by Tiger Hebert
“The Sky Reach Pass is narrow. We must shift formation in case they chase us into the pass!” shouted Ogron loudly, pointing toward the jagged mountain peaks to the north.
The drivers maneuvered the large hrall-led wagons back into a typical caravan formation. The thick brown clouds rolled in the wake of the caravan, choking out any sight of their pursuers. The strength of the mighty hralls was fading, but they could still hear the sound of the Ni’al behind them. As they pushed the beasts forward, they could feel that they were on a slight incline. Fearing that the remaining Ni’al would gain ground on them, they braced themselves, expecting them to burst through the clouds at any moment.
As they waited, the howls and cries of the Ni’al began to fade. Swirling clouds of sand thinned out and dispersed as the wagons were dragged over the hardening ground at the foot of the Sky Reach. Through the dusty night sky, they only saw the territorial Ni’al in the distance, abandoning their pursuit. They all could breathe a sigh of relief and ease the pace of the hralls.
Eventually sand gave way to dried dirt and rock. The landscape was littered with tiny patches of faded grass here and there. Trees grew sporadically, decorated with fading leaves. The silence fell over them once again as they traveled under the glow of the pale moonlight in the fading hours before sunrise.
Only a few miles remained before the travelers reached the base of the Sky Reach. The jagged peaks were truly a sight to behold as they climbed to staggering heights above the wastelands below. Orcs typically didn’t travel this far north, and many of them were in awe of the rocky precipices that rose before them. Many mouths, young and old, hung open as they stared.
“The men of the Sky Reach have sentries along the mountain pass. To avoid confusion, we must clearly declare our intentions and await their response. Failure to do so would result in unnecessary bloodshed,” stated the chieftain. “We will encamp at the base of mountains, outside the pass.”
With a slow approach, the wagons reached the end of the wastelands. Ogron signaled for the caravan to come to a stop. The opening to the canyon was merely a few hundred feet away when the wagons finally rolled to a stop. Ogron slid down from the top of his tired beast. With a gentle pat, he thanked the animal for its service. Then he turned to address his people.
“I need some men to release the hralls from their yokes. They are relieved of their burden for now. Make sure we get them water. I need some men to gather some of the vegetation from this area for them to feed upon. They have carried us this far. Bringing them food so they don’t have to graze is the least we can do,” instructed Ogron. “Theros, Ugluk, and Broz will help me build the signal banner while the rest of you work to build the signal fire.”
“Yes, Chief,” echoed through the group as they responded to their leader’s directives.
“There is almost no wood in this desolate place. We will have to use one of the wagons for wood,” said Theros.
He was right. There was very little in the way of trees in the immediate area, and the little that was there would need to be used for firewood. They busied themselves as they shifted the wagon’s supplies to the others that were nearby. The large white hide that made up the tent covering was untied from the bivouac-style support frame. The hide was set aside as they worked to dismantle the coach. They cut down the support beams of the framework and tossed the wood into a pile. Then they proceeded to hack the harness shafts off the wagon’s frame. The banner would need to be seen from a good distance, so it would need to be rather large. The long and sturdy poles would be needed to erect a post large enough to hang the banner from.
The scouts worked to disassemble the wagon plank by plank. Meanwhile, Theros and Ogron worked to build a frame from the scrap wood. The frame began to take shape as they used small straps of leather to bind the wood together. The vertical masts were a shoddy construction, but it would have to suffice, under the circumstances. The two masts were connected at the top by a crossbeam, which was likewise bound by leather straps and other wrappings. The building of the framework resembled the art of raft making. The tired orcs worked through the early morning without stopping.
It was the darkest part of dawn. The large fire burned, illuminating the base camp, allowing the orcs to raise their homemade structure in the dawn’s light. The worn white hide was strung across the rickety dual-mast frame. Their banner stood about ten feet tall while the width was about two or three feet at most.
The moon dipped lower and lower into the horizon as only the faintest glow of the sun teased the eastern sands. The four orcs sat around the fire while their people got what little rest they could. They did not laugh or speak. Quietly they rested in the warmth of the flames. Their sharp teeth tore into bits and scraps of dried meat.
While he gnawed on the jerky, Ogron wrestled with the weight of his people’s future. He understood that the humans could easily keep their gates closed to them. If that were to happen, they would be forced to move on. Staying on as unwelcome guests was a dangerous proposition, especially in a foreign land. He struggled with knowing that there were no alternatives. He hoped that his people could find refuge among the men of Sky Reach. He fought against his fears, but the thought of being turned away by the humans tied knots in his stomach.
As his mind played through possible scenarios over and over again, he was distracted by a new sound. The four orcs all shifted their focus north of the camp as they listened intently to the rhythmic pounding. Gentle rays of light peaked over the eastern horizon as the sounds grew louder. They rose to their feet as the noise came to an abrupt finish.
“Greetings, human,” said the chieftain as he walked slowly toward the emissary.
“Greetings, orc,” answered the mounted figure. “State your business,” he fired impatiently.
Calmly Ogron responded, “We have been driven from our homeland in the hills. I seek refuge for my people.”
The sun continued to lift itself into view as it rose over the horizon. The darkness retreated, and the mounted messenger came into clearer view. A dark cloak draped over his shoulders and down around his body. His hood concealed all but his expressionless face. Sunlight revealed the true colors of the beautiful horse. Its raven mane marked a stark contract against the ash-covered body marked with small white splotches.
“What could drive away savage orcs?” asked the scout as he pulled back the hood of his cloak.
“The Zenari have been lost to madness. They hunger and thirst for blood, and they are well fed,” replied the chief with great sadness.
“Zenari? You mean the people of the forgotten city?” he asked.
“It is fallen but not forgotten,” answered Ogron.
“So you have brought your war with the jungle people to the Sky Reach?” the human asked suspiciously.
“The darkness in Karthusa is much bigger than me and my people. The dragon’s shadow is growing, and before long it will stretch far beyond even these lonely mountains.”
“Did you say dragon?” the scout asked skeptically.
“You do not know of the black dragon? His same shadow has already fallen on the elves, leaving destruction and ruin in its wake. The same can be said of our homes. Nothing remains of them but ash. It is only a matter of time before the plainsmen of Nashia are slain or enslaved,” explained the chief.
“Your story is troubling, but we have our own concerns. I am Jaicent, scout in the king’s army, and for the time being, I grant you free passage among these mountains. I cannot grant access to Storm Vale, but perhaps we can offer you some assistance. Gather your wagons and await my return at our outer gate,” instructed the middle-aged man as he pointed up the mountain road.
“Thank you, Jaicent,” responded Ogron.
The scout had already turned away from the orcs without waiting for their reply. Steering his horse north, he pushed the steed into a light gallop. It wasn’t long before the horse and rider disappeared inside the winding walls of the canyon.
“It is time to close down c
amp. Gather the hralls and secure them. We must go,” ordered Ogron.
The scouts, Ugluk and Broz, darted off on the strength of young legs as they took to their task.
“These humans don’t care about orcs,” said Ogron in a low voice.
“Nor did the makers of these hammers,” responded Theros with quiet confidence as he glanced at the beautifully fashioned weapons that hung from his own belt.
A smile warmed his face as the image of his old friend entered his mind.
Theros placed a hand on his big brother’s shoulder and spoke, “Change is inevitable, especially in such a precarious time. How we react to it will make all the difference. They will understand in time.”
Ogron nodded in acknowledgement. Without further delay, they began rousing their companions from their short-lived slumber.
16 Timely Tidings
“Dominar, you sent for me?” asked Nal’drin.
“Aye, you came quickly, too. Good man,” responded the stout blacksmith as he stepped away from his work.
“What can I do for you?” he replied.
“You, sir, can help me with all of this,” answered Dom as he pointed to the stacks of finished works crowding his shop.
“I am not a smith. What can I do?” Nal’drin asked with a puzzled look on his face.
“You can pull that wagon for me,” said Dominar with a laugh, “’cause I’m too old!”
“That frosty beard confirms your story, old dwarf,” remarked the young man as he let out a chuckle. “How many years did it take to get that much gray anyway? Fifty?”
“Fifty? You silly humans! I was just a lad when I was fifty. Old Dom has been around nearly two and a half times as much.” Dominar laughed as he stroked his beard.
“Do all dwarves live such long lives?” asked the young man.
“Some less, some more. Dwarves generally live long lives compared to humans,” answered Dominar.
A confused look draped over Nal’drin’s face. “Then why does there seem to be so few dwarves? If you guys live so long, shouldn’t there be thousands of dwarves instead of hundreds?” he inquired.
“Dwarves have great big hearts, but heads that’re harder than Mar’Kren itself. Besides that, our feet stink too. It takes a strong woman to tolerate one of us,” said the old dwarf with a straight face.
“So your wife, her name was Gretchen, right? She must be stronger than most then?” replied Nal’drin with a smirk.
“Stronger she is, lad, stronger she is!” conceded Dom with laughter.
The man and dwarf began to make their way through the dark subterranean streets of the mountain hold. Dominar left the heavy lifting to the young man. The cart he pushed was piled high with shields and swords. Their designs were all uniform, but the quality was evident, as was their purpose. The works of the old smith’s hands were not for ornamentation but rather for their true design.
As they passed through the streets, Nal’drin’s eyes shifted to the widely dispersed markings that sprawled over the walls and other stone structures. Engraved words, the likes of which his blue human eyes had never seen, were written everywhere. Their delicately written tongue seemed misplaced among the rough and gruff people he had been exposed to.
Very few of the dwarves he had encountered, outside of Dominar and his family, seemed comfortable with the human presence. Most of them kept their distance and avoided any unnecessary interactions. He was thankful that his people had a place of refuge, but he knew that they were largely unwanted.
As he pushed his thoughts past the rejection, he returned his focus to the engraved writings. Something about the markings captured his curiosity.
“Dominar, what are all these writings?” he asked.
“Ah yes, the Gorn Tor Elbath. They are the sacred writings of our history,” replied the dwarf.
“Writings of your history? I don’t understand,” said Nal’drin with a look of confusion.
“Not my history, our history—yours, mine, all of ours. It is the story of the beginning and the end. Most of the dwarves living in this mountain believe them only to be tales, passed down through the generations as simple folklore. Many blindly follow the ceremonies and rituals of ages passed, without contrition or question, but as unchecked tradition,” explained Dominar.
“What do you mean by unchecked tradition?” questioned the young man.
“Call me old-fashioned or simply foolish, but I believe that the motivations of a man’s heart are just as important as his actions.” He continued, “If we are to speak of character, it’s probably time that we have some. Life is too fragile and beautiful for it to be without purpose. If our very existence is for nothing more than bringing glory to ourselves, it would be a tragedy.” Dom paused, then spoke again, “No, I believe that our very footsteps echo into eternity.”
“This is why you help my people,” said Nal’drin.
“It is my reason for everything,” returned Dominar.
“You really believe this,” he replied with a contemplative stare.
“There is much that I don’t know or understand, but these are not merely words,” exclaimed the dwarf as he glanced at the engraved words with a look of youthful wonder. “No, my human friend, the very essence of life flows through them. There is a depth that is beyond my simple mind—a depth filled with hope, joy, and freedom. They carry a power far greater than any of these,” fired Dom as he pointed to the wagonload of swords and shields.
“What do you mean they are alive? You sound more than half mad,” retorted the human as he shook his head and chuckled.
“These are more than just words and stories. You don’t just read ’em. Rather, they can speak to you,” said Dominar.
“I am not sure that I can really make sense of that. From what I have seen and heard, you dwarves are all a very religious people. You yourself mentioned the incessant practice of ancestral customs and traditions. If these words and stories are so powerful, what is the problem?” questioned Nal’drin as he groped for understanding.
“An act of kindness done under obligation and not out of love carries little value. Tradition without understanding the very reason of its existence is worthless pageantry. When you don’t connect to the source of the tradition, you celebrate the tradition itself, and not its origin, its meaning. My brethren can recite prayers in their sleep, but few actually grasp their meaning or the power of their invocations,” explained Dominar.
“That makes sense. But, Dom, don’t you think it’s judgmental to assume they don’t understand what they are doing and saying? That seems harsh,” asked Nal’drin.
“I am no man’s judge, and I know that. But much can be learned from a tree and its fruits. A Kiyai tree will not be fruitful if planted in the desert. Likewise, men must build a foundation upon fertile and solid ground if their souls are to prosper,” professed Dominar.
“How does one water their soul?” asked Nal’drin skeptically.
As the words escaped his mouth, the noise of the city streets were overcome by the echoing blasts of the signal drum.
Boom, boom, boom. Boom, boom, boom. Boom, boom, boom.
The rhythmic percussions reverberated through the cavernous mountain refuge. The busyness of the streets quickly turned to excitement mixed with a great level of uncertainty. The two men looked at each other as they made their way toward the main gates.
“What is that?” asked Nal’drin.
“It is the same drum that signaled your arrival. Dar Mar’Kren has guests, again. We must hurry,” replied Dominar.
“Very well,” he answered as he began pushing his cart with a greater sense of urgency.
They did not speak any more as they made their way quickly toward the courtyard.
The growing throng had blocked out most of their view, so the two left the cart behind as they began to maneuver their way through the crowd. With no small level of pushing and jostling, Dominar was able to work his way past the mob into the courtyard. The noise of the chatter and specul
ation only grew as more of the audience was able to see the source of alarm. Looking across the courtyard, they saw three mysterious figures standing still near the exit.
Dominar guessed that they must be humans. They were at least as tall as his new friend, but they were perhaps still a bit too short to be elf folk. Their complexions were pale, and their long raven colored hair was uniformly pulled back into ponytails. Black garments covered their lean frames. Long dark green cloaks were partially wrapped around them, draping over their left shoulders, shrouding half of their bodies. The suspicious appearance of the men was highlighted by their worn black brooches, each engraved with a single eye. Amidst the clamoring, they stood in stoic silence as they watched a sour-faced dwarf approach them. Judging from his ornate regalia, they presumed that he was the man they were looking for.
“We have more than enough squatters!” barked the commander.
“Commander Ronnick, I presume?” inquired one of the visitors as he stepped forward slowly.
“I know who I am. Who the hell are you?” snapped the cantankerous dwarf.
“Your disposition precedes you. I am Master Slayer Kyarl of the Unveiled Eye. We have been sent to you as a herald of things to come,” answered the man in a steady voice.
“We don’t care about your problems. We dwarves have kept to ourselves for generations, and that isn’t about to change,” retorted Ronnick, not hiding his frustration and displeasure.
“Wrong, master dwarf. The black dragon’s army is only growing, and that army has one purpose—to lay waste to all that refuse to bow to their master. They have already begun to spread death and destruction across Darnan. These squatters here can attest to this, as their homeland lays in scorched ruin. Dar Mar’Kren is next, and it will not stand against him. I’d say that makes it your problem,” replied Kyarl.
