The Halls of the Fallen King

by Tiger Hebert

  From the personal journal of Duroc Stonebrow

  “WHAT IN THE HELLS WAS that?” shouted Nal’drin as he spat the chalky marble powder from his mouth.

  “Hells? Hells aint got anythin’ to do with it boy!” hollered Dominar as he wiped the statue dust from his eyes.

  “Theros, how did you do that?” begged the wide-eyed Kiriana.

  They were all thinking the exact same thing.

  The big orc said nothing; he just calmly stared at the great big hammer that rested in his hands. They couldn’t pull their eyes away from the grayish iron head of the mallet. It did not shine or burn. There were no hints of blue or any other light for that matter. Before he could even lift it up, Dominar was already up close studying it intently. He even tentatively touched it with his fingers, but there was no trace of heat or anything. It was just a simple iron hammer, the same one the orc had used all these years.

  Then Dominar realized something. Not everyone was shocked. His friend, the mighty orc was calm.

  “This is not your first time wielding the flame... is it, my friend?”

  “It happened once before,” admitted Theros.

  “You need to do better than that, big guy, we need details,” added the impetuous Nal’drin.

  They all forgot about their bumps and bruises as they circled close around the chieftain, waiting for a better explanation.

  “When the defenses of Stormvale fell during the siege, those of us that survived escaped across the sea. We sailed east to the Highlands to seek the aid of the centaur. When we arrived in the city of Ferrin da’Dour, we met with the centaur magi. They were bewitched, trapped under the shadow. The Great Lion flashed before my eyes and the spirit of the Frelsarine surged through me. The hammer burst into flames before it came crashing to the ground. The flames were blue then though. The magi were silent and afraid, and words of an ancient tongue came forth from my mouth. The prophecy spoken through their forgotten language broke their bonds and the darkness fled,” answered Theros.

  “How did you know what to say?” asked Kiriana.

  “I didn’t... I just... spoke.”

  “So what happened here?” asked Sharka.

  “I... I don’t know. I... I just let go.”

  “Let go of what?” asked Kiriana.

  The silence may have lasted for an age, Theros couldn’t tell. His mind searched for answers he couldn’t find.

  “I...,” he started and paused before quietly saying, “don’t know.”

  “Well whatever you’ve done here my friend, I hope it comes back to your memory, because it could prove the difference in all our fates,” admitted Dominar.

  “No pressure big guy,” added Nal’drin.

  He was the only one that laughed though; it was not a time for humor as far as the others were concerned. They had only been inside these ruins for a moment before they were under attack. What could have spoken life into stone? And why would they attack without provocation? What were they guarding? And what was this great power that their friend carried? These questions filled their minds, yet no answers were in sight. So the five collected themselves and brushed off the remnants of the guardians as they resumed their exploration in hopes of finding answers.

  But those were not the only questions that were asked. A familiar voice whispered into the orc’s ear once again.

  “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

  Before he could think, the gruff voice continued.

  “Such power... power to destroy... power to save. If only it could be harnessed.”

  Theros’s mind asked, “Who are you?”

  “Oh come now, is that truly the question that burns deep inside you? Of course not, but I will answer you anyway, and the answer is yes.”

  “What...?” mused the orc.

  “Can it be harnessed? That was your question, was it not?” said the voice.

  “How...?”

  “Find me...,” whispered the voice one last time before it trailed off into nothingness.

  That was the end of the conversation. Theros didn’t feel that it offered any true answers, just more questions. He could only guess as to whose voice beckoned him, but the real interest was held fast to something else. As they resumed their adventure, he pondered one thing; was it true?

  Could such power truly be harnessed?

  With lit torches, the five passed out of the outer hall through a rather narrow doorway to stairs that awaited them just on the other side. What they didn’t know though, was that those torches didn’t appear to be necessary, at least not at the moment. At the top of the stairs, they made an interesting discovery. Dimly lit blue lights shone down on them from the cavern’s ceiling far, far above them. As Theros examined the ceiling, he saw dozens of massive crystals jutting from the rock ceiling high overhead, and it was those crystals that seemed to almost pulse with the faint light.

  Amazing.

  The lighting wasn’t bright, but it was more than sufficient for the moment.

  “Heavens, have you ever seen anything like it?” asked Nal’drin.

  “Never,” said Dom, who stared at the ceiling mouth agape.

  “It’s...beautiful,” said Sharka.

  Theros could appreciate the beauty, but they weren’t here for faux star gazing, it was time to move. “Get your eyes back down here, unless you want to roll down these stairs.”

  He was right and they listened, mostly. The stairs would only need to take them down about three meters, but in true dwarven fashion it would take thirteen steps on a gradual slope. As they worked their way down the stairs, they began to realize this hall that they were descending into was far grander than the former. A long row of great pillars once again held the lofty ceiling far above. They hoped these pillars didn’t have any life in them, because they must have been at least twenty meters in height!

  “Ah, that must be a way-stone!” shouted Dominar excitedly.

  The anxious dwarf moved to the center of the hall with urgency. The object of his attention was a large rectangular structure made of granite so dark you’d expect to find stars in its depths. Despite the ambient lighting, Dom still carried a lit torch and when he reached the stone, the torchlight showed off the beauty of the polished stone and the artistry sprawled across its surface. The masterfully etched lines upon the stone offered up a greeting as well as the grand design of the entire keep!

  “Bless my beard!” exclaimed Dom as he tugged on the coarse gray hairs that fell from his chin. “Such wit and foresight! Master Duroc you have outdone yourself!”

  “What’s the big deal?” asked Nal’drin.

  Dominar was confused by Nal’drin’s question, so he answered, “Uh, we have the map...”

  He hadn’t meant to come across as condescending, but the boy’s question caught him off guard.

  “I get the map bit, but isn’t a map pretty standard?” asked the agitated young man.

  “Not at all!” replied Dominar. “My apologies, I forget not everyone does things like we dwarves. The ancient dwarven cities of the Old World are quite complex, sophisticated even, in their design. Dwarves are often distrusting and suspicious, and the designs of their cities reflect that with their labyrinthian design. The thought is that even if someone could sneak in, they might never sneak back out with whatever precious things they might covet. They are made so elaborate that even fellow dwarves could get lost”

  “Dar Mar’Kren is not like that at all,” said Nal’drin.

  “Aye, it was not like that at all. My people were so proud, they never believed anyone would dare enter to begin with, but that is another matter entirely. The Dwarven Kings of the East are not so, and it appears that old Duroc has taken after them,” explained Dom.

  “So how does one navigate your cities?” asked Theros.

  “Ah yes, so the key is the way-stones! But this is not a typical way-stone. The way-stones rarely have actual maps upon them. They are often hints written in the form of old adages or riddles. These writings give tho
se who know them the insights necessary to travel from one guide stone to the next!” recalled Dominar proudly as he shared the ways of his heritage.

  “So they serve as a way-point if you understand the clues,” said Kiriana.

  “Exactly my dear!” continued the excitable fellow. “This one here is different though, because it actually just has it all drawn out for us. This should be a piece of gnuddle-hofen.”

  “Gnud-whaten?” asked Nal’drin quizzically.

  “Gnuddle-hofen, or do you prefer broffle-hofen?” asked the dwarf with sincerity.

  “Cake, he means like a piece of cake,” interjected Theros.

  “Cake... why on earth would I say cake? You orcs are strange indeed,” remarked Dominar.

  “You hit your head harder than I realized,” laughed Theros.

  The group all began to laugh, even Dominar chuckled a bit. The big orc just smiled at his old friend. He appreciated Dom, greatly. He trusted him, but it was more than that. He understood something that the others did not quite understand just yet about the graybeard. He understood that Dominar was far wiser and cleverer than he would ever let on. The king’s signet ring that rested upon his finger was proof of the fact that every move made by the dwarf was calculated and purposeful. To call it a ruse might be a bit harsh, but playing the role of the hapless old fool from time to time was a part of the game. He offered a touch of gentleness and light-hearted humor, where none might otherwise be found. You could say that through his disposition, he even offered hope. Perhaps that is what Theros appreciated most. His friend offered him hope. Something which had been in such short supply for the orc these days.

  As the company stood before the way-stone laughing, Dominar’s thoughts remained focused on his friend. His gray-skinned friend had saved his life, again. Theros helped the dwarves crush the Jendari all those years ago, but there were so many adventures that the two had shared in the years that followed; the years before ole Dom found Gretchen’s pretty face and settled down. He loved that behemoth of an orc, and so he feared for him.

  Dominar studied his friend. When no one else was watching, he was. He saw that Theros wasn’t sleeping. He seldom spoke these days. Even his appetite seemed lost. His anger, no his rage, always seemed nearer to the boiling point than not. Many who knew him understood he was the epitome of a gentle giant, but as of late that portrayal of the chieftain seemed contradictory. Perhaps the most concerning thing was that it seemed to him that his friend’s attention and focus had been wrestled away. Questions, unanswered ones at that, surged through his mind. Peering through the windows of the orc’s soul revealed the turmoil of regret, confusion, and doubt.

  “So what does it say?” asked Sharka.

  “What’s that, my dear?” replied Dominar as he shifted his gaze to the female orc.

  “What does it say?” she repeated as she pointed to the dwarven runes carved into the stone.

  “Ah, yes. Yes of course,” answered Dom. “This is Duroc’s Lament. It is a famous poem among my people. It was actually written by Duroc Stonebrow himself, during the construction of this place.”

  “What does it say?” asked Nal’drin impatiently.

  “Hold your horses, lad,” replied Dominar before he recited the engraved poem.

  I found that which was lost in time,

  My course now—simply divine.

  Drank from the well so long hidden,

  An’ basked in strength, not limit ridden,

  An’ found the mate of youthful dour,

  In the secret of darkness’ bower.

  The hour ‘tis late, beyond my prime

  Enfeebled I am by bonds of time,

  Unto the tomb prepared for me,

  Come all those who bear thy key.

  Tarry not, for the wicked come,

  With darkness that will shroud the sun.

  A truth I’d speak till my final breath,

  Know there are fates, worse than death.

  The bones are cast, the course is set,

  You are my gamble, you are my bet.

  So turn the key, open the gate,

  And together we shall face this fate.

  “You know this poem. What is it about?” asked Kiriana.

  “Let’s see,” said Dom before pausing for a minute. “Ah yes, it’s about a dream, you see. The impossible dream of tasting the strength of youth once more, restoring that which age and time have stolen. And the admittance that even death would offer more freedom than a life stolen away by old age.”

  “But dwarves live longer lives than most, I mean you told me you are almost a hundred and fifty years old,” interjected Nal’drin.

  “You’re quite right my boy, but I am not as spry as I used to be.”

  “You seem to do well for an old man,” joked Sharka.

  “Well indeed,” added Kiriana with a nod of agreement.

  “Old man, yes, but as long as this doesn’t slow down, I’ll be alright,” replied the graybeard as he pointed to his noggin.

  Theros’s mind drifted away from the conversation as he tried to put a smile on his face for the sake of his friend, but it was forced. He had known Dominar for a long time, twenty three years in fact. So he could tell better than anyone, that age had caught up with his friend. Theros guessed that Dom should have at least another thirty years in him, but Father Time was making his presence known. And unlike during their adventuring days, Dominar was a husband now, and a papa of two little girls. So the orc stood up tall, straightening his back, and set his jaw resolutely as he nodded in silent agreement with his own thoughts.

  Gretchen, little ones, papa will come home, this I swear.

  It was at that moment, purely by happenstance, that something caught the orc’s attention. The chitter-chatter of the others carried on, but his steely blue eyes were drawn to the way-stone. It was as if the fanciful dwarven engravings which Dominar had so proudly recited, were trying to tell him something. His furrowed brow and intense silent focus soon overtook the group, and they all fell silent as they tried to figure out what he was doing.

  “Theros, what is it?” asked Kiriana.

  “There is more to this engraving,” he answered.

  “What do you mean?” asked Sharka.

  “It’s not a poem—,” he answered.

  “Whataya mean? Dom just told us—” replied Nal’drin.

  Dominar interrupted him, “If its not a poem, what is it?”

  Theros turned to look at his companions before saying, “It’s a riddle.”

  “One we might solve?” asked Dominar.

  “I don’t know. It seems like there might be more to it, like something is missing or incomplete,” speculated the orc as he returned his gaze to the stone monument.

  “So I guess we camp here for the night, while you try to figure it out?” asked Kiriana.

  “Dom, remember when we were in the Velcrest?” asked Theros quickly.

  “Uh yeah, what about it?”

  “You—wrote down the markings in those tombs. Can we do that here?” asked the orc with a bit of excitement in his voice.

  “Ah, stone rubbin’. Sure, just have to dig for my kit,” answered Dominar as he removed his pack.

  Once the heavy leather knapsack fell open, the dwarf began to rummage through the mess of clothes that were stuffed inside. Soon those and the rest of its contents too were spilled upon the floor. Of course Dom’s rubbing kit had to be at the very bottom of the sack.

  “Never leave home without it!” he proudly answered as he held out the charcoal and a blank velum scroll.

  The corner of the orc’s mouth curled up a bit, hinting at amusement as Dom turned back toward the way-stone.

  “Can someone give me a hand,” Dom asked as he waved the scroll.

  Sharka and Kiriana both stepped forward and assisted him. They held the long scroll over the engraved stone surface, allowing him to work the charcoal briquette over the surface. Once he overcame the sneezing fit that the black powdery dust induced, Dom
was able to quickly capture the map as well as the riddle. Then with great care, he rolled the scroll up and secured it with a tie.

  Dominar broke the silence with a suggestion, “As much as I’d like to setup camp, we ought to find the next way-stone first.”

  Theros nodded in agreement, and the group prepared to venture onward.

  “Okay, which way Dom?” asked Nal’drin.

  After taking another glance at the way-stone before them the dwarf answered, “Should be a stairway in the room ahead. It should take us down to level two. Our hope is that we can find the next way-stone easily enough on the next level.”

  So after Dom stuffed all his belongings back into his sack, the group ventured onward. Only a moment had passed and the five had slipped through the passage into the adjoining room. A broad stairwell could be seen to their immediate left, as it twisted back and out of sight. Kiriana wasted no time. Like her hair, the torch blazed as she led the way.

  Nal’drin didn’t wait for an invitation; he was on her heels, following her down the spiraling stairs. He was quickly ensnared once again by the potent fragrance of black jasmine. It snuck up on him and set some part of him ablaze, somewhere far beyond his nose and even his conscious mind. A primal surge started to well up in the young man. He was forced to stop following her for a moment so he could clear his head. A few good shakes and a deep breath served him well, now that he was more than a few paces removed from her aroma.

  It caused a momentary traffic jam in the stairwell behind them. After he was cursed at a few times by the others, he got moving again and in short order all five members of the party were now on the second floor.

  While the dwarven craftsmanship of the dwarven ruins was still on full display with the intricately detailed structures and beautifully carved statues, this floor was much different from the previous one. It was becoming clear to them that the grandness and openness of the hall above was behind them and that from here forward they would find themselves traveling through a very compartmentalized labyrinth. The room that they currently found themselves in was only about four yards across and another ten yards long, with entrances near each of the four corners if you counted the stairs.