Forging Destiny

by Marc Alan Edelheit

  They were burial shelves. He was in an ancient catacomb system. That much was now clear. The chamber behind him had likely been an access point. He started slowly, almost tentatively walking forward, then stopped and peered into the nearest alcove. He moved onto the next. Each one held Dvergr bones, along with scraps of clothing. These may not have been his direct ancestors, but they were of his race and therefore his people. Here were laid to rest the honored dead.

  Tovak wondered how long it had been since one of his kind had come here and visited the dead. The urge tugged at him again, encouraging him to get moving, to stop wasting time.

  The urges that had been dragging him into trouble were growing stronger and more difficult to ignore with each passing day. They were becoming a force of will in their own right. He didn’t know what to make of them, but he was becoming increasingly worried that one day they would end up getting him killed … and perhaps sooner rather than later. Then again, he was almost fully convinced they were coming directly from his god. And if so, how could that be a bad thing? Surely Thulla had a plan for him.

  “From now on, Thulla,” Tovak resolved, speaking softly, “wherever You lead me, I will follow.”

  The spark within him warmed noticeably. It was Thulla. His god was acting through him and, as crazy as it sounded, sending him messages. Tovak was now sure of it. He let out a long, excited breath. The spark continued to grow, warming him against the cold of the underground. Tovak felt his heart swell. He would move forward, as was his god’s wish, and face whatever challenges were set before him.

  “Thulla, ever am I Your humble servant. I find myself surrounded by darkness. Guide me to the light.”

  You have already found it, My son … you have already found it.

  Tovak froze. He had heard it, the words—only they were in his head. He knew without a doubt he had not imagined them. Thulla had spoken to him. His faith had been rewarded.

  Resolved and raising his torch, he strode boldly forward into the unknown. The hallway descended farther into the ground, and as he walked, he passed by hundreds of alcoves. The bones that rested in each were covered in the dust and grime of ages.

  He continued down the passage, glancing left and right at the bodies interred along the way. Occasionally, there were smaller spiders living in the alcoves, but Tovak knew them not to be threats. They shied away from the magical light as if it caused them pain.

  After a time, he came upon a fork in the catacombs. Tovak shined the torch light in either direction. Both passages looked the same. However, the draft was coming from the right. He was about to turn that way when the urge tugged at him to go left.

  “As You wish,” he said softly and turned to the left. He walked forward, the sounds of his footfalls echoing around him. There was not much he could do about that other than try to walk softly. The problem was the hobnails on his boots and the stone floor. After two more turns, he encountered something he had not expected. At the edge of his light, the hallway appeared to open up onto a platform of sorts. A carved stone railing waited, along with steps.

  A thin layer of webs covered everything, and there were curtains of web caught up in the supports of the railing. Anxious about what might lie beyond, he approached slowly. The air seemed somewhat fresher, although he could feel no breeze whatsoever.

  He moved forward and exited the hallway. Tovak found himself on a landing, with a long spiraling stone staircase about six feet across. The steps went up to the right and down to the left and ran around a cylindrical shaft of carved stone about twenty yards across.

  His torchlight revealed the walls of the shaft had been carved with hundreds of portraits. Every face was unique and lifelike. Some were larger than others. He saw blacksmiths holding hammers and weavers with looms. There were warriors, sculptors, farmers … the list of occupations was numerous. At the bottom of each was a line of what seemed to be Dvergr script. The letters were familiar, but at the same time not. It was a language he’d never seen before and could not read. Tovak assumed the letters represented the person’s name.

  “Incredible,” he breathed, lifting his torch to get a better view of the portraits. “Truly incredible.”

  Most of the sculptures depicted people in their golden years, but he found several younger faces scattered throughout, as well as a cute little girl, barely more than a tot, shown clutching a beloved doll in her arms.

  Tovak found himself deeply moved. Here was a window into the past, a view of those who had lived and passed onto the ancestral feasting halls. There were hundreds of generations of people before him, portraits covering the walls of the shaft and disappearing around the curves with the steps, as far as his light reached. He’d never seen anything like it.

  The urge pulled him up the stairs. Reluctantly, Tovak turned away and made his way up the stairwell. He had a feeling that every Dvergr who had been interred in the catacombs must have had their portrait added to the wall of the shaft. Astounded by the sheer scale of it, he stopped at the next landing, where the stairs ended and led into another corridor with alcoves to either side.

  Tovak turned back for one last look at the sculpted and painted portraits. They were so lifelike they seemed to be watching him. After a moment, he turned away and, holding the torch before him, started down the corridor where hundreds of people had been laid to rest. Keelbooth must have once had a massive population, or the people had lived here for a very long time.

  His aches and pains were forgotten. He passed the occasional dead spider. Smaller ones about the size of his foot moved about, drawing away from the light.

  Then, he reached a wide hallway where the webs grew thicker. The walls were covered with heavier strands, and as he looked around, he discovered the desiccated remains of small forest animals and insects, cocooned and sequestered in small clumps here and there. Tovak immediately felt on guard. It was clear the spiders hunted on the surface. It was a ray of hope that they were topside and not down here in the catacombs with him.

  He continued down the hallway, when he came upon a small chamber with three passages shooting off from the other side. The pull led him to the right, where the webs started to get even thicker. They also seemed fresh, for when he brushed against them, they stuck to him. He realized, almost belatedly, there were no more alcoves along the walls. Instead, he discovered the faint outlines of frescoes. These were mostly covered by the increasingly thicker strands of web, but every now and again, he could just make out the figures of Dvergr and scenes of a great city, especially if he held the torch close. Some were warriors, some not, but in each fresco, it seemed as if a story was being told.

  The webs continued to grow thicker the farther he went. Tovak moved slower, more cautiously. And yet, he kept pressing forward, drawn along by that insistent pull from his god.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The passage opened up into a larger rectangular chamber that was at least twenty yards long and ten wide. Holding up the torch high so he could better see, Tovak stopped at the entrance and looked around. Webs covered almost everything. In addition to that, there were shriveled animal carcasses piled up along the far wall.

  There were tracks in the dust on the floor too. These were nearly round and smallish, as if someone had used a crutch. That worried Tovak, for there were hundreds of such prints, clearly large spider tracks.

  A passageway led off from either side wall. Tovak’s eyes were drawn to the walls of the chamber. Behind the webs, there were floor-to-ceiling frescoes. He entered the room and moved closer to one and examined it, brushing away the dust and some of the old webs so he could see better.

  The fresco seemed to depict a battle between Dvergr warriors and what looked like humans. The work was exquisite in detail. There was a heroic cast to it that had Tovak wondering if the artist had ever experienced real fighting. Looking it over for a long moment, he also found himself wondering how long it had been down here. There was no telling. Everything around him had an ancient feel to it.

 
; He moved deeper into the room and peered down the passageways that led off to the right. He had assumed there would be more alcoves with bones. But there weren’t. The hallway leading off the chamber was about ten feet long. In the darkness of the room beyond, there was a faint pool of light, just enough for him to see that some sort of large stone structure lay at its center.

  He felt a pull forward, a tug, a nudge, call it whatever. Thulla wanted him to forge ahead and, in a strange way, he felt like he was being drawn towards his destiny.

  Tovak moved down the hallway. There was a sculpture on the wall to the right, just before the entrance to the room. Tovak paused, studying it in fascination. This one was marble. The carving was of a warrior, stern, with a hard-looking face. He was middle-aged and had a neatly braided beard complete with prayer knots.

  He wore plate mail of a design Tovak had not seen before. It did not match the carved statue he had seen in the forest. Like the other sculptures in the catacombs, this one had been painted lifelike. The warrior looked very real to Tovak’s eyes, almost as if a slice of time had been captured in its image. The eyes seemed to be staring right at him, piercing his very soul. Under the sculpture’s fixed gaze, Tovak thought he detected approval.

  There was a pendant around the warrior’s neck. It seemed to have a blue aura emanating from it, shining outward. Tovak leaned closer and saw Thulla’s emblem … well, an older symbol, one not seen very much these days. Tovak could only ever remember seeing it in the oldest of the temples and holy books, a mountain lion, fierce and baring its teeth in a silent roar. Again, he could not read the writing that had been stenciled under the carving.

  “What I would give to know your name, noble warrior,” Tovak said quietly. “But it is an honor to meet you nonetheless.”

  Tovak turned back to the room and, moving up to the entrance, held his torch out. When his light reached the center of the room, he saw that part of the ceiling had caved in, carrying with it a good deal of soil and several large boulders. A small beam of sunlight came through a hole in the ceiling fifteen feet above, and it highlighted the center of a large and now shattered sarcophagus. There was no way for Tovak to reach the hole or, for that matter, climb through it. It was just too small. But at least he knew the surface wasn’t that far off.

  Part of the ceiling had fallen and cracked off part of the top of the sarcophagus, breaking it open. Tovak moved forward towards the sarcophagus. It was plain. There was nothing remarkable about it other than it being the only thing in the room.

  Through its shattered cover stone, he saw there was a skeleton inside. It was clearly a warrior, for in repose, he held a two-handed sword, a volzjain, across his chest. Bony, fleshless fingers interlocked around the hilt. Though the sword was covered in dust, it was clearly a work of supreme art, a masterpiece like none other. Tovak looked upon it in awe, for only a true master could have forged such a sword and he thought it a thing of beauty.

  At the base of the sarcophagus, on the near side, was Thulla’s crest, complete with a lion and similar to the medallion in the sculpture out in the hallway, only larger. The lion looked more magnificent, fearsome even. Within the crest was the symbol he was more familiar with, a hand with two fingers held up. Tovak glanced at the skeleton and ran a hand through his braided beard. Could this have been a holy warrior of Thulla?

  The scriptures spoke of such warriors. Father Danik had told him there had not been one such divinely blessed warrior amongst his people for centuries, perhaps even thousands of years.

  That was how far his people had turned from the light of Thulla. The great god had stopped helping them, sending them divine aid. It broke Tovak’s heart. Many thought divine warriors nothing more than old tales. And yet, here was strong evidence they had been all too real. Was Thulla honoring him by bringing him here to this place? He suspected Thulla was, and when he looked inside himself, feeling for the truth, Tovak knew it to be so. He took a knee before the tomb and bowed his head respectfully.

  Thulla, he prayed, I am humbled by this honor. My faith grows with each passing day. Thank You for blessing me so.

  He stood slowly, and then stepped forward, placing his hand upon the cool stone of the sarcophagus. There were no webs covering it, not even small ones. Tovak carefully looked around the room. The webs ended several inches from the base of the sarcophagus. It was as if the spiders that called the catacombs their home had chosen to avoid it … or had they been driven away, repelled by Thulla’s majesty and this warrior’s purity of heart?

  He eyed the sword several moments, desiring very much to take it, to own such a fine weapon, but could not bring himself to do it. The weapon was not his to claim. The sword had clearly been important and belonged to the holy warrior it had been buried with. Tovak leaned over and looked into the sarcophagus, shining the light inside. The warrior was nothing more than a collection of bones now. He had not been buried with his armor. Whatever clothes he had been dressed in at the time of his interment had long since deteriorated to dust.

  Oddly, the warrior’s beard was almost completely intact. Though it was covered in a thick layer of dust, it was clearly brown and had been braided and secured with a dozen prayer knots.

  Tovak stared at the warrior, trying to remember what Father Danik, his old mentor, had once called them. Warriors such as these had had a name, and each had belonged to the same holy order within Thulla’s church. Tovak could not recall the order’s name, but what the holy warriors had been called was on the tip of his tongue. He could feel it.

  “Tala,” Tovak said in a near whisper, as if speaking louder would somehow violate the sanctity of this place. “No, that’s not it.” He ran a hand through his beard, wracking his brain. “Talapin?” Then it came to him. He snapped his fingers. “Paladin. You were a paladin.”

  Had this warrior truly been a paladin, invested with Thulla’s divine power? Tovak searched his feelings within, reaching out to the spark that now burned in him. It seemed as if his assumption was correct, for it simply felt true. This had been a paladin of Thulla, a true-to-rights holy warrior, who’d had a direct connection to his god. The mere thought of it filled Tovak with not only awe, but sudden hope. His people needed to know of the warrior who lay before him. Here represented the embodiment of faith, and a future, one built on a foundation of belief in Thulla, the Forger of Worlds. Was this the reason he had been brought here? Tovak hoped it was.

  He looked around, remembering he was trapped underground. Tovak had to get out to spread the word, and that meant finding an exit. He spared one last look at the warrior and then turned almost regretfully away. Thulla had granted him an incredible honor, one he felt wholly unworthy to have received. He felt spiritually restored and revitalized by the experience, almost as if he had been reborn in his faith.

  He walked back down the hallway to the main chamber with the webbed bodies. He stopped and gazed at the other hallway across from him. Was there another paladin there too? He suspected there might be, but there was no pull, no nudge to go forward. Still, he wanted to see what was there.

  Tovak was about to go look, when he heard a noise to his right. It was a slight scraping sound. He froze, going abruptly cold. It had come from the back of the chamber, where the webbed bodies had been piled. He held the torch up, shedding its magical light on the pile, and saw nothing, no hint of what had made the sound. He almost jumped when one of the web-wrapped bodies shifted ever so slightly.

  Heart hammering like a smith beating metal, and holding the torch before him, he moved forward tentatively to investigate. The body, which was small, shifted again. One step at a time, he drew closer. Then he saw it wasn’t a body, but something else moving a webbed and desiccated heratta. He held the torch closer to get a better look.

  “A gnome,” Tovak exclaimed softly. The little creature had been hiding behind the carcass.

  Tovak took a step back, fearful the gnome would attack him. Instead, the creature drew back from him, holding its hands before its eyes, cle
arly shielding against the magical torchlight, as if it was painful.

  Concern washed over Tovak. He glanced around. Where there was one gnome, he had learned, there were more. And yet, he saw no others, but he knew that meant nothing. They could be nearby. He looked down at the stone flooring and cursed himself. The gnome’s small footprints led from the other hallway into this one. Amongst the hundreds of spider prints he had missed it, and that, for a scout and tracker, was an unforgivable breach.

  The gnome stood and, though it had been hiding, seemed unafraid.

  “No kill,” the gnome squeaked in broken Dvergr. “You no kill me. I no kill you. Deal?”

  “What?” Tovak asked, shocked the gnome spoke his language. “You speak my tongue? How?”

  “Shush.” The gnome held a finger to its lips. “You too loud. Big spiders hear. Big spiders come back and eat you. Big spiders kill us both. No want that.”

  Tovak felt his heart run cold. He glanced nervously around, probing the shadows.

  “You lost?” the gnome whispered.

  Tovak turned back to the gnome.

  The little creature was eying him speculatively. It pointed an accusing finger at him. “You lost?”

  “I am right where I am meant to be,” Tovak said, and that was the truth. Thulla had led him here.

  “Hah. I knew, I knew. You be lost.” The gnome wagged the same finger at him and snickered, before growing serious. “We no lost. I show you out. If you help? You help, yes? I show way out.”

  “You know how to get out?”

  “Yes, yes,” the gnome said. “You help, I show.”

  “Help you—how?” Tovak asked and then became concerned. “Wait, what do you mean, we? You are not alone?”