Gifts of Vorallon: 01 - The Final Warden

by Thomas Cardin

  To his amazement, however, Ralli stepped up to Lorace and wrapped his arms around his waist, pulling him close in a tight embrace.

  “What is happening, Lorace?” Tornin asked as the others stood mute; the dwarves in clear surprise and Oen in bewilderment.

  “Ralli is the father of my dwarven teacher, Taggi. Ralli is declaring me to be his son, adopting me,” Lorace said as he leaned over to return the dwarf’s embrace as best he could from his awkward position. The act felt like hugging a boulder, so massive and solid was Ralli’s form.

  The dwarf finally released him and stepped back, wiping tears from his eyes with the back of a broad hand.

  “Who told you of your son’s death?” Lorace asked with proper inflection toward one’s respected father. He was pursuing a line of questioning that he hoped would connect him with someone, anyone, who knew him or his family.

  “I do not know, the song came through the stone, it could have originated from untold leagues distant.”

  Lorace’s shoulders sagged as that possible avenue to his memories closed, but another opened up as he recalled Taggi teaching him about this method of the dwarves to communicate over great distances by finding an outcropping of bedrock and tapping on it with a hammer. The dwarves were extremely sensitive to the ensuing vibrations, more so if the listener has his bare feet to the bedrock of the world. The dwarves long ago formed a complex language of tapping rhythms to communicate even detailed messages from afar.

  “We offer our oaths and protection on your journey to our home,” the largest and youngest dwarf, Petor, said to them. “But we still must determine which of us is to stay. Ralli volunteered, since he was a witness to the previous ritual that created Brakke Zahn, but Thryk and Quig do not feel this is fair. Will you bear witness to our vranka?”

  Lorace nodded agreement while the words ‘Brakke Zahn’ tickled at his childhood memory; it was dwarven for Heart of Destiny. It was the word ‘vranka’ that opened up more recollections about the dwarven people. “I will abide by your throw, but are there no men of Halversome who are suitable to manage the forge?”

  Thryk shook his head. “Indeed there are several men who I have trained in the art of the forge, but they themselves are all in Vlaske K’Brak undergoing further training in our methods of mining and refining.”

  “What are they doing?” Tornin whispered.

  “Each dwarf bears an iron device with their mark upon it,” said Lorace. “It is one of the first gifts of the forge that their father’s make them. It is a small tapering spike and all are identical in size and length, only the mark is unique to each dwarf. They each drop their vranka onto a stone and the one which lands with its point falling closest to the center of the stone is the winner, or in this case the one furthest from the center is the loser. It is a simple gambling game they play, but very important to the dwarves identity.”

  Thryk stepped forward and tapped an amber paving stone on the street with his boot, signifying the playing field and each dwarf pulled forth their vranka from various places about their persons. They stood over the stone holding their iron spikes by their points with the broad flat end hanging downward. It was upon this flat end, the head of the spike, that their own individual sigil was stamped. The tips of their fingers all met over the center of the stone at a height equal to the shoulder of the shortest of the dwarves.

  When all were in position Lorace called out, “Vranka Chok!”

  As one, the dwarves released the spikes which fell upon the stone and struck one another with almost musical tones. The dwarves pressed down over the fall of them, eagerly watching as they settled into their final positions. Lorace recalled that there was meaning as well in how the spikes contacted one another in their final lay. Their owners often read prophetic meaning into spikes which overlap one another or bounce entirely out of the play field of the designated stone.

  Here the final outcome was simple: Quig’s vranka had skittered to the very edge of the paving stone, assigning him the duty of attending Halversome’s forge while the rest took up the journey. Though the lay of the vranka was clear, the dwarves still turned toward Lorace and patiently awaited his proclamation as the witness to the throw.

  “Quig’s vranka lies outermost, he shall stay.” Lorace announced to them after dutifully examining the results with his nose down at the level of the ground.

  There was no argument or further discussion. For the dwarves, the decision was accepted as final, and they retrieved their individual spikes from the stone before gathering their gear and standing at the ready to depart. Quig stepped under the eaves of the open forge and dropped his pack upon a clear workbench before turning and embracing his younger brother, Petor, in farewell.

  Oen stepped up to Quig, once the brother’s embrace was finished and thanked him for his service to Halversome during this time.

  “It is my pleasure, Guardian,” Quig said to him with a slight nod of his head. “I look forward to the bearer’s return and the arrival of Prince Wralka’s cohort. The streets of Halversome will shudder with their tread, and the foes without will surely flee in terror for their lives.”

  Outside the forge, Lorace bade Tornin show his sword to Thryk and Ralli. The guardsman unsheathed Defender of the Youngest and held it out before him, one hand under the flat of the blade and the other under the long, leather wrapped hilt.

  “Can you identify the black metal of this blade?” Lorace asked them. Their murmured curiosity drew Quig and Petor from the forge to examine the sword as well.

  “It is no metal of Vorallon,” Thryk said after tapping the blade with a fingernail and listening to the resulting ring. “It sings with a language unknown to us.”

  “This in itself is not strange,” Ralli added. “Metal rocks have fallen from the skies which are similarly alien to us, though for the most part they are still a form of iron or other metal we are familiar with. This, however, seems as unlike regular metal as godstone is.”

  “Perhaps it is a form of adamantite,” Petor suggested.

  “What is that?” Tornin asked.

  “Adamantite is the strongest metal we have found,” Thryk replied. “It has properties of malleability and hardness which are unequaled by anything other than godstone. It sings its own language as well, but it is the rarest of metals. It is typically silvery white, though some has been found to be bright red in color, so black could be a possibility. I am sorry we cannot give you a clear answer.”

  “I know at least one who can,” said Oen.

  “The Truthseeker?” Lorace asked.

  “He is one; another is Adwa-Ki,” Oen answered. “She is gifted similarly to my brother, she sees the lore and function of that which she touches.”

  “It does not trouble me,” Tornin shrugged after he sheathed the sword. “If I am meant to know then I shall, but until then I am quite satisfied with knowing it is well blessed.”

  Oen patted Tornin on the shoulder. “That it is, indeed.”

  Before departing, Lorace and his companions presented their packs to the dwarves and received their various nods of approval.

  “We have everything you will need besides food, warm clothing, and appropriately sized blankets and bedrolls for yourselves,” Ralli said to them as they turned their steps toward one of the arching bridges that spanned the water channel. “We are rivermen who ply the Silarne from where the headwaters tumble from the slope of Kur K’Tahn, to the walls of Halversome. We are well girded for the journey.”

  “Ascent of the Sky, the great mountain beneath which Vlaske K’Brak lays,” Lorace translated the dwarven name of the tallest peak of the Stormwalls.

  “Ralli, can you tell me about Brakke Zahn? Is it the godstone weapon you saw forged before?” Lorace asked the eldest dwarf, his new adoptive father.

  “Of course,” the gray-haired dwarf replied as they approached the narrow River Gate piercing the east wall just to the north of where the water channel twisted into the city. “Brakke Zahn is the sword of the paladin Si
r Rindal of the Order of the Lady, it was forged almost thirty years ago—the finest sword the world has ever seen. It is purported to be able to cut through anything, including any blade that is wielded against it.”

  The name of the sword and its wielder pulled at Lorace’s memory, but nothing came to the front of his mind except the smiling image of a handsome young man with golden yellow hair.

  “It is with Sir Rindal that my son, Taggi, departed Vlaske K’Brak, to serve the Lady of Destiny alongside the paladin. Until seeing you stand before me, Lorace, I have never beheld another man to whom the stone of the world called out so strongly.”

  Lorace searched his memory of the fallen within the temple hall of his home, and the image of the blonde man was not among them. “Do you know the fate of this Sir Rindal?”

  Ralli shook his head. “No, such was their oath to each other, I have always assumed that the attack that claimed my son’s life took his as well.”

  “I do not think so,” Lorace said with a slight shake of his head. “I remember his face, it was not among the victims of the demon, but there is more of the memory which remains hidden from me. I do not yet know how I survived.”

  They arrived at the River Gate where the guardsmen on duty assured Oen and his party that there had been no attempt by the Zuxran force to cross the lake to the northern shore. Oen looked pointedly at Lorace and raised an eyebrow.

  “They are all still upon the south battlefield, erecting their encampment,” Lorace informed him after a moment of extending the awareness of his sight.

  When Lorace stepped out to the shore of the lake the chill of winter once again embraced him. He had forgotten that the warmth of Halversome was keeping it at bay. They all took a moment to pull their cloaks about themselves before proceeding along the narrow causeway that separated the lake from the base of the gray stone walls.

  Lorace looked to the south with his sight while he walked, to where the Zuxrans were setting up their large camp well beyond bow range of the tiered battlements. They were erecting a single large tent that was striped in red and orange with the emblem of the black drake stitched to its sides. He pushed his sight in closer, willing it into proximity with this significant tent and there he found the leader of the Zuxrans, a tall, dark bearded man who stood scowling toward the walls of Halversome. Beside him was a thin, homely man in brown robes. Lorace pushed his awareness in closer upon them, trying to pick up the words the leader was saying, but his toe caught on a stone, nearly spilling him into the lake before Tornin’s arm was about him in a secure grip. His distant awareness broke, and he blushed his thanks toward Tornin. He vowed to practice more with his sight until he could better watch where he was walking while splitting his awareness between himself and some remote place.

  “I took a look at their leader. He is a most unhappy individual,” Lorace explained to his friends before they continued along the path toward the stone quay.

  “I am quite comforted that your gift will allow us to keep abreast of their activities during our journey,” Oen told him, taking his arm to help guide him while a portion of his senses were focused elsewhere.

  Lorace examined the Zuxran encampment for a while longer until they arrived at the quay where an odd looking boat was moored. It was a rectangular barge-like craft with low sides and a flat bottom about three man-heights in length. The prow of the boat was tapered to a wedge. It was built of fine-grained timber planks, dovetailed together as artfully as the stones of Halversome’s walls.

  Nearby was a small stable with two young girls in attendance. Watching over the girls as they combed and tended to a pair of rugged looking ponies were four guardsmen who were keeping a sharp eye on the Zuxrans far across the lake.

  “They should all get within the walls,” Oen said with concern.

  “Pardon our putting any at risk, Guardian,” Ralli said. “We arrived just before dawn and stabled our ponies before we were alerted to the presence of an enemy. Quig rushed out this morning at the ringing of the alarm bell and arranged that the ponies merely be ready for our departure, which is a good thing because they were about to be taken around to the stockyard within the north gate. We did not intend that any young persons be exposed to danger.”

  Ralli collected the draft ponies and dismissed the guards and the two girls with his thanks. Petor and Thryk worked together in close coordination to pole the boat over to a stone ramp that descended into the lake beside the quay. Once the craft’s bottom rubbed the stone beneath it, Petor hopped down into the shallow water and Thryk handed him a thick wooden wheel he had removed from a compartment in the aft end of the craft. Petor affixed the hub of the wheel to a protrusion below the waterline of the boat and locked it in place with a hinged metal pin, then circled around the craft to attach a second wheel to the opposite side. Thryk next pulled up a long tang from the floor of the boat, and together they attached beneath the bow of the craft. Once the tang was in place, Petor attached a front axle and two additional wheels.

  By this time Ralli had brought the ponies down the ramp and turned them about on either side of the wooden tang to begin attaching harness and tackle that Thryk handed him from the storage compartment. Within a few moments, the dwarven rivermen had transformed their water craft into a large wagon. With the ponies hitched, Ralli led them up the ramp, drawing the wagon out of the water.

  Ralli smiled at Lorace’s obvious amazement about the transformation of the river craft. “The ponies will pull us up the road to Vlaske K’Brak faster than we can pole upriver. They ride along with us in the boat for the trip down.”

  “You could not have been on the river last night though, you would not have heard Thryk’s sending,” Lorace said.

  “No indeed,” said the gray haired dwarf, “we had caught a very fine mud-fish which we wanted to cook for our supper, so we came ashore and let the ponies graze beneath the Keth while we roasted our catch. Either way we would have been here to see you begin your journey for it was downriver we were headed with our cargo of iron and coal. Destiny is not so easily thwarted by chance.”

  Lorace nodded at the dwarves sensibility as he handed his pack up into the wagon. The mention of destiny caused him to remember a point of curiosity he had earlier. “Heart of Destiny is the name of Sir Rindal’s godstone sword. I am aware that destiny is very important to the brothers of the stone. Who gave his sword the name, Brakke Zahn?”

  “Destiny is important to everyone, our people simply go to great lengths to try to comprehend it,” Ralli said as he helped pull Lorace and Tornin up into the wagon, one of them grasping each of his massive arms. “But to answer your question, the blade of Sir Rindal was named at its creation. Vorallon called it out to us during the Ritual of the Forge, just as he shall for your godstone once it is forged. It is always this way in the hundreds of years since the first among us carved out our halls and exposed the great forge stone. It is there that the spirit of Vorallon heats the godstone, and through the hammer blows of the Forgemaster, wills it into the shape of its destiny.”

  “So all godstone weapons of legend have been forged only within the heart of Vlaske K’Brak?” Oen asked as they pulled him aboard the wagon.

  “Yes, it is the task of our people, given unto us by Vorallon himself,” Petor said with a thrust of his chest.

  “Who is this Forgemaster? Is he the leader of the dwarves?” Lorace inquired, as Ralli took up the reigns of the ponies and clucked to them. The ponies surged forward against their harness and the wagon jarred into motion.

  “The Forgemaster is chosen anew for each Ritual of the Forge from among the dwarves who have attained the rank of Master Smith. Chosen with the vranka thrown upon the great forge stone itself,” Thryk informed them.

  “Thryk is a master smith himself now, he will participate in the vranka,” Petor told them all, causing Thryk to square his shoulders in a gesture of acceptance to his fate.

  “I will accept the honor if it should fall to me,” Thryk said with a hint of a smile twitch
ing at his beard.

  From the far side of the lake, in front of his newly erected command tent, General Moyan and his brother Hethal looked on, watching the group leave the city and depart.

  “They will return, brother,” Hethal told the fuming Moyan.

  “Oh, now you are going to speak with me?” Moyan said, furious with his brother’s complete silence to all his questions as they watched the party across the lake.

  “I am sorry, I could not. The one we seek was listening.”

  “From the far side of this lake? All right, explain it to me again,” Moyan said, his annoyance clipping each word short. “The stranger we need to capture to open these gates was in that group that just left?”

  “Yes, and we have to let him leave,” Hethal said in calming, sensible tones. “He must be allowed to go among the dwarves in the mountains to the east and return, only then will he have what we need.”

  “So he returns with a treasure?” Moyan prompted, sneering at Hethal’s effort to soothe him.

  “A treasure like no other. With it we shall see Scythe saved and our own salvation. You will know joy like never before.”

  “But in the meantime I have to sit out here and wait,” Moyan made a gesture that took in the whole of their newly erected encampment. “I have to keep these cutthroats from turning on one another during that time and I must make no attempt to breach those walls.”

  “Exactly so, brother. Any man of us who assails those walls will burn to ash before he can scream.”

  “You knew we would fail to gain entry this morning, did you not?” Moyan asked with renewed exasperation. “You knew that Scythe’s man would fail.”

  “It was one of two possibilities I foresaw. Either way, we would have had to allow that man to flee. This path is better for all of us. Many of your men would have burned if we had gotten within the city. There is one who is strongly gifted within, it is she who would have burned us, and still will if we assail them. We would have been forced to withdraw. These are the possible futures I have seen. Only this path leads to the most surviving members of your army and the greatest of our successes.”