The Obsidian Axe: Prelude to the Prophecy

by Patrick Sattler

  He arranged his pack so he could evenly distribute the weight on his small frame. He placed in it several changes of clothes, an extra thick cloak, an additional pair of boots, and some hidden gems. On the outside of his pack he filled the pockets with extra torches, candles, ration packs, some medical supplies like wrapping and some special salve, and then he topped it with rope and a canvas tarp. On either side, he secured an ice pickaxe, extra carabiners, and a pair of crampons. Under the bedroll, he secured a small block and tackle.

  He cast several healing spells on himself, and then he finished packing his items into his backpack, tied it closed, and latched the outer covering. He then took a small canvas tarp and wrapped it around the entire pack, leaving the straps loose, and secured it with rope. It would protect the outer items and prevent them from falling off during the trek. He then laid an extra ice pick next to his ax, climbed into the bedroll, and closed his eyes for the last night he would spend at the hold. The night would be uneventful, but the dreams would be revealing.

  When he was just a lad, Draegos was very small. The other dwarven children would push him around and tease him because of his small frame and his having only seven fingers. He had problems grasping small items, his arms tiring after only moments of use, so his mother took him to the blacksmith. She ordered the blacksmith to mold screws and bolts, along with a small ax, and when he had completed the tasks, she gave them to Draegos. For hours he would sit and manipulate the bolts and screws, his tiny hands moving faster than most.

  She kept him at the main chambers of the Citadel and taught him all kinds of bits of lore and myth. He would be trained in the art of magic and learned how to use the ax by one of the best lords of the Citadel of Wisdom. As Draegos became a young man, he would grow in his ability to cast magic, wielding magic no dwarf had ever attempted, and one day he was invited to become a Mystic. His mother was proud and overjoyed at her son's success, but his father still stared at him with discontent.

  The Calling was a dwarven custom that every dwarf would go through at the age of twenty-three, considered their coming of age, and a dwarf would then choose what occupation they wished to apprentice. As Draegos stood in line in the Great Auditorium, waiting patiently for them to call his name, he stared down the line of one hundred twenty other dwarfs. They all stood much taller than he and were skilled in war and martial arts. He was so small when standing next to his fellow peers, so small he had the nickname of "Gnome," and he felt embarrassed.

  At last, his name was called, and the Grand Vizier bellowed out the line so many had answered, "Where does this dwarf feel the Philosophers calling him?" The Elder looked down at Draegos, winked, and waited.

  "I wish to apprentice at the Cabal of Mystics," Draegos answered quietly.

  "Do not speak softly, dwarf. You have chosen a path forward that not many dwarfs have ever dared, or ventured. Your gifts from the Great Philosophers shall aid you well in the pursuit. Seek wisdom, seek it well, and find what it is you are destined to do." He stood there, waiting.

  The pride welled up inside the little dwarf, and he cleared his throat to speak, "I will become a Mystic of the Cabal, Elder Bryz."

  The Elder placed the necklace of wisdom around the young dwarf's neck and stepped back. "Let it be known that from this day forward, Draegos is no longer of the House BlackAxe, but is now Draegos the Wanderer." The whole auditorium erupted in cheers and excitement. He walked off the stage and sat beside his other brethren, his smile wide and filled with pride. He looked over at his parents, and he noticed his mother's teary smile, his father just sat there stone-faced. He looked down but refused to hide his happiness. Later he would ask his mom why the cheers when he chose his path, while they were alone in their living chambers.

  "Because your father is the Citadel Marshal. To have a son with . . .” She trailed off.

  "It's okay, mom, you can say defect," he said quietly.

  "But it isn't a defect when you find your place. You are a dwarf who casts magic, Draegos, do you even grasp how rare that is?" Her eyes filled with tears. He still hadn't understood how special he was.

  "You may not be the Marshal in the days ahead, once your father retires, but now you'll be so much more. Your 'defects' enable you a view of the world not many have. Compassion. Rage. Fear. Hope. These are emotions that are strong in nature, powerful in motivating people; they can make kingdoms or destroy them," she said as she sat back. His face was wet from the tears that streamed down his cheeks and rolled down his thick beard. "Dwarfs who become apprentices are all held in the same light. It means you found a place within your society, a duty, a role. That is what is important."

  "But Dá would rather have a Martyr or Marauder—someone strong and powerful," Draegos retorted.

  "One day you will be the most powerful Mystic in all of Ar'Ko'Nýa," she responded.

  But you weren't strong enough to save your mother. His father's voice echoed in his mind.

  He awoke earlier than he’d wanted. He sat in the early morning darkness and stared at no particular spot on the wall. He was so tired and sore. Every movement caused a shooting pain in his back, his blind spot tugged at his awareness, and the deaf ear reminded him of how alone he felt. She never said I would be alone.

  He let out a deep sigh and placed his feet firmly on the ground before him, stood up, and walked over to the pot of stew and poured one last bowl. He slowly ate the bowl as he thought back upon the days of his youth. He had learned so much about the physics of magic, the use of voice, and the elemental stones. He was one of the best practitioners of magic at the Citadel, and in time he would become the top student. Those days have passed. The dark, depressing thought of never going home again entered his mind.

  Once he finished his stew, he poured a goblet of mead and began dressing for the long journey. He laced his high snow boots up and then tied some canvas around the outer parts of his boots. He put on his extra ice pick using a carabiner on his belt, attached his ax to his right hip, and donned his heavy winter cloak, tying it at his neck. He pulled on his heavy pack and tied it across his chest and hips, secured several small pouches to the chest straps, and with his left hand opened the door to the outside world.

  The blast of icy wind hit him hard as he opened the stone outer door. He blinked several times before stepping out into the elements and starting his frozen journey to the Citadel of Ice. First, he would need to travel through the ice tunnels in the Dragon Tooth Mountains, and then to the Citadel itself. The journey would take several weeks through high mountain passes and a few glacial valleys. He was thankful that it was the coldest time of the year, and that at least his encounters would be few and far between.

  He reached inside the doorway and grabbed his Ice Staff, which was leaning against the interior wall. He readied his thick wool scarf, put on his snow goggles, and stepped into the howling winds and swirling snowstorm. He looked into the sky, trying to gain a fix on where the sun was, and headed in the direction of the Dragon Tooth Mountains. His first place of note would be the Ice Tunnels, which were a maze of pathways underground that led to the Citadel of Ice. He remembered where the path began but did not know which way to go so he would need to find someone who could guide him.

  What if there has been an attack on that Citadel? The spirit asked him.

  He began his trek up through the Windy Pass, a ridge of prairie along the length of the timberline, used by traveling merchants who visited the Citadels. He contemplated the question his spirit guide asked, and wondered himself at the possibilities. Dwarfs were taught at a young age how to distract the mind while immersed in arduous work. He kept his eyes on the path before him and focused on taking careful steps, his right leg stiff, but pain-free.

  What if it too is gone? He asked the spirit.

  What would you do if it was? The spirit replied.

  I would try and find the snow agate. Any possibility you can help with that? He asked. He kept his mind focused on placing one foot in front of the other in a slo
w and steady rhythm, and only shifted his eyes periodically to prevent sleepiness.

  I might be able to. Depends on how close you can get to the actual stone.

  Gee, you are just full of hope, and whatnot aren't you? Draegos replied back. He briefly stopped and took in a deep breath, allowing moments like this to acclimate as he ascended, then he continued up. He walked a great length that first day, uneventfully, and by the end, he had trekked over thirty miles in the freezing temperatures.

  The sun was setting, and the temperatures were getting dangerously low. Draegos crested the mountainside and looked down across a valley lined by several mountain ridges on both sides, and what seemed to be a hamlet just down the southern side. He looked down the trail and noted the path. Slowly, he descended. Shortly after nightfall, he arrived at the hamlet of Jo'Rik.

  "Who goes there?" a deep voice called out.

  Draegos raised his arms in peace, holding both palms up and open, and he replied, "I am Draegos the Wanderer. I hail from the Citadel of Wisdom. I am headed to the Citadel of Ice." He stood there with his arms up, his Ice Staff leaning against his chest, waiting for a reply.

  "What's your business here?" the same voice called out.

  "Rest. I'll be heading off in the morning, at first light."

  A new voice, softer and feminine, called out, "Draegos, from the Cabal of Mystics?"

  "Correct." He slowly lowered his arms. He thought he recognized the new voice but wasn't sure. He turned his head so his left eye could take in the gate tower and see who or what was going on.

  "You look injured. Your hands are missing fingers," the deep voice called out. "Do you need a healer?"

  "I am a healer," he grumbled.

  “Do they always ask if you are injured because of your hands?” the spirit asked, to which Draegos answered, “Yes.”

  The tall, wooden gate began to crank open, and several figures walked out to meet the dwarf. One was a sylvan, their tall figure close to six foot, and his sturdy frame accentuated by slightly pointed ears and facial tattoos. He bore a suit of banded armor, a heavy winter cloak, and a broadsword on his right hip. The other was a gnome, around three and a half feet tall, but a strong lad at one hundred fifteen pounds, and dressed in light garments and a heavy winter cloak. He rushed up to Draegos and extended his hand in friendship.

  "You may not remember me, but my name is Greffel GemShaper. My sister and I would travel to the Citadel of Wisdom to procure fire gems."

  "I do remember you, though you'll have to find a new source for the gems, the Citadel is lost," Draegos informed the two as he shook Greffel’s hand. He then grabbed his staff. The wind had settled to a slight breeze, but the snow began to fall in full, fluffy flakes. Draegos looked around and noted the size of the snowflakes which were the width of an eye.

  The gnome's sister ran up as she heard the news. Her small frame was hidden deep within the thick cloak and furs, but her green eyes were the contrast. She reached out for Draegos's hand and held it as she asked, "Did you say the Citadel of Wisdom was lost?"

  He couldn't bear it and turned his left eye away from the group, the tears running from it, and he answered, "I did. I am the sole survivor."

  She stepped up to the dwarf and hugged him close. He could smell her lavender oil, and it made him yearn for his mother. He began to cry as she held him close, overwhelmed by all the events that had transpired, and she spoke while holding him, "Let's get him to the Brew Pub and find out what happened."

  "I'll run ahead and have the innkeeper prepare some hearty stew for the wee dwarf," the sylvan quipped and sprinted away.

  The two gnomes walked with the dwarf, as the other gatekeepers closed the large gate, and he noticed how busy the inside of the hamlet was. All over, people were shuffling about, closing the small stores up, and securing the area before they headed to a restful slumber. There were several large buildings, multipurpose, and one of them was an inn called The Brew Pub, that had a large sign out front with a goblet and mead barrel on it. A crowd had already begun to form upon hearing the word of a stranger with ill news.

  As they entered the establishment, Draegos noted the warm environment, the soft flute music, and the comfort of the Inn. The gnomes grabbed a large table and motioned for the dwarf to sit, and as he did so, Greffel called out for a barrel of mead. People began to huddle around the table and stare at the mysterious dwarf.

  "Don't be rude now, everyone!" Glorýa said as she shooed people back. She sat down and looked at the dwarf before her. He was small, had bandages over his right eye, seven fingers, and looked to have been in one hell of a fight before he’d arrived. His gear was slowly thawing, dripping water on the floor, and his full, brown beard began to show hints of red and blonde. He sat there, his eye swollen and red, and he slowly took in the surroundings.

  Two large tables, of which they occupied one, sat in the center of the inn, with six other smaller tables set around the two. There was a bar for drinking, or to order food, with five stools and a kitchen entrance behind the bar. Twenty residents had gathered around him since his arrival, and they looked at him and whispered. He disliked large groups, and he took a deep breath to try and steady himself.

  "You okay, Draegos?" Glorýa asked.

  "I know everyone has questions. And I know I do not look like most dwarfs, but I am a dwarf. I do not have the particulars to tell, all I can say is that the Citadel of Wisdom, Dor'Vienum, has fallen. I can only surmise it was a collaborative effort between the forces of evil and darkness." He stopped, tried to hold back his anguish, and continued, "The last image I saw of it, as I was running, was the entire Citadel falling into a massive pit of fire and destruction." As he said it, he felt the weight of it on him. The people stood in dumbfounded silence and looked at each other in shocked horror; some wept.

  "No one else survived. I waited and searched after the destruction of my home, and all I found were the dead. I buried who I could and left those I could not." He blinked and looked around at the gathered faces, tears streaming down many of them and anguish on all. He let out a sob and then pulled it back.

  Be strong. The townsfolk will rally behind you. The spirit whispered to him in his mind.

  "I set off for the Storage Hold and found it in complete shambles. No one has been there for many moons. I stumbled upon a scavenger party and had to take them all out myself. Three, against one injured dwarf." One of the gatherers cheered for the dwarf. "But I had already fought off an ice worm and was wounded from that struggle. After I dispatched the foul goblins, I passed out, only to awaken to the Old Traveler tending to my wounds."

  The assembled individuals all stared at the dwarf in disbelief. The Sylvan was the first to break the silence.

  "Draegos, my name is Jér'Ák and I humbly ask your forgiveness, but did you say the Old Traveler tended your wounds?"

  "Aye, those words left my mouth," Draegos replied, and then he took a long swig from his goblet. He looked around at all the people who were whispering to each other about the tale.

  "Excuse me, but has anyone heard from the Citadel of Ice lately?" Greffel asked.

  "I haven't heard news in weeks!" the innkeeper called out.

  "Neither have I!" responded the blacksmith.

  "Come to think of it, I haven't seen the insignia of the Citadel for a few months now," offered the captain of the guard.

  "Then it would seem the first thing to do is to contact them. We have to know if it suffered the same fate as Dor'Vienum," Greffel surmised. He ordered some food and sent one of the younglings to find a map of the area. Glorýa moved the other big table next to theirs and arranged the chairs to circle the newly formed long table.

  Draegos sat and rubbed the right side of his head, near the temple, to ease the pain of his right eye while the others went about their tasks. As he gingerly drank the mead, the youngling returned with a long, rolled-up map. While Draegos held one end, the youngling rolled out the other end. It was an exhaustive map of the area.

  D
raegos studied the map and pointed out Dor'Vienum to the onlookers. He took his right pointer finger and trailed it along the path towards the Citadel of Ice, Dor'Éssyn, which went through two hamlets—including Lo'Rik. The other hamlet was on the other side, towards the way to the Citadel of Blood—Dor'Uáta—and was called Nýa'Bín. They would still need to traverse the Ice Tunnels just to get there.

  "Greffel, how well do you know these parts?" Draegos asked.

  "Not too well, but Glorýa knows them like the back of her hand," Greffel offered, and Glorýa responded, "What are you thinking?"

  "I am wondering if the Ice Tunnels have a path to Nýa'Bín, without going to Dor'Éssyn."

  "They do, but it would take an additional three days to get there, and we could cut that in half by going straight through," Glorýa told Draegos.

  He sat back and contemplated the map. Everyone had taken a seat and was discussing what they could do to help Draegos, what they could offer, and what strategies he might take. Then Greffel whistled over to Draegos and motioned for the dwarf to sit by him. He did so.

  "We'll come with you. It’s already been decided. Glorýa can guide us, and I am quite good at fighting." He flashed a toothy grin and then extended his hand to the dwarf, "Do you accept our help?"

  Draegos looked over at Glorýa, who shared the same toothy grin, and he shook the gnome's hand firmly, "I do. The help would greatly be appreciated. But I fear there is something far bigger going on, and for the safety of your lives."

  "Wasn't it the Great Philosophers who spoke of deeds needing to be done, to be done?" Glorýa asked.

  "That would have been the Philosopher of Martyrdom, Bo'Ryas EverBright. He wrote 'Honor and Discipline are nothing without just cause,'" Draegos recounted.

  Everyone rose from the table and set out to collect the items of need and make preparations for the three companions' journey. As the townsfolk did their part, Draegos procured a room for the night with the innkeeper and took his gear up to it. His right leg was throbbing with discomfort and pain, so he sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his knee. The last few months were like a whirlwind to him as he thought about the events leading up to this and the loved ones he had lost.