by R J Hanson
That evening Roland and Eldryn drank in the tavern with a colorful group of mismatched and misled travelers. They sat in on a game of cards with a tracker, a fur trader, two mercenaries, and a dwarven warrior. The tracker and fur trader, both women, worked with one of the sell-swords along the rivers and lake south of Dolloth and were happy to tell of that area and their finds. The other mercenary worked as a guard for a caravan from Modins and had a few tales, clearly borrowed from others, about the seas, pirates, and distant lands. The dwarf mainly grumbled to himself about the luck of men as his pile of coins dwindled.
Roland, wishing to know more about the dwarves for a specific reason, asked a few questions about culture, family life, and what types of books the dwarf read. None of this gained any ground.
“That’s a fine hammer you’re toting there,” Eldryn said. “Mercshyeld?”
“Aye!” the dwarf exclaimed. “T’was me father’s crafted for him by me gray father, Derin the Squint Eye. Named so for the squint he was known for when examinin’ good steel.”
I’m Eldryn, son of Ellidik, and this is my good friend Roland,” Eldryn said. “I gather that you are great son of Derin the Squint Eye but I don’t know your name.”
“Aye!” the dwarf exclaimed. “That’s cause I ain’t told ya! I be Ungar Hammer Strap!”
Roland marveled at Eldryn. One remark, one simple remark, and the dwarf was chatting along with the rest of them.
As it turned out the dwarf was of the Stonebeard Clan that resided in the mountain range that ran south of Dalloth, separating it from the southern areas of Hunthor. Dwarves rarely claimed any land above ground, but instead kept themselves to their mines in the mountains. There was at least one clan of dwarves or another in each mountain range in the known world. As far as Ungar’s father, he had been Ultik the Bent Finger. There was a funny story about that moniker that Ungar promised to tell but never got around to telling.
“If I had an item that I thought should be in the hands of the dwarven people, how would I go about getting it to one of their leaders?” Roland asked of the dwarf.
Eldryn looked at Roland with disbelief.
“That would depend on what item you speak of,” the dwarf said dropping his jovial tone. “If you have ‘an item’ that belongs to us, I would know how it came to be in your hands. I would have the name of which of us it was taken from. I would take it in order to return it to my kin.”
“This item you will not take,” Roland said.
“I am Ungar Hammer Strap,” the dwarf said as his dark eyes glinted. “No man will tell me what I will or will not take. The only person I will accept commands from is Vigorr, King of the Stonebeards!”
“Well met, Ungar,” Roland said matching the dwarf’s volume. “However, this item I will give to King Vigorr myself, or it will not be given at all.”
“If you have something of our King’s, you will surrender it immediately and hope that I am in a merciful mood.”
Roland removed the oiled leather cover from the black glass hand axe and drew the weapon. Everyone at the table began to back away. Roland hoisted the weapon and drove it into the table top, easily sinking the edge two inches into the thick oak.
Ungar looked the axe over with eyes as black as the coal that stained his cheeks and hands. Age dropped from his face. His eyes took on the look of a child viewing a cart full of rock candy. They looked out of place surrounded by the long rough beard and hard skin.
“How will Ungar return to his people when it is said that an axe of their kings was lost to their people because of his bluster and stupidity?”
Ungar continued to stare at the sparkle on the dark surface of the leiness.
“You would make this a gift to King Vigorr?” Ungar asked, his tone had lost all malice.
“I would,” Roland replied.
“I shall show you the way,” Ungar said. “If you would permit me.”
Roland retrieved the axe and placed it back in his belt.
“Then we will leave in the morning for the home of the Stonebeards,” Roland said.
“Sir, I would know the name of the warrior that would return such a legend to my people.”
“I am Roland.”
“Aye, I heard that the first time. But a fella’ totin’ that axe, a fella’ that’d give a gift like that, that fella’s got a name that folks would’a heard.”
“Not yet they haven’t,” Roland said. “I do plan to make a name for myself such as you describe.”
Ungar bought a round of drinks and then another. His mirth seemed to know no bounds, and dwarves were not known for their generosity. He and Roland became fast friends that evening, with Eldryn looking on in amazement at Roland’s luck. The card game continued and Roland and Eldryn both lost several of their newly acquired gold coins. Finally, the time came to turn in.
Roland could not see through the dense mist. He knew the woman warrior, Dawn, was out there. She came out of the mist towering several feet over him. She grabbed him by the throat and threw him like he was no more than a child.
Roland leapt to his feet, but could not charge. His legs seemed pulled to the ground by a thick mud. He drew his Great sword. Once Swift Blood was in his hands Roland held it before him in a feeble defense. The sword began to shift and change in the mist. Roland squinted to peer at his weapon, and brought the blade close to his face to examine it. To his horror the end of the blade became the head of a viper and struck out at his face. Roland threw the wicked beast from his hands.
Dawn laughed as she strolled toward Roland. She was laughing when she struck his face knocking him down into the thick mud.
Roland struggled to free his hands and finally got his axes from their scabbards. Roland held the axes in front of him.
“Your friends will die because of your failure,” Dawn said. “Your father will be eternally ashamed of the son he tried so hard to raise properly. He weeps even now because of your weakness and cowardice.”
Roland attempted an attack with the axes but both became serpents. Roland cast one aside but the other bit deeply into his hand. Roland looked on in terror as the reptile bit the end of his thumb off and swallowed. The snake forced its head beneath his skin and continued to swallow Roland’s arm, slithering under his skin.
A scream rose in Roland’s throat.
“Roland,” Eldryn shouted. “Awake!”
Roland jerked from his bed soaked in sweat. He glared around the room and cringed away from the sword that he had leaned next to his bed.
“Roland, are you well?” Eldryn asked. “You were screaming in your sleep.”
“I am sorry to wake you,” Roland said, still unnerved to his core. There was a tremor in his voice Eldryn had never heard before. He was still trying to separate dream from reality. “It was a bad dream, nothing more.”
“I’ve never known you to have bad dreams,” Eldryn said, concerned.
“Nor have I. It has, however, been a busy time for us.”
“It has at that, friend,” Eldryn said with a smile. “You are well, so I will return to bed. Should you need anything…”
“I am no child that needs tending in the night,” Roland said more sharply than he had intended. “I will be fine.”
Chapter IX
Demons Inside
The late night, and heaving drinking, caused all to stay in bed much longer than they had intended. As Roland descended the stairs to the dining area, he saw that all the other morning traffic had come and gone. He also saw that Eldryn and Ungar were just beginning their meals. He ordered and joined his friends.
“Sir Roland, a man came round this morning looking for you,” the waitress said. “A monk I think they call them. Said he was with the Church of Bolvii and that he had some questions he wanted to ask you.”
Roland looked across the table at Eldryn and both began to package their breakfasts in their napkins preparing them for the road. Ungar Hammer Strap, whose years of morning dew were long behind him, took the cue well and began
wolfing his breakfast down instead.
The group saddled their horses quickly, paid their stabling fees, and rode out of Dalloth heading south. Ungar led the trio astride a white-haired mule leading another mule burdened with crates and bundles.
“We are but a little more than two week’s ride from the entrance to our lands,” Ungar said. “I do not intend insult; however, I must blindfold you before I take you in. No man can know where the entrance is.”
“We understand, and would not ask you to violate your customs,” Roland said.
“What is it that you haul back to your people?” Eldryn asked.
“We are excellent weapon smiths and we craft fine armors,” Ungar began. “However, we always have a great need for vegetables, grain, wheat, and other herbs. Farmers we are not. We have water aplenty, but we also have to pay dearly for milk, when we can get it.”
“I would imagine that the amount of coin you earn from your weapon sales is more than enough to pay for the vegetables you need,” Roland said.
“No,” Ungar said. “It is dwarven custom that we will not sell to any that are not friends to the clan. It was not always so, but is now. Not many stilts are friendly toward the dwarven race these days. There’s some in the churches that say we weren’t intended by Fate or Time. That’s how it started. That we’re some kind of extra thing. Not part of their plan. Well, over time that came to be preached as though if it’s outside of their plan then it’s the work of Muersorem. Not many in the church hold to that way of thinkin’ but, some do. Some do that’s high up in their cathedrals. We have to trade our extra ale and spirits for the few supplies we can get.”
“It seems you fellas had some trouble with the churches of your own,” Ungar said.
“We would rather not answer any questions they would bring with them,” Eldryn said. “Not exactly trouble but, a disagreement on who should know what.”
“If we’re not there to be questioned then there is no trouble with the churches,” Roland said. “If we refuse to answer questions for them, then there may be.”
“Aye, been little to no kindness between the church folk of men and me own kin,” Ungar said. “Been that way since me Da’ was young. Always figured it be a trouble between man and dwarf. You two seem good enough folk to me. What’s the stone in their boot over you about?”
“We had a disagreement with a paladin of Silvor…” Eldryn began, hoping to cut off the response he knew would erupt from Roland.
“Disagreement, hell,” Roland said. “And it’s more than that and you know it, El.’”
Then, to Ungar, Roland said, “The churches, all of them, have been more interested in building spires and couching fat priests and clerics than feed the people, caring for refugees, or soldiering against Ingsburn. Some say it is the gods themselves that are vain and greedy, but I don’t believe that. I’ve read the book of Bolvii and studied the books of Silvor and of Roarke some. What I have read is about honor, charity, and justice. I didn’t read a passage one that said anything about stained glass in the temple with gold and silver altars. I read about humility before the gods but nothing about groveling before a priest. I read about how a man’s neighbor is one that is in need and one that comes in times of need. There was nothing about the color of their skin or the heritage of their race! I read…”
“Ok, Roland,” Eldryn said. “I think he gets it.”
“It makes me angry to think about, El’,” Roland said. “I tell you…”
“Clearly it gets yer blood up,” Ungar said. “I think I may come to like you, Tall Walker. A speech like that, well, maybe you ought to be preachin’ in one of them fancy cathedrals your own self.”
Roland’s face grew dark but before he could speak, he was cut short by the burst of laughter from Ungar and Eldryn. Eldryn’s laughter helped him reflect. It always gave him perspective. The laughter continued for almost a minute before Roland joined them. The idea of him in a robe with a cup or book in his hand instead of a sword or axe was pretty funny.
Each night the demon dreams cursed Roland’s sleep. Rest had become a scarce thing for him. He usually slept only a short time before a nightmare would startle him from his slumber. He could rarely go back to sleep because the uncommon terror the dreams brought with them was always hard to shake. It stayed with him longer each time. His heart felt sick and afraid even under the light of the noon day sun.
Roland could not eat and could not think of anything other than the seeds of fear the nightmares planted in his soul. He was not a man accustomed to being afraid but these terrors seemed unaffected by his courage. His mind began to deny reality and accept imagination.
The trio rode for two weeks with Roland becoming more pale each day. They were finally within a day’s ride from the entrance that Ungar had told them of. They rode late into the night that night, hoping to get close enough that the following days ride would be a short one.
Eldryn had noticed that Roland seemed to be getting ill. He seemed to become hollow and had stopped talking three days prior. He had always been quiet, but the last few days he had been completely silent. Roland had also begun drinking far too much from their stores of brandy and whiskey.
This night Ungar was to take the first watch, Eldryn the second, and Roland, as always, the third. Eldryn awoke to begin his watch and found Roland sitting near the low burning fire, staring blankly ahead.
“What are you doing up?” Eldryn asked. “It is second watch, right?”
“It is,” Roland replied in a dead tone. “You did not miss your watch. I just didn’t feel like sleeping.”
Eldryn noticed the jug in Roland’s hand.
“Ale is one thing, but brandies and whiskeys are another. That stuff will use you hard.”
Roland looked absently at the jug.
“I am fine,” Roland replied, turning his gaze back into the fire.
Eldryn felt concern for his friend, but knew of no way to help him. He did not even know what was wrong with him.
Ungar came back to the fire from checking on the horses. He looked at the two and knew something was wrong.
“Young Eldryn,” Ungar said. “We should move the horse pickets before I take my rest. They will need to be moved to better grass.”
Ungar and Eldryn stepped off into the dark leaving Roland staring blankly at the fire as he took another large swallow of the burning spirits in his clay jug.
“Your friend has been cursed,” Ungar said flatly. “Someone walks in his dreams. I hear him during my watches. I am surprised you slept through it. Some enemy has a token of him and has cursed him.”
“A token?”
“Yes, something that belonged to him or a piece of him. An old shirt, or a piece of jewelry, or a lock of hair. It takes something personal to curse someone in this fashion.”
“What can be done?” Eldryn asked.
“You find the witch what done it and you kill ‘em. But your friend will continue to lose sleep, and he will begin to doubt himself and all around him. I have seen what those inner demons can do to a warrior.”
“Can anything be done to help him sleep?” Eldryn asked.
“Strong drink can work, but it is trading one devil for another. A dwarf loves his drink, but to drink of the strong spirits at each meal will steal a warrior’s wits and battle skill.”
Eldryn and Ungar returned to the fire, both giving Roland concerned looks. Roland did not notice. He continued to stare into the fire.
Ungar shrugged and pulled his cloak around his shoulders against the wind. He made his way to his bed roll and slept. Eldryn continued his watch in silence and Roland sat, unmoving, with that unsettling blank stare on his face. The hours passed and it was Eldryn’s time for more sleep before they moved on.
“Will you be alright for your watch?” Eldryn asked.
“I am fine,” Roland replied. “I am not so weak as to bring shame on my father.”
Eldryn looked at Roland with genuine concern in his eyes. He did not know what to sa
y and decided it best not be discussed in that evil hour of night. Eldryn, comfortable from winter’s chill in his gifted armor, propped his saddle up and laid back into the bow of it. Eldryn looked to Roland one last time but Roland did not look from the fire. Eldryn was worried for his friend, but the days of riding and short sleep were wearing on him as well. Sleep came for Eldryn, and he slipped deep into that dark water of rest.
Roland dropped an empty jug onto the ground next to the fire. It was his watch and watch he would. He took the majestic helm that was his reward from Nolcavanor and strapped it onto his head. Roland could see clearly into the dark and all around the camp. The effect was a little dizzying, until one got used to it.
Roland found himself sitting in front of the dying fire with his Shrou-Hayn across his knees. He tried to find comfort in the holy symbols of Bolvii carved into the hilt and the strength and grace of the weapon. However, each time he looked on it he waited for it to become the serpent that would eventually burrow under his skin and eat its way to his heart. Roland had suffered the dream every night since the first night in the tavern. Each nightmare was a little different, but always the snakes were there. And always his father was ashamed of him. His failures were ever-present.
If it had not been for the mystical qualities of his helm, Roland would have died that night. As Roland sat, apparently fixed upon the blade across his knees, a shadowy figure came from the dark that surrounded the camp. The figure approached Roland’s exposed back and raised a black bladed sword high, confident in his strike.
Roland saw the creature just short of too late. If Roland would have had to rely on his wits at that moment, he would have been dead. However, Roland’s training and honed muscles took over for his mind much like the eyelids will blink in reflex to protect the eye. Roland took Swift Blood by the hilt and spun, remaining in his low crouch.
Roland’s speed, fed to him by the mighty weapon, caught the unnatural thing off its guard. Roland’s strike cut deeply into the shadowy form’s middle. Roland pulled as his blade sliced free of his opponent’s torso and followed the first attack up with a chop that severed the creature’s head. As it fell to the ground, Ungar and Eldryn rose with weapons ready.
