“It is to honor his wife and show his love of her,” Ironhelm said. “It says she matters more to him than all the privileges of rank and position.”
Däsa Hammeredshield was an impressive dwarf women, her hair braided into a pair of long grey locks reaching down to her feet. She had bright gray eyes and bore herself with a dignity appropriate to a mighty queen. Around her neck she wore a gleaming gold necklace embedded with sparkling sapphires and a gleaming diamond the size of an acorn. She said little, smiling gently and nodding politely at the conversation around her. When she did speak, Jorn noticed, those around her listened intently.
Lady Hammeredshield chose her cut and passed the platter onto her husband. He passed it on to Ironhelm, seated on his right, and he onto Jorn. To Lady Hammeredshield’s immediate left sat her son, followed by Sir Ailric, and Flatfoot. Willock and Ronias were to Jorn’s right.
“Even here, in the south, we heard of wha’ happened to The Westmark,” Lord Hammeredshield said to Jorn, raising his mug of ale. “Ach, we did indeed. It is my hope tha’ you will soon have the good for’une to gain back your lands, Thane Ravenbane.”
“Thank you, Lord Hammeredshield,” Jorn said, returning the salute and taking a deep drink.
“The accoun’s we heard of the Battle of Loc Goren were filled with wild tales of pain’ed berserker shamans and fire gian’s,” Hammeredshield said, laughing. “Gian’s! Can you imagine tha’?”
“Those were no wild tales,” Jorn said gravely. “I saw the giants myself across the field of battle. They stood nearly as tall as this hall and bore clubs longer than the length of this table.”
“Ach, but surely you jes’ with an old dwarf!” Hammeredshield protested.
“He jests not, old friend,” Ironhelm said. “I was there, too, and beheld them. Aye, tis true.”
“I cannot doub’ your word, Durm, however fanciful the story sounds,” Hammeredshield said. “I though’ the gian’s all gone, disappeared back into their cloudy heights. Aye, if they ever existed a’ all.”
“Wherever they were all these ages, they are back and in league with other evil creatures,” Ironhelm said. “They serve Kaas and Amundágor. Aye, tis true.”
“Tha’ is ill news, indeed,” Hammeredshield said, shaking his head.
Throughout the evening, servants continued with more roasted meat on skewers. They brought over large cuts of goat and mutton, followed by cured beef and some bowls of warm chopped liver topped with salt pork and mushrooms.
“Do they eat like this all the time?” Jorn whispered to Willock.
“This is the traditional lordly feast of the dwarves,” the woodsman said, savoring a juicy morsel of goat meat. It had been slowly braised in a pot placed atop the coals until the rough cut was tender and delicate. “It is all kept very simple, just roasted or braised meats. And they use no seasoning except for a bit of salt. It’s their way. If course, in the woodlands of Llangellan we rub the meat with ground herbs and pepper.”
“In Linlund we smoke our meat or cure it in brine,” Jorn said, his mind pondering the cooking of his homeland. It been years since he had enjoyed a nice plate of smoked eel atop slices of the dense, dark rye bread baked in every hearth in Linlund.
“Ach! The gods gave meat a flavor,” Ironhelm said, biting into a large bite of dripping-red beef. He shook his head in annoyance. “And tha’s how it should be left, I say. Rubbing meat with herbs! Smoking away the flavor! Ach! It fringes on blasphemy, it does!”
_____
Dinner began to wind down, Jorn and Willock leaning back in their chairs with looks of contented fullness on their faces. Lord Hammeredshield nodded in the direction of the dwarven bards in the corner of the Hall. They bowed deeply towards the old dwarf and stepped away from the hammarharpas they’d been playing all evening. A silence fell across the feasters. They began to sing a dour hymn that was both somber and haunting, filling the hall with a sudden sadness as the lyrics rang out against the cold stone walls.
Jorn knew the song well. He’d labored many hours on the Dwarven tongues during his time on Glaenavon, and he and Fearach would often speak nothing else but Dwarven to one another for days at a time to help Jorn pick it up quicker.
It was slow and it was sung with deep, booming dwarven voices thick with a profound sadness. It had a haunting, melancholy beauty which lost much of its magic when translated into the tongues of men.
Oh, Withenhaelr, Withenhaelr!
Holy Hall of Our Fathers
Our Mountain Most Beloved
When shall our eyes fall upon you again?
We are lost in the wilderness
Strangers in a strange land
Out in the weather under the open sky
We look sadly North to you
As the warrior misses his bride’s embrace,
Our hearts are heavy, our backs bent with care
The tombs of our kings go untended
And the forges are quiet in the endless dark
Oh, Withenhaelr, Withenhaelr!
Lose not faith in your loyal sons
Yet shall we return to your halls
And turn them red with the blood of your enemies.
Jorn knew well the story behind the song, too. Withenhaelr, the “White Mountain”, was once the mightiest of all the great dwarf kingdoms. Now it was reduced to a frozen ruin far in the northeast corner of Linlund. The dwarves of The White Mountain, secure behind the doors of their great mountain realm, did not think they could ever be defeated. But they fell along with mighty old Withowan, their gates battered down and their people slaughtered.
A few of the survivors settled elsewhere in Linlund, still others along the Slave Coast and amidst the foothills of Shalfur. In all these places they still dwelt. The vast number of them, however, cast their lots with the refugees of Withowan and made their way south in search of a new homeland. The dwarf lords helped the men of Withowan clear Llangellan of gruks and other monsters, carving out domains of their own along the edge of the Great Barrier Mountains to the west of the new kingdom. Vögen Hammeredshield was one such dwarf lord.
The dwarf lords did not simply turn their backs on their fellow refugees, either. They pledged unending friendship to Llangellan “unto the ending of the world or the return to The White Mountain.” The former dwarves of The White Mountain thus became the denizens of the Dwarven Freeholds. They’d since prospered, multiplied, and grown strong in their new land, but they never ceased mourning their lost Withenhaelr and probably never would. Every dwarf alive in the Freeholds had been born in the south and had never known any other homeland. Yet they all considered themselves, like Jorn, exiles.
There was silence in the hall when the song ended. A pair of servants entered, the first carrying small bowls and the second bearing a tall earthen jug painted in the clan colors of dark blue and gray. The first servant placed a bowl in front of everyone at the table and the second began to pour out a small portion of a clear liquid into each of the bowls.
“This is called akavla, laddie,” Ironhelm leaned over and explained quietly to Jorn after admonishing him for reaching out to sample the drink. “Aye, it’s a sacred beverage among my people, it is, distilled from mountain-grown grains and carefully cleansed of all impurities again and again, week after week, until the akavlamestr declares it ready. It is only brought out when the dinner is over and the Song of Withenhaelr has been heard. Aye, now the rounds of toasting are ready to begin. When Lord Hammeredshield raises his bowl and gives a toast, we drink. No one drinks until then. Not ever, laddie. It is a rare honor you’re being given, to share of the akavla.”
When the bowls were all filled, Lord Hammeredshield stood and raised his bowl up in front of him. The assembled diners rose in unison.
Hammeredshield turned towards Ironhelm.
“An old friend too long absen’ from this hall arrived jus’ in time to spare an old dwarf from losing his las’ son,” he said, raising the bowl in front of him.
“Durm Ironhelm,” he
said solemnly, drinking the akavla down.
“Durm Ironhelm!” the assembled feasters repeated in unison.
Jorn raised the bowl along with all the others and drank down the akavla in one gulp. It was a fiery drink, strong but flavorless. He emptied the bowl and put it back down on the table.
“I well remember our first meeting, Durm,” Lord Hammeredshield said, sitting back down. The others all followed him, taking their seats. “Aye, I do. Has he shared the tale? No? Well, he should have. Ach. I’ was during the early, darkest days of wha’ we call the Grea’ Moun’ain War. The enemy, the vile devil Cul’ of Amundágor, had fallen upon the Freeholds in overwhelming force before we could so much as reac’. The poor Grani’ebeard Clan was swallowed up whole in those firs’ terrible weeks, they were. There were many good dwarves among them, but they were cu’ off by the armies of the enemy. A few merchants traveling abroad survived, scattered remnan’s of a once-great people.” Hammeredshield paused, lost in thought for a moment. “We almost me’ the same fa’e, we did. All along the fron’ier they poured through the high moun’ain passes. Ach. Through the Widowing Gap they brough’ the bulk of their forces. But I’ is a narrow pass hardly fifty paces wide a’ its narrowest, so there we made our stand. For three days and nigh’s we held the gap, dwarves of Thunderforge hurrying south to figh’ alongside us. Somehow we held on, despi’e all the enemy could do. I must have escaped death a thousand times during those dark days, one time only because a young cap’ain of Thunderforge named Durm Ironhelm was at my side. I was wounded la’er in the battle, though, and it looked as if we were near breaking when Braemorgan finally showed up with five hundred Knigh’s of Havenwood behind him! We pushed the enemy back through the gap and then sealed it up, and it remains so sealed today. Aye.”
“It is sealed?” Jorn said. “Can it not be passed through?”
“We set to building an impenetrable wall across it, laddie, but there is a ga’e through which we send scou’ing par’ies now and again. We’ve been safe from attack for more than a century now, we have, thanks to tha’ gap wall. All tha’ the damned gruks and trolls have been able to do is stage their raids, but even those pinpricks can wound deeply. Aye, tha’ they can.”
Servants made their way around the table, filling up the bowls of akavla again as the old dwarf lord spoke.
“Of course,” he went on. “Tha’ was only the beginning of the war. We’d stopped one of the arms of the invasion at the gap, but the forces of Amundágor were pouring across the moun’ains elsewhere. Aye, I had no time even for my wound to fully heal before we were off once more. More of the Knigh’s arrived to aid us in our fight, two thousand of ‘em strong. Aye, but you laddies shoulda seen ‘em! When they rode into battle the hooves of their horses sounded like thunder upon the high moun’ain tops.”
“Led by Sir Edmund the Eagleblade,” Ailric said proudly.
“Yes, young Knight.” Hammeredshield smiled. “We named him Eagleblade because he bore a sword of ancient enchan’ment called the Talon of Une with the form of an eagle’s wings carved into the hil’. I was but new to the lordship of my clan and I held him in awe, I did. Wha’ a warrior he was, time and again plunging into the ranks of the enemy and scattering them before him! And wha’ a tac’ician! Battle af’er battle we won with him in command as we wound our way ever south through the moun’ains. In the shadow of Moun’ Glammonfore, we attacked the rear guard of Amundágor’s main horde and slew ‘em all. Every las’ one of ‘em! Aye, tha’ was a glorious day. Then Amundágor turned his army right abou’ and attacked us, he did, intent on smashing us once and for all. He must’ve fel’ he could no’ continue his advance into Llangellan with our army to his rear and so we held up his entire invasion, we did. The Eagleblade and Braemorgan made us understand tha’ the longer we could hold Amundágor back, the longer the civilized kingdoms of men, elves, and dwarves had to arrive.”
“Gnomes, too!” Flatfoot chimed in.
“Aye! Tis true, my good gnome! From the Gnomish towns and villages of Faerfachen came many a stout-hear’ed gnome to figh’ alongside us. Amundágor saw wha’ The Eagleblade was up to, he did, and decided to try and smash us before more allies could arrive. He turned his forces to face us, and we me’ his attack as bes’ we could. For an entire day we held ou’, and we were abou’ to fall back when the armies of the Kings of Llangellan and Brithborea finally arrived! They hi’ Amundágor on his far flank, sweeping back the tide of gruks and trolls! The Dark One could not keep up the attack on us and also defend himself agains’ the combined migh’ of Llangellan and Brithborea, so he pulled his troops back across the moun’ain passes. We were saved from invasion but Amundágor was still two years of bloody figh’ing from defea’, he was.”
“It is an honor to hear one who knew Sir Edmund to speak of him,” Ailric said. “I am humbled.”
“Aye, and it is good tha’ you should appreciate such a thing. For I am often saddened when I think abou’ it now. As the years go by there are fewer of us lef’ who stood shoulder-to-shoulder figh’ing the dark hordes of Amundágor in those days gone by. The Knigh’s of Havenwood and all the men who fough’ a’ our sides are all long since gone. Every spring there are fewer dwarves from those dark times who remain with the living. When we gather on the anniversaries of the grea’ battles, there are more emp’y chairs every passing year and fewer aged heroes a’ the table. No’ so many years ago, it was commonplace to see a dwarf with a graying beard recoun’ing tales of valor in some tavern or by his fire with his grandchildren around him. Now I’ has become a rari’y, it has. I fear tha’, before many more springs have come to pass, there will be none of us lef’. The old tales of battle will be living memories no longer, merely something a few recall the graybeards once babbling abou’. You were one of the younger ones, Durm, and you shall have decades of tales ye’ to tell. But the day shall come when none of the old comrades remain, and the las’ of our brothers is lef’ alone with the memories. Then he, too, will go to the hall of his fathers, and the war will pass from the realm of memory into tha’ of history. So, I say again, I am gladdened, good Knigh’ of Havenwood, tha’ you appreciate my tales. Soon enough there shall be no one lef’ to tell them.”
“What of your war with the elves of Sollistore?” Ronias said suddenly. The elf had barely spoken the entire evening. “Are there any tales of glory there?”
Hammeredshield scowled.
“I would hardly call it a war, elf,” he said. His voice grew angry and he smacked his hands down on the table. “Ach! The cold-blooded murder of innocen’ dwarves, tha’s wha’ it was!”
“Thorkell,” Lady Hammeredshield said quietly, placing her hand upon his arm. Her voice was clear and calm, steady and regal. “Sit back, husband. It does your health no good to become so angry. I shall tell the tale. The elf deserves to know why so many in your realm gaze upon him with such hatred through no fault of his own or that of his people.”
Hammeredshield nodded, leaning back in his chair.
“It will be ten years ago next month since we battled Sollistore,” Lady Hammeredshield began. “For three centuries have the Silverspear Clan dwelt under the shadow of these mountains and never have we given any trouble to the Sollistoreans. Rarely would we see them, even. To be sure, we sent ambassadors and trade missions to their lands every now and then. Always they would meet us at the border, arrayed for battle. They would point their arrows and shout at us from a distance to leave their lands or die. And this was how they treated aged ambassadors, bringing gifts of friendship and good will! The time came a few years ago when we resolved to settle in the mountains to our north, overlooking the valley of Sollistore. There is much iron in those mountains and we meant to have it. Someday, we shall!”
“So you sent settlers,” Ironhelm said.
“Settlers, miners, a small detachment of soldiers,” she said. “The entire expedition was led by our eldest son Thaldir. They were building an outpost high on the slopes above the valley of Sollistore, te
n miles from the edge of the elf lands where we had always been stopped before. It was no invasion! We were on our own lands. The Sollistore border was where we had always been stopped before, with their own warnings that we were about to enter their domain. The elves took the settlers by surprise one night and slaughtered every dwarf. Thaldir fell, an elf arrow through his throat…”
She trailed off, her husband mumbling something under his breath. The old dwarf wiped aside a tear.
“You should not have brought the matter up, elf,” the younger Hammeredshield said, glaring at Ronias.
“He has the right to know what happened, Gram,” Lady Hammeredshield said, resuming the story. “We counterattacked, but Sollistore, they were just too powerful. We massed five thousand soldiers on the border, every warrior we could spare, but the elves had five times tha’ number waiting for us. Aye, it was a terrible thing. They had countless wizards amongst their ranks, as well, and were fighting on their home ground. It was a lost cause from the start, I suppose, but the elves had to bleed for what they did. No dwarf could live with themselves if we did not strike at them and at least try to avenge ourselves. We could not hope to conquer Sollistore, we knew, but we hoped to at least punish them. We hoped to show them that they could not do that do us without penalty. We hoped to show them that we are not animals to be slaughtered, that they simply cannot treat us like that.” Her voice grew emotional and she paused a moment, regaining her composure. “And so the soldiers marched down from the mountains towards the valley. But the elves were waiting for us, they were. They attacked, a hundred elf wizards among them firing fireballs into our lines. We held out as best we could, but we were forced to withdraw and so were denied a proper measure of revenge.”
“Sollistore elves are filthy curs, not to be trusted,” Ronias said. “They drove my own people out of their valley eons ago, persecuting us for our worship of the sky god Arios.”
Child Of Storms (Volume 1) Page 35
