A Land Far Away

Evening prayer


The candlelight flickered on the rough wooden walls. A wind was shaking the trees outside, whistling through the tiles above, making the shutters rattle. On the little table was a wooden bowl with the dregs of a stew left, next to a tankard. Darvi sat on the hard cot, gazing into the flame.

He squinted, and the light went fuzzy. Images of the recent weeks flitted by. Walking down the gangplank of the Riverboat, onto the quay of bustling little Rivermoot. The oddly shaped square, with the mayor shouting directions to the travellers thronging to see him. The dark, heady atmosphere of the Inn, full of the insipid aroma of human pipeweed. And the strange way a party had formed around him, almost as if directed by someone. Kinsmen, and also humans, some almost kin-like in their honour and bearing. A few hins that joined off and on. And then the excursions into the hills, rooting out various menaces, in which he had finally been able to show Gorm (and himself) that his ability to protect his allies wouldn't falter again. A small step to avenge what he had lost not long ago. One of maybe many to come.

Darvi rose stiffly, and sank down on one knee. He lowered his head and raised his hands, palms up. He prayed.

"Gorm Gulthyn, Ever Vigilant One. Show me how to guard those entrusted to me. Help me steady the strong and shield the weak. Let not false pride and hunger for glory lead me astray from Your charge to me, to protect the Good from the Evil. May I always be strong as a wall that none can pass through, that our kin may live and prosper"

The last few days' hardship were taking their toll. He nodded and swayed a little. He didn't notice his mind wandering. More images arose. More recent ones. A dark anger welled up. The Grey kin. The two shadowy figures, so like dwarves in stature but to a dwarven eye so unmistakable. He had seen such before, captives from raids into the Underdark. He knew too well their hostile history, and what they were known to do to dwarves they themselves captured. Descendants of an ancient foe. And they were tolerated to walk here in broad daylight! Evidently folk here hadn't heard the sinister name of Duergar.

Darvi was breathing heavily through his nostrils.

He had stayed his hand, while struggling to overcome the sudden shock of their sighting. One of them had spoken to him as the other snuck off. A jeering, scoffing tone, with a hint of bitterness underneath. An accusation of ancient wrongs, obviously imagined by his kind in order to justify their cruel acts. "We only wish to live". Such harmless words...spoken with such a double meaning.

The other one though had found no time for making excuses. Indeed, his first act was to spit, something he kept up at regular interval while he talked, as if the slanderous words were not enough to convey his contempt. He had immediately taken to insulting Darvi, besmirching his courage and honour. Darvi had responded through clenched teeth, his hand straying to his axe, but the Grey one went on to claim that the very Morndinsamman were false. Darvi had told him that he would one day regret his words, and tried to make off. The duergar had followed for a bit, taunting like a mad dog, offering to 'brawl' (like common criminals!). But Darvi knew that from this point, their axes would have to continue the argument. His loyalty to his gods, as well as his honour, had been challenged. Since the Grey worked for the Banite priest, he would have to seek him out first. When dealing with slaves, one must speak to their master.

Another series of images, and a sense of loss and regret grew. Only the day before, after the long walk to the fort, they had stayed overnight in the tower, gazing at the moon over the hills and listening to Hendle's tale of a lost citadel nearby. That would indeed be a worthy cause to pursue. Then, after returning to the village, they had set out on a new journey, this time to High Hold, about a days' march away. And then the dank and stinking cave, with vile foes of many different kinds. The party had attacked a band of orcs. The struggle had been violent, with magic blasting and weapons clashing. Finally the orcs lay slain, but so did one of their own number. Brave and good humoured Shard had fallen when some orcs had broken through the first line. A good friend and ally, and a loss that would be felt. Again Darvi had failed to protect one of his shieldbrothers. Soon though, he would have a chance to redeem himself.

He blinked. He caught himself nodding, and swore inwardly at his faltering self discipline. Once more he closed his eyes.

"Gorm Fire Eyes, aid me in facing the inevitable. Guide my hand, steel my courage, and may the Fates judge if I shall return to Your Halls, or continue calling on Your name from this world. There is so much to do here. So many kin need your servants. So much has been lost that needs to be reclaimed. But Honour and Duty comes first. If I live, I shall pursue Your will with ever more tenacity. If I die, I go to You with my honour intact."

He stood and performed the ritual motions of evening prayer, then sat down on the cot and sighed. The floorboards out in the hallway of the inn creaked as some late comer was making his way to bed. The light glinted off the mail shirt and axe that lay on the stool. The shutters rattled and the wind whistled.

Boom.

The heavy wooden door shook and rattled on its hinges. Voices, deep and hoarse, were heard yelling and jeering just outside. The stones of the fort were piled high above, good sturdy defensive craftmanship, beyond which stars were glittering shrough shredded clouds.

Boom.

Crack.

This time, as the log being used as battering ram struck the doors, something splintered and one of the massive boards was pushed in a little. Darvi crouched under his great shield. Arrows still came whistling into the courtyard, fired in great arcs over the battlements. On the far side of the door, Hendle was simmilarly taking cover, only his axe and helm visible over the rim of the shield. Further back, hidden among barrels and crates along the walls, the others huddled.

It had been quite a trek, up in the hills outside Rivermoot.A motley party it was, hin, gnome, elf, human and the two dwarves. But all and sundry needed to band together now for any such expeditions, now that all the orcish tribes were riled up against the humans and their allies. Small groups and lone travellers were regularly ambushed and slaughtered. That had been the fate of the man and hin that had fallen the other day. Now their compatriots, who had barely escaped themselves, wanted to return to claim and bury the remains, such as they might be.

Again and again the doors shook. The repeated impact reverberated from the walls. Two of the hinges were beginning to bend and twist. Suddenly there was something different about the sound the falling arrows were making. Streaks of reddish light illuminated the faces of the defenders as fire arrows came sailing down. Some struck the earth, and a few found a mark in crates where they stuck, smoldering. Darvi cast a glance around. No serious fires had developed yet, but it could get worse. And all the missiles kept them from getting up and bracing the door. But what good would that do them now, anyway? It was only a matter of time before they would have to face the raging enemy outside.

It had been midday when they set out. Leaving the road they had picked their way up the rocky trails, keeping a constant lookout for signs of orcish presence. Darvi could often sense when something was not as it should, and he had had an eerie feeling all along. The hills had been very quiet, except for the noise the group made when someone dislodged a small rock, or some armour clanked. Eventually they had neared the site of the ambush. They smelled the orcs before he could hear them. Four of them there were, huddling or standing around a cauldron. Next to them on the ground lay the pale, naked corpses of a man and a hin. They had arrived not a moment too soon. After brief preparations, they had attacked the surprised orcs. The battle was swift, and soon the enemy lay dead, the adventurers only suffering minor wounds. It was when they prepared to carry the two fallen comrades that Hendle signalled all to be quiet. He pointed up at the ridge. Many dark shapes were darting about the rocks, sometimes silhouetted against the sky.

"To the Fort! Now!"

(And now two months later I have finally gotten my act together and finished this piece)


They dropped the bodies and scrambled up towards the old Northern Fort as fast as they could. Black-feathered arrows started zipping all around them, clattering on the rocks. Pounding on the gate they shouted to be let in. The great bolt was drawn and the gates swung open. They rushed in. As the gates were shut and bolted behind them they explained, panting, to the burly half orc commander what had happened. He was less than delighted at the news, and started barking orders to his men to prepare for the onslaught.

And here they were now. Hemmed in by an orcish war party, outnumbered and with no chance of escape. Well, Darvi thought to himself, not worse than what so many of our kin have faced, again and again over the numberless years. They had all stood fast, knowing that by doing so they had honoured themselves, their ancestors and their descendants (if they survived to have any). Any dwarf worth his beard knows how to sell his life dearly. He and Hendle, being followers of Gorm, knew this well and had little doubt in their minds about what was expected of them.

But what about the others? Even though they weren't dwarves, they had fought by their side, to the best of their ability. Darvi looked back, and saw panic written on some of their faces. Not on the elf though. He had told them that he had fought alongside dwarves a few hundred years earlier and had even learned their tongue. He, of all people, was the one that they needed to worry the least about. Darvi felt more concerned about the hin and the gnome. They were breathlessly staring at the widening cracks in the doors.

Then a shout was heard from outside the wall. Something large and smoking came flying, spinning as it tumbled into the yard. With a metallic crash it struck the pavestones. It was an iron cauldron, and thick black smoke was pouring out of it. Soon it was impossible to see, and the smoke burned their eyes and lungs, making them cough and gag.

Darvi knew something had to be done. He hesitated for a minute, pressing his cloak over his face, but then made up his mind. Leaping up and holding his breath, he sprinted across the distance to the cauldron and grabbed hold of it. He heaved, but as he did so, his foot slipped on something and he fell forward, involuntarily gasping. Immediately his lungs were filled with smoke, and they seemed to be instantly crushed by some immense pressure. Everything went black.

When he came to, he had been dragged to safety by Hendle. He was propped against the wall, behind some crates near the gate. He blinked, and felt a great pain in his chest. His throat was incredibly sore, and he heard himself croak as he spoke.

"We have to throw that thing out. We cannae fight like this.The others can barely stand."

Hendle nodded. "But this time, together."

Darvi stumbled to his feet and Hendle got up after him. Again Darvi reached the cauldron and with Hendle's help, hurled it over the cliff that fell away from the northen side of the fort. They had barely caught their breath though before the gate splintered with a final crash. Bows were bent and swords were raised as their friends prepared for the inevitable melee. Darvi and Hendle unslung their axes and shields and charged back. Orcs now leaped over the broken planks, yelling hoarsely.

The two sides crashed into one another. Axes broke shields and helmets, swords crossed and arrows whizzed and thudded into armour and limbs. Darvi swung his great war axe mightily, shouting "By Axegard" and felling many orcs. Hendle fought no less vigorously, and at their side the other companions helped to keep the enemy at bay. The melee kept on furiously for a few minutes, but when over a dozen orcs had fallen, their morale broke and they retreated in disorder.

The defenders stood panting, surveying the carnage. Those who were wounded tried to staunch their flowing blood. The dwarves leaned on their axes and nodded to each other. The orcs had withdrawn, for now. But the adventurers had only bought scant time. This was probably only a taste of much worse to come for Rivermoot and its allies.

Darvi raised the tankard and took a long sip. The rich brew flowed into his belly and warmed his sore limbs. He leaned back and sighed. In his left hand he held his long wooden pipe. He turned it round slowly between his thumb and forefinger. Frowning, watching the smoke rise, spiraling toward the ceiling, he gradually lost himself in thought.

Images floated by as the barroom scene before him faded. Events of recent weeks and months got jumbled together, some of them, often apparently insignificant, standing out in great detail and sharpness, while others that seemed to contain some great importance were hard to recall and grasp fully. It had been a time of startling and tumultuous events interspersed with long periods of quiet boredom.

The orcish threat had apparently been removed. The hordes that had gathered outside Rivermoot had finally struck, taking everyone by surprise. Fortunately, enough defenders had been around to defeat the besiegers, who had now withdrawn after heavy losses. Darvi regretted not having been present but the main task had been achieved. The hills around that small town were safer, which now opened up possibilities for exploring and maybe wresting some of the mines up there from the remaining goblins and orcs.

Kinsmen had come and gone since then. It had been near impossible to fulfill his quest of protecting all the wandering dwarves he came upon in the lowlands. Hendle and his brother had disappeared. Amus Ironbeard, the strong and rowdy warrior, had fallen unaided by his kin. His wife would have to fend for his many children alone. Nurna, the young woman that Darvi had promised to bring to Felbarr, was now nowhere to be found. It was as though Gorm himself had determined to make his mission impossible.

The one dwarf who had remained for a long time was the steadfast Mordak. Talkative for a Talhund, he was nevertheless as sturdy and dependable as any of that mountain gods' clergy. Yes, he was a kinsman who would walk the same paths as Darvi. A cleric, and one more advanced in his faith than Darvi. Was this some kind of sign? And if so, of what? Mordak clearly was able to call upon his deity to a greater degree than Darvi could on his. Of course, part of that lay in the nature of Gorm. With so much to protect, how could The Silent Defender have much energy to lend to one wayward Barakor, one who had left his hold instead of guarding it, one who in so many ways failed even the basic tenets of his faith?

Darvis' response had been to focus more on his worldly skills of combat. It seemed the divine was well represented in Mordak, he was a dwarf who protected other kin, healed them, and gathered them to himself. Darvi saw that the greater need for himself was as a guardian, a shield to set between his companions and whatever assailed them. Thus far he had both had successes and failures.

He thought of the many times wily orcs had snuck past the shield wall and attacked the archers and spell casters. Sometimes with deadly results. It was so difficult to organize a group of mismatched adventurers that had never trained together like a proper dwarven shield unit. Adventurers are all individualistic, and no one has any inclination to follow the lead of any other. Well, Darvi would have to do what he could to see to the safety of all. Bloody hard, it was.

His thoughts went out of focus again. Then he felt a certain sting of irritation. He heard in his mind the voices of the accursed guards at High Hold. What a bunch of louts, with nothing better to do than to harass the very adventurers who made their life out there easy, if not possible at all. How could they survive with so many hostile tribes of gnolls, lizardmen and orcs within a few hours march, if not for the actions of a few, who sought out and combated these very enemies? And yet they had the nerve to try to impose their incongruous rules and regulations on whoever happened to wander by. One day maybe they would learn their lesson.

Well, Darvi mused. Even with few kin on the roads there is much for one Barakor to do. If there is no kin to protect there are at least many potential allies. As long as folk of other races hold to the same ideals as dwarves, or at least combat their mutual enemies, why not help guard them? Hopefully Gorm wouldn’t mind too much.