a magnificent shine. How the Elf came to know so much of such matters he will not say, brushing off my question with “ask no such questions and you shall hear no lies, Master Dwarf”. His manner is not disrespectful as he mentions it, so I have reached the conclusion that the method is a painful memory. We of Clan Doomhammer know of such memories ourselves, so I have contented myself to respect his silence and have not pursued the matter. He was talkative of other subjects, however, and I have learned much today about the discoveries of the Loremasters within the nation of the Fire-wielders. Indeed Lonariel and I spent the remainder of the day in conversation. I can only hope the coming days are as productive, and that the menace behind the orcs is unmasked before it is too late.
19th August, 1190
More orcs have been found, however this time they were attacked by our scouts. They had moved nearly a league into our territory! As you can guess Brietrin was filled with anxiety by this dire news, and has ordered that the military are mobilised. Unfortunately there was no stopping my grandfather, Ollin, and he moved out with a battalion come mid-morning. He always was a stubborn old fool, and wouldn’t pay my warnings any heed. “A Dwarf’s gotta do what a Dwarf’s gotta do” was his main brush-off line, though I believe “I ain’t stoppin’ ‘til I can’t fit no more notches on me axe” made several appearances. Though I shall never deny that he is my grandfather, it is a constant aggravation that his speech is so plain and crude. Now he’s gone I can’t help but feel guilty for my attitude. He never became a learned Dwarf, clinging to the old ways, yet to his credit his intuition was often correct, despite what scientific reason would dictate. I pray to the Father of Dwarves that my grandfather returns to me, for without his guidance I don’t know what will befall us. He is regarded as one of the wisest of all the Elders, despite the others all having learned arts besides axe and hammer wielding, and many of the clan come to him for advice. Even Brietrin himself has been known to seek him out, such is his reputation.
I spoke with Lonariel again this evening, though my heart was far from in it. I guess my melancholy mood was more obvious than I would have hoped. No Dwarf likes to show where his weakness lies, but inexplicably I do not find myself forlorn that the Elf knows how I feel in this dark time. In fact, his discovery of my disposition has proven to be quite refreshing. As well as a great intellect, the Loremaster is in possession of surprising wisdom. I would even go so far as to say that his wisdom is a match for Grand Seer Halluvalen, the Gold Dragon Sage from the North-Eastern ranges within the realm known as Lebruskt. A brief report of the words he spoke would not do Lonariel’s sagacity true justice, so I shall now record as best I can recall the full transcript for his part.
“I sense your mind is plagued, Master Dwarf. The Dwarven race is deservedly reputed to be able to bear any burden, by why force one upon yourself when there are those around you who would share the load?” To which I responded that some burdens are mine own, though I appreciated the sentiment.
“Well such is your decision to make. May I hazard a guess, however, that your sorrow stems from your grandfather bearing arms and moving to face the orcs?” Well naturally I was shocked that he would know such a thing, and enquired as to his source of information.
“The miners are speaking of little else save the mobilisation of Brietrin’s warriors. Your grandfather was well-respected throughout the clan, and recent events have left them unsure as to the chances of success. No one wants to lose him to your foe, and so your grief is not unshared.” I responded to this by then asking what he suggested I do, because I could not be expected to forget my fears so soon.
“And I do not expect you to. I expect you to realise the best hope for your grandfather is to uncover what iniquity aids the foe he shall soon face. Only if they are brought out from under the shroud that masks them will the Dwarven axes cleave them.” Indeed he was correct, and I could only nod in accord.
I later enquired as to how he had received the small scar that traverses his left brow, the only blemish he appears to have upon his fair skin. I was quite unprepared for the tale that followed, and shall endeavour to chronicle it as the parts are revealed to me. However, I have not time to record any of it at this late hour, and shall begin as soon as I am able.
20th August, 1190
I realised today that I have paid little heed to the Human archaeologist, and so I endeavoured today to learn more about him. No small task, for as I have mentioned he speaks seldom. Despite my professional respect for Lona
riel it turns out that Farim, for so the Human is called, is very akin to a Dwarf, and as a result I have formed quite a bond with him. Many of the miners and whelps have bonded with him, and commented to me early this morning that he almost matched the miners pint for pint. Well this is a rarity sure enough, and I hastened to meet him and learn more. Despite a surprisingly mild headache, he was none the worse for wear, and I openly congratulated him on his performance.
It turns out that Farim isn’t actually an archaeologist, at least not by the proper meaning of the title. He is more of a hired hand, who had been recruited by Lonariel as added aid in case unexpected dangers present themselves while on the journey to the Hall of Shadow, should it still be possible to enter through the gates. He also mentioned that he would join the Elf within the hall should signs indicate that the Loremaster’s safety is in question. I then asked him about his culture, because my research has indicated that Lebruskt is unlike any other Human realm, not least because the inhabitants take no action against the dragons that dwell within the ranges. I suppose the best way to describe the nation’s people is as a strange blend of Dwarfs, Baridians and the more placid Men of the West. They are heavy users of light cavalry within their military, taking advantage of the speed and mobility that is provided to allow a great advantage on the rolling plains that the Lebrusktan Ring shuts away from the outside world. The mountainous ring has not been without its disadvantages, however, because it has been the cause of an “us-them” attitude, which is the reason for Farim’s near silence.