by S. C. Stokes
Faced with the destructive nature of the stone, Syrion was unsure of how to proceed. His desire to learn more of the artifact mattered little with the threat it posed by simply being near them. It could drain the life from them both while they slept, and they might not even notice until it was too late, slowly drifting off into a fatigued slumber from which they might never wake.
Kalifae’s voice brought him back to the present: “It can’t stay here with us—it could kill us both. Leave it on the plains. It will be safe there and so will we, here. We can study it as we choose and return here to safety when our studies have run their course.”
Syrion glanced from the stone to the portal still open behind him and knew that Kalifae’s counsel was sound. Reluctantly he took the cloth from her outstretched hand, re-wrapped the stone and gingerly pushed it through the portal.
“Excellent—we’ll be much safer without that stone draining the life from us,” Kalifae said as she swept her arm before her.
The portal flickered and faded from existence. As it disappeared Syrion felt a surge of relief wash through his being as the draining tension he had felt constantly since his arrival also ceased entirely.
“What now?” Syrion asked. “When do we begin our studies?”
“Soon, Syrion. But first you must bathe—no offense but you smell like you haven’t seen water in days.”
Syrion sniffed at his shoulder and drew back immediately. The scent of sweat and horses assailed his nostrils, recalling the hasty journey from Amendar to the city of the Adal. He spoke sheepishly: “I see your point. Is there a river or spring nearby that I might use?”
“Of course.” The sorceress pointed into the dense undergrowth. “Just head straight in that direction and listen for the river. You can’t miss it. Just watch out for the elarvarus.”
“The elarvarus?” Syrion raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, the name means ‘water serpent’ in my people’s tongue.”
“Water serpent? You have to be kidding me.”
“Oh it’s no joke—they are as long as three men with a body as thick as your leg. If you aren’t careful an elarvarus will crush the life out of you and eat you for lunch.” Syrion studied Kalifae’s expression for some sign that she might be joking, but the woman’s cheerful expression was difficult to read.
“What exactly am I to do if I come face-to-face with an Elarvarus?”
“What should you do if you come face to face with a giant water serpent?” Kalifae asked aloud. “Well, I would suggest running, and quickly too—you won’t out-swim it.” The sorceress laughed as she headed into the raised shack, leaving a very unsure Syrion standing at the edge of the clearing.
Syrion shook his head, trying to clear his mind of serpents and resolving to bathe in the shallowest part of the river he could find.
Chapter 17
The gates of the Everpeak
It had been an emotional journey for Ferebour. The mountain he had once called home now stood before him—a towering symbol of Dwarven resolve, the Everpeak seemed almost to pierce the heavens as it reached into the clouds. From without there was little, apart from its immense natural grandeur, to separate it from the other peaks that formed the Teeth of the Desert, the mountain range that stretched from ocean to ocean across Sevalorn’s wide expanse.
The only passage through the range was the Vernaldhum, the immense valley that joined the Empire of Andara in the North to the Jagatan Desert in the south—the sovereign territory of Khashish.
A traveler through the Vernaldhum would soon find the wide road leading toward the Everpeak and the Kingdom of the Dwarves. Within their vast mountain range the Dwarves had mined and tunneled for millennia, creating a vast underground Kingdom.
Safe from the prying eyes of their neighbors, the Dwarves had honed their craftsmanship until they were artisans without equal in stone, steel and precious metals. Dwarven blades were exceptionally well crafted, and highly sought after by those who could both appreciate their quality and muster the small fortune required to acquire one.
The Dwarves also profited from the trade that flowed through their realm, their position on the Vernaldhum ensuring that those who wished to pass through must deal with the Dwarves who called the mountains their home.
Home. The thought struck Ferebour as strange. Indeed he had been born here, but Valaar had been his home for the past fifty years. Exile had broken his young spirit, and not content to live in the shadow of his old home, Ferebour had traveled south.
The young dwarf labored, shoeing horses and sharpening tools for farmers in exchange for his food and lodging. Slowly but surely Ferebour had put distance between himself and the painful memories of his past. Eventually he had found himself in Khashish, at the southernmost point of Sevalorn, staring at the ocean.
Dwarves and water do not mix, but Ferebour saw the ebbing waves as freedom from the failures of his past. To save his fare, Ferebour labored as a sculptor, and his skill in stone found favor among the nobility of Khashish. Ferebour eventually purchased a berth on a merchant vessel and made his way to Valaar.
Far from the Everpeak, Ferebour had been free to forge his own destiny by the sweat of his brow. The simple life suited him far more than his royal station had.
All that changed the day he was hired to sculpt a statue for an aspiring captain in the ranks of the King’s Guard. As Dariyen admired the statue of his father, he rested a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder and spoke words that would change Ferebour’s life forever. “Certainly the finest stonework I’ve ever seen, Master Dwarf. Would you be interested in working on something a little larger?”
A week later he’d found himself in the cavernous tunnel system below Belnair. Little did he know that it was a path that would eventually lead him back to where he stood today, standing before the elaborate entryway of the Everpeak.
Five decades had passed but the mountain remained unchanged.
Well, almost unchanged. Ferebour thought. Tharadin Ironheart, the stubborn dwarf whose firm heart and iron will had led the Dwarves for three centuries, was gone, slain in the valley Ferebour had just passed through. It was a difficult thought to process—compared to the short-lived humans of the surrounding Kingdoms, Tharadin was as enduring as the mountain he had ruled from. Now he was gone.
When the northern Kingdoms had been drawn to war against the Everpeak it was Tharadin himself who stood in the breach. The mighty King had fallen, purchasing his people’s survival with his life.
With the battle won, the Dwarves retreated within their mountain sanctuary to mourn the cost of their victory. Syrion Stormborn departed when his services were no longer required, and the Everpeak had been sealed. No dwarf ventured out and no visitors were to be permitted entry to its halls until the Ironheart was laid to rest. When a dwarf died, the duty of attending to his funerary rights fell to his firstborn. Ferebour was the first and only son of the Ironheart, and he would not fail in his duty again—he crossed the Boundless Sea to perform the rite.
Ferebour raised his gauntleted fist and rapped on the Black Iron gates of the Everpeak.
A voice called out from high above: “The Everpeak is sealed.”
“Not to me, it isn’t. Open the gates,” Ferebour commanded.
“Who are you?”
“Ferebour Ironheart. Do not make me ask again.”
Silence descended on the Vernaldhum. For several long minutes Ferebour stood before the gates while doubt gnawed at his soul. Will the gates open? It was not the first time in his journey that the thought had crossed his mind. I was a fool to come so far. Would the icy grasp of exile deny a son his duties? Would exile deny him the chance to bid farewell to his father? Even as the possibility had plagued him, Ferebour had not managed to prepare himself for the rejection he might face here, in this moment. The pain he had suppressed for five decades came flooding back in a tsunami of emotion that threatened to sweep the dour dwarf off his feet.
Ferebour began to turn away, but at that moment he h
eard the grinding of steel on steel as the heavy gates swung open. He approached the opening portal and for the first time in five decades, Ferebour Ironheart entered the Everpeak.
Passing a speechless guard, Ferebour spoke quietly but firmly: “Where are they gathered?”
“In the throne room, your . . .” The guard’s voice tapered off as he was unsure how to treat the exiled heir of the Iron Mountain.
“’Ferebour’ will do.”
“They are in the throne room, Ferebour. The clans have gathered. Do you wish me to show you the way?”
“That won’t be necessary. I remember the way.”
“Of course . . . If you need anything . . . you have but to ask and the Stonehands will answer. We will never forget what your father did for us.”
Ferebour nodded, unsure of what to say, and began the long up-hill trudge to the throne room.
After a lengthy uphill hike of several hours, Ferebour could hear the chatter as he approached the throne room. The two Ironguard who manned the doors recognized Ferebour and opened the heavy throne room doors. Voices spilled into the hallway—a hundred conversations at once.
The throne room was packed to capacity, their armor bearing the markings of a dozen different clans. Stonehands, Gemcutters, Ironfists and Bronzebeaters, to name a few. But there were other dwarves whose sigils he could not recall ever having seen.
Those nearest the doors turned to see who was being admitted. As their eyes settled on Ferebour they went silent. Ferebour was the very image of his father, so even those who had never met him recognized him immediately—it was as if a ghost walked among them. Silence rolled over the room as Ferebour walked through their midst.
Dwarves shuffled against each other to try and clear a path before him, and Ferebour could feel the energy in the air. The tension in the room was wound tight, like the torsion in a catapult before it is released. And then he realized why. The Black Iron Throne of the Everpeak was not empty.
Torgen Ironfist, a distant kinsman of Ferebour, rested heavily in the seat of power. Apparently Torgen believed this made him next in line to rule the Dwarven Kingdom. The sight of another on the throne was not unexpected—Ferebour himself had no expectation of an inheritance. The sight simply unsettled him as even in his long absence Ferebour could not imagine another dwarf occupying the throne.
Dwarves enjoyed much longer lives than their human neighbors. Had Tharadin not fallen in battle he could have been expected to live for another hundred years beyond the two centuries he had already served. This longevity had allowed the kingdom to ignore the issue of succession until now. An exiled heir, and no other living issue.
All waited for either party to break the silence.
Torgen was first to break. “Ferebour, you were exiled from the Everpeak. Your return now is most poorly timed, indeed.”
“Poorly timed?” Ferebour asked. “How so?”
“The clans have gathered to choose a new King. Your presence here threatens to disturb those discussions, and to cause division where there need not be any.”
Ferebour detested politics, but his position as an advisor to Tristan had made him privy to more than he would have cared for. Ferebour could sense Torgen jockeying for position with his carefully chosen words.
“Do not demean me, Torgen. You attribute duplicity to my deeds where there is none. I am here at my Father’s request, summoned by Syrion Listar, who made my father’s last wishes very clear. I am here in deference to the Iron King—I’m not here to divide his people nor detract from his legacy. I have come to attend to his last rites, and after I have performed the Kirin Tarnor I will depart without further action.”
A series of muffled whispers broke out throughout the chamber. All eyes turned to Torgen expectantly. When he did not speak, Ferebour continued: “What have you done, Torgen?”
Torgen’s response was slow, almost fearful. “When a month passed and you did not arrive, I administered the Kirin Tarnor. Tharadin was interred within the mountain several days ago.”
Ferebour could not believe his ears. Every day for weeks Ferebour had spurred himself on, knowing that he would be able to look upon his father’s face one more time. Every thought, every hope in his being was that in administering the Kirin Tarnor he would heal, at least in part, the rift that existed between them. Rage surged through his being.
“You did what?!” Ferebour demanded angrily as he stormed toward the throne. The nearby dwarves froze, unsure of how they should react.
“His body was beginning to fade. I administered the Kirin Tarnor so that he could be interred before that process set in.”
Ferebour was implacable. “I think not. You administered the Kirin Tarnor to gain legitimacy for your claim, Torgen—nothing else. You’ve stolen my birthright and shattered the traditions of our people.”
“You are an exile,” Torgen answered gruffly. “They are not your people.”
“Exile or not, they are my people, and in our history the rites of the Kirin Tarnor have never been usurped, nor passed over. Not for an exile, nor for anyone else. Even an exile is recalled for this duty. Neither has the right to succession ever been questioned when living descendants of the King remain alive.”
Torgen leapt to his feet. “That is only because a King has never had an exile for a son before.”
“This exile saved your ungrateful life,” Ferebour declared.
“How do you figure that?” Torgen answered, all pretenses abandoned as his derisive tone cut through the chamber.
“Syrion Listar, the sorcerer who brought Songrilah to your aid and risked his life to save our people. Where do you think he came from? Do you even know who he is?”
Torgen was speechless and Ferebour pressed his advantage. “He hails from Valaar. He is younger brother to Tristan Listar, first of the new Kings of Valaar. I have fought beside Tristan more times than I can count, so when I heard of the threat you faced I importuned him for his aid, and it was given.” Ferebour paused briefly to let his words sink in. “Even in exile, my influence saved your pernicious, scheming life, along with the lives of everyone you love and all you hold dear.
“I did not come for the Kingdom. I came for my father. Now, seeing that you would so easily cast aside our traditions in order to take his throne I see that my visit was just in time.”
“In time for what?” Torgen challenged. His position of power was evaporating with every passing second.
“—In time for every dwarf here to bear witness, that I, Ferebour Ironheart, first and only son of Tharadin Ironheart, do present myself before the clans as the only true claimant for the Black Iron Throne.” The assembly could not help but see in him the likeness of his father as he called Torgen to account. Murmurs grew to a roar through the hall.
“’Only claimant,’ my bronze beard!” Torgen shouted over the din. “I have presented my claim already and the clans have gathered to ratify it.”
“Your claim is irrelevant, Torgen.”
“It is not. We are kin to the Ironheart—every dwarf in here knows that.”
“Oh, it is not irrelevant because of your lineage, Torgen. Nor is it because of your actions, which have been opportunistic and reprehensible. It is irrelevant because, having been denied the Kirin Tarnor, I will only settle for one other rite—the Kirin Ankor!”
The room went deathly still and Ferebour continued: “Your claim is irrelevant because you will not be alive to make it.”
The statement shook Torgen but this time he recovered more quickly. “You challenge me to single combat, Ferebour? I have served in the Ironguard for longer than you have been alive. You are a fool.”
“You mean you have served in a ceremonial position for five decades and have grown soft. If you were my equal, perhaps my father would still be alive. I would not have allowed him to be slain on my watch.”
“You dishonor me, Ferebour.”
“You dishonor yourself with your actions! Will you accept the rite? Or will you relinquish your claim?�
�
“I accept,” said Torgen solemnly. Then he snarled: “I would tell you that you will come to regret this day, but you will not live to do so.”
“Excellent,” said Ferebour. “We will return to this place tomorrow morning for the Kirin Ankor. Take tonight to set your house in order, Torgen.”
“Your brazen manner is arrogance, boy,” Torgen jeered.
“Not at all, Torgen. You have fought only a single battle in five decades. I have spent every day since I left this place fighting for survival. I have toppled tyrants and slaughtered assassins. Make your peace with the Allfather, for tomorrow I will send you to meet him.”
Torgen stormed angrily out of the chamber, visibly fuming at how the day’s events had transpired. Addressing the room, Ferebour declared loudly, “Today’s meeting is adjourned until the morning. You may return for the Kirin Ankor or not—that is your choice. Our traditions will not be cast aside so easily. Not for a false god and not for misguided ambition.”
The gathered dwarves glanced at each other and began to file quietly out of the chamber. Ferebour followed. Addressing the Ironguard by the chamber’s entrance, Ferebour said, “I’ll require the use of a forge to prepare for the morning. Could you see that one is made available for me?”
The Ironguard fixed Ferebour with a confused expression but remained silent.
In no mind to argue, Ferebour pressed the guard. “Speak your piece, warrior. You may owe your fealty to Torgen, but there is little to be gained in denying my request.”
The guard shook his head. “It’s not that, your Highness. It’s just—if you are an Ironheart, why not use the King’s forge?”
A memory stirred deep within, the image of a young Tharadin leaning over an anvil, his hammer raised high above his head. With steady strikes he brought the hammer down upon a piece of Black Iron that was resting on the anvil. The iron glowed red from the heat of the furnace.