The sky was clear that day, not a cloud to mar the blue perfection as far into the horizon as one could see. The town beneath that magnificent sky was far less majestic. Once a bustling town of well-kept huts, sturdy piers, and beautiful boats that were as pleasing to look at as they were sea-worthy, the place had become a ghost haunting the shore. The few huts which had survived the fires were nothing more than gutted, crumbling shells. Most of the one-hundred or so surviving townsfolk who weren’t dragged away by the monsters from across the Great Sea for nefarious purposes were grimy with soot and chained together, tasked with cleaning the remaining fish they had left to feed the invaders.

Only five trogmortem remained with the captives in the city. All of them were beastly, nasty, and cruel. Their green eyes glowed when the light hit them just right, not like creamy jade or a sparkling emerald, but something ominous, the kind of eyes that startle you out of slumber while trapped within a night terror. They had rough, reddish skin that almost looked like hardened scales. Their builds were thin with wiry muscles, but they were still as wide across as two stout men, and more than twice as tall. Their bent postures kept their stony fists just off the dirt as they lumbered around threatening any of their prisoners who slowed even the slightest in their work with long, blackened claws and sharp fangs wet with saliva.

The biggest of them, Nalzin-Lo carried a massive whip with small metal shards fastened about its end. They jingled as he shook the thing and whistled loud when he cracked it. He was the first to notice the deep gray clouds forming atop the hill above the small fishing village. It was like a ball with rough edges swirling and expanding. Blue lightning arced within and around it occasionally striking out in zig zag patterns ten to twenty feet long.

“What do you make of that?” he yelled back to his kin.

“Strange looking storm right there on the ground,” one answered back.

“Maybe the gods,” another added. “Should we kneel.”

“You saw the great tiger when he came to call on Ott in the great waste,” Nalzin-Lo grunted back. “He didn’t arrive riding lightning or floating in clouds. He was just there. No. Form up on me. If anything steps out of that mess, we’ll rip it to shreds.”

The swirling mass of clouds grew larger until it was a full fifty feet in diameter. Flashes of lightning came faster as the bolts traveled further and further out from the thing. Finally, a bolt arced out and blasted the trogmortem standing next to Nalzin-Lo. It blew a hole right through the nasty beast’s chest and tossed him twenty feet through the air. The crack of thunder that accompanied the strike shook the ground and toppled the other four beasts right to the ashy sand.

“Stay down,” Nalzin-Lo,” shouted at his group.

Fear danced about the prostrate group as they watched the growing mass in horror. The lightning subsided slightly as the swirling clouds gained depth. Before long, it looked like a corridor expanding before them at the top of the hill, rather than a cloud growing just above the ground. When Hagen stepped out of the swirling tunnel, removed his hood, and shook out his healthy mane of light brown hair, those luxurious waves fell around a fresh face that could not have seen more than twenty-five summers.

Nalzin-Lo jumped to his feet, looked around at his brethren, and laughed, “He is a child.” Then he looked back up at Hagen and commanded, “Best go back where you belong. There is nothing for you here.”

“On the contrary,” Hagen smiled flashing teeth as white as fresh snow, “I have come for those people you’ve been terrorizing, and I aim to see them free from beneath your heel. Leave now, and our quarrel can wait. Remain, and I crack the ground beneath your feet, burn you with lightning, and bury you beneath the waves where the fishes can pick your bones clean of your rotten flesh.”

The threat only made the mighty trogmortem laugh harder. He nudged the warrior next to him and said, “We haven’t the time for this. Kill the fool.”

The grim trogmortem soldier heeded the command. He charged up the hill toward Hagen with murder in his eyes and a menacing war cry pouring forth from his lips.

Hagen didn’t budge. His smile just widened as he raised his arms out to his sides and shouted in a voice as beautiful and terrible as a god’s, “BARAQU!”

As soon as the command left Hagen’s lips, three bolts of lightning from three different flashes in the sky all converged on the charging trogmortem. Thunder shook the ground as the massive beast exploded in a sloppy cloud of blood, meat, bone, and entrails.

He smiled at the remaining trogmortem and bellowed, “I warned you. I gave you ample time to free yourself from my vengeful gaze, and you have spat upon that gift. RIMANIS IM!”

Wind suddenly swirled around the three remaining trogmortem. Nalzin-Lo’s eyes were wide with terror when his head slammed into one of his soldier’s knees. Then something smashed into his elbow. He couldn’t tell if it was a head, a foot, an elbow, or something else. The vicious wind spun so strong it dragged dirt up from the ground to color itself dingy brown as it stretched up into the sky, a hundred-foot whirlwind spinning faster and faster. Nalzin-Lo was nearly unconscious when the sensation of falling upward finally ceased. He just spun there, bouncing off his brothers, helpless and out of control.

“NAHU!” Hagen commanded.

The swirling wind immediately ceased, and the three trogmortem fell one-hundred feet to crash upon the merciless ground, smashing into bruised puddles of blood and vomit. Once the sound of rushing wind, bodies thudding dully against grassy sand, beasts crying and groaning, and bones cracking from the force of falling from great heights had ceased, Hagen turned his attention to the terrified townsfolk.

The grim menace that had twisted up Hagen’s recently young face as he battered monsters with the elements smoothed into a friendly smile as he spread his arms wide and approached the chained and huddled mob. The sounds of dull sobs and heavy, chain links clinking and squeaking against one another as the frightened group hugged each other huddling as closely together as possible in fear of the next attack made it difficult for him to maintain the calm demeanor. If it were in his power, he would kill those monsters again and again. Thoughts like that were dangerous, but their crimes against his people had been great.

Thoughts of punishment suddenly swirled about in his mind. They were foreign. Much had changed in the past few hours—forgotten ideas and power well beyond any elixir he could concoct—but the idea of punishment wasn’t one of them. It was new, fresh. He’d always been a man with a mind for learning and nurturing. Even the idea of using his remembered power to free his people wasn’t born from a longing for revenge. After witnessing how cruel the beasts from across the Great Sea had been, and how callously they had treated his people, it was difficult not to embrace ideas like punishment and revenge.

The welcoming smile he had forced onto his face remained as he spoke soothingly, “Good people of Castrine, you have survived terrors no man should ever have to endure. You have lost many you love, your homes, your glorious ships, and even your way of life. You have spent your lives loving the Great Sea, showered in its glorious bounty, and now fear what comes out of it. There is much of that I cannot change. There is no power great enough to pull someone back from the Lake once that journey has been made, and the only thing that can heal this new fear is time. Havenstahl has failed you. I have failed you.”

“Ye ain’t failed nothing,” a grimy, old woman popped her head up from the huddled mass. Her voice was rough with age, but strong. Her eyes, though gray from cataracts and partially obscured by messy, gray hair, sparkled with hope as she continued, “Them monsters did what they did. Ain’t nothing can be done for what’s been done. But what of us who remain. What do we do now?”

“SIKKURU PETU,” Hagen boomed in response. Instantly, each cuff fastened to each wrist in the huddled mass popped open, and the chains binding the group clanged to the ground. Then he turned toward the hill behind him and shouted, “NGIR DU!”

The group of newly homeless refugees had just begun rising to their feet when bright flashes of blue lightning arced across the sky atop the hill. The crack of thunder that immediately followed drove them all back to the ground, prostrate and covering their heads.

“Please, good people of Castrine, you have nothing else to fear. I am here to help not harm you. In fact, I will see to it that no monsters from across the Great Sea will ever harm you again,” his voice had gained an imploring note as he approached the brave woman who had spoken and touched her gently on the shoulder.

“Look there,” he said, as he pointed toward the swirling mass of blue light that had formed atop the hill stretching into the horizon like a corridor. “You have nothing to fear. Despite the lights and clouds and sparks, that is nothing more than a doorway. You will walk through and find yourselves in the courtyard at Havenstahl. Walk up to the first person you see and tell them you need help. They will know what to do.”

“How will they know?” the old woman asked. “We’ve got the look of grimy trail thieves.”

“My voice will leave your lips when you speak, and they will understand,” Hagen smiled down at her. “Now go. I promise you, once we’ve sent the monsters from across the Great Sea back to their homes, we will rebuild your village to its former glory. Your lives will return to normal.”

The group obliged Hagen’s command and trudged slowly up the hill. He watched as the able helped the injured until all had made it through. He waved his hand once the last had crossed the threshold, and the swirling mass shrunk out of existence. Then he turned his gaze south down the coast allowing the grim menace of his expression to chase his smile away.

The fresh, mountain air was cool on Elbahor that night. It smelled like rain, but Glaadrian new the shower was far enough off to not be a hindrance. The old dwarf’s knees weren’t acting up at all. They would be giving him fits if a storm were imminent. Despite the overcast sky above blocking all the light of a full moon no one on the mountain could see that night, the grizzled dwarf soldier was confident he and his group would remain dry during their mission.

That overcast sky was a blessing. The mountaintop was nearly pitch outside of a small dome of flickering, orange torchlight occupied by two battle-hardened trogmortem and the object of Glaadrian’s mission, a waif of a dwarf named Alenaat. Though his position offered no view of the tortured dwarf, he knew the latter was chained to the Sacred Pine, a custom that had ended when Maelich chopped the head off a giant and freed a city of dwarves from that monster’s rule. Maomnosett Ahm had been a hard ruler, not a creature Glaadrian looked on with anything close to fondness. However, by all accounts he’d heard sneaking through the caves beneath Alhouim—he refused to call the city he loved Maomnosett regardless whose rump warmed the throne—Ott was a million times worse. At least Ahm had been relatively fair when not pushed to his limits. Ott was just a cruel, malicious tyrant. In his first act as king of his stolen city he reinstituted that horrid punishment for the crime of a loud mouth and a loose tongue.

Had adrenaline not been coursing wildly through Glaadrian’s veins he may have taken a moment to reflect on how odd it was for him to be sitting in the dark and waiting to challenge a couple trogmortem for the life of a waste like Alenaat. It would be quite a trick to find any dwarf in the city with the slightest shred of love for the scruffy slacker. That was before the poor soul was chained to the most sacred spot on Mount Elbahor, the most sacred spot in all of Ouloos as far as the dwarves of Alhouim were concerned. Alenaat could have killed Glaadrian’s own mother, and he would still save the oaf. He might kill him afterward, but he’d pull the young dwarf off that tree first. The thought sent Glaadrian’s mind tumbling down another path he should have avoided while waiting in the dark in ambush, Bindaar.

Bindaar had been another waste. Most would suggest a more worthless dwarf had never existed. He was even worse than Alenaat. That was, until Ahm had strung him up to that tree. It changed him. They strung him up a useless waste of air, and he came down a dutiful dwarf ready to serve his city and friends. One tear managed to spill over Glaadrian’s squinting eyelids. It was all he’d allow himself. He silently hoped Alenaat’s time on the Sacred Pine would have a similar effect.

A chill breeze sent a shiver through Glaadrian as he sat there in darkness delving more deeply into bleak memories than he should have. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. The thing smelled like stale blood and rot. It was a blessing he couldn’t see it in the darkness. Weeks of battle and days sneaking through the caverns beneath the city had it looking as bad as it smelled.

An out of place whistle that failed miserably at sounding like any sort of bird mercifully brought his mind back into the moment. Lentaak was in place. That whistle—which hadn’t earned the slightest attention from either of the guards watching over Alenaat—meant the quietest dwarf in Alhouim was hiding right behind the Sacred Pine waiting to strike. Everyone was in place. Though he couldn’t see any of them in the darkness, he knew Chialdaan the fair-haired monster who had earned the nickname grong’s bane for his efforts at the battle at Fort Maomnosett crouched in the fairy weed across the trail from him, and Muljaak, a dark-haired brute of a dwarf who stood nearly as tall as a man, hid in the shrubs further up the trail. It was time.

Glaadrian gripped his axe tight, stood up, and casually strolled toward the dim glow of torchlight with a whistle in his cheek. It was a happy tune his father had taught him when he was much younger and far friendlier. The song got the attention of one of the trogmortem standing guard in the warm glow at the base of the Sacred Pine. The head that popped out from behind the tree to examine the sound looked like any of the vile beasts from across the Great Sea he’d ever seen—pointy ears, a big, swollen nose, a humongous mouth filled with more jagged fangs than could comfortably fit, and green eyes which seemed to glow from within—but Glaadrian recognized this one from descriptions he’d heard whispered while scouting for the mission. The scar beneath the beast’s right eye gave him away. If the stories he’d heard were to be believed, the monster’s size was only matched by his merciless cruelty in battle. That beast would wrestle anyone at any time to prove his might.

“Pray the gods you have business in this place, or I will decorate this mountaintop with your scattered limbs,” Haram-Vi shouted while squinting and stretching his neck toward the darkness.

“Except your right leg,” the other guard added as he stepped out into the light. “I’ll be gnawing on that. I’ve got a thing for legs.”

Glaadrian recognized this one too. He was Malek-Ta, smaller than Haram-Vi but equally brutal and cruel. The dwarf stopped whistling and chuckled through his response, “Ain’t but two of you? Best be heading back to the city to get some friends. The bloody waste be littered with the battered bodies of your kin who fell to this axe in me hand.”

“Is that so?” Malek-Ta growled.

“Aye it is,” Glaadrian growled right back. “Come on out and test if me words ain’t the truest you ever heard. I’ll be painting this trail with your vile blood.”

“Step into the light then. Prove your boasts,” Haram-Vi challenged.

“Afraid of the dark are ye?” Glaadrian shouted up the trail. As much as he liked to think of trogmortem as mindless beasts, he knew it wasn’t true. They were wily, cunning, and smart, but they were also prideful and saw the likes of dwarves and men as being beneath them.

Haram-Vi took the bait first, jogging from the safety of the torchlight into the darkness. Malek-Ta followed closely behind, grunting, “Those are the last words that will ever leave your filthy, dwarf mouth.”

Glaadrian had slowly been backing away as soon as he’d grabbed the attention of the two guards. Once they entered the blackness of the trail, he quickened his pace. He could faintly see the glow of their eyes in the darkness, that dim and eerie green, but he knew they couldn’t see him at all. Their eyes were accustomed to the bright desert sun, useless on the dark trail.

“Coward,” Haram-Vi called out as his pace quickened.

Glaadrian ceased his retreat, gripped his axe tighter, and replied, “Come on and test that claim then.”

“It’s a trap,” Malek-Ta hollered a moment before Glaadrian heard the rock bounce off the trogmortem’s head. Muljaak had delivered the first blow.

Dim silhouettes were all that Glaadrian could make out in the darkness, but the glorious sounds he heard assured him the massive dwarf was cutting the giant trogmortem down. A dwarf axe makes very distinct sounds whether it be slicing through still air, chopping meat, or severing bone. He heard all three of those as the larger of the two shapes fell toward the trail. Muljaak must have cut the beast down like a tree. It would take a thick bone to make a sound like that. Glaadrian grinned in the darkness as he heard Muljaak’s axe connect over and over again. The dwarf must have moved on to the softer parts of the monster. The sounds of meat and guts slopping about and spilling onto the trail mingled with the trogmortem’s cries sounding a symphony to Glaadrian’s ears. If only he could see the macabre art his chum made on the trail that night. In the darkness, the sweet music of the dying trogmortem’s cries and pleas for mercy would have to suffice as they remained unanswered. There would be no mercy and no forgiveness for the monsters who had stolen his city and killed so many of his kin.

“Thank the gods I blessed ye with a quick death, vermin,” he heard Muljaak quietly sigh at the pile of slop he had made on the trail. “If I could, I’d be following your sorry soul to the Lake to be torturing ye until the end of time.”

He had but a moment to chuckle at his good friend’s proclamation before realizing he had allowed the excitement of battle and the adrenaline coursing through his veins to distract him from the plan. Muljaak had only felled one of the beasts on the trail with them, and Glaadrian had lost sight of the other. He saw the faint flicker of Haram-Vi’s eyes a moment before the monster plowed into him.

Glaadrian’s equilibrium fled the trail as he rolled end over end with the massive beast. By the time they settled, he was on top of the monster but had lost hold of his axe. Too much thought can be an enemy when locked in battle, so he gave the missing axe very little. He couldn’t see his target in the darkness, but the first thing his right fist connected with was soft. It seemed too large to be a nose being bigger than his fist, but the splatter of blood the blow earned suggested it was the giant, bulbous thing that took up a good chunk of Haram-Vi’s face. The sound the creature made in that instant gave Glaadrian the faintest glimmer of hope he might best the beast with fists alone. The first blow he delivered with his left hand chased that hope away.

He couldn’t know where on the big monster’s head he had connected, but it was like punching rock. He swung two more times earning a giggle from his opponent. The growl that followed invited fear in to mingle with the rage boiling in Glaadrian’s belly. He reached for his dagger, but it was too late. His head bounced hard off the trail as the big trogmortem got hold of his ankle and dragged them both out of the dirt.

Then the fire came. At least, that’s what it felt like when Haram-Vi’s claws slashed through the meat of his right thigh. The sound might have been worse than the cut itself. He heard bone crack. A racing mind chased along by fear can sometimes conjure images much faster than logic can run, but the idea his leg was off flittered away quickly once it occurred to him that he hadn’t dropped back to the trail. His leg couldn’t be off. Before he could even taste one morsel of relief, the big bastard tasted his flesh. It might have been his imagination, but he was certain he felt each individual fang as it punctured his skin. The burning agony continued as the jaws clamped down and began grinding back and forth on the bone beneath.

“Help,” he cried out in the darkness, “the big bastard’s gotten a hold of me leg.”

It seemed an eternity passed as he hung there screaming and flopping like a big, beached chooker while a smelly monster of a beast gnawed at his leg. All his limbs flailed helplessly until his left foot finally connected with something. It must have been Haram-Vi’s thick skull. It felt like kicking a mountain.

“Whose blood paints this trail, you little worm?” Haram-Vi growled before biting into Glaadrian’s other leg and grinding at the bone.

The world grew suddenly quiet for Glaadrian in that moment. He could tell he still screamed by the burning in his throat. He could still feel Haram-Vi’s horrible fangs grinding mercilessly at his leg. But all the sound was somehow gone. He wondered if this might be the end. It seemed a safe bet. Even safer when he felt his shoulder pop out of joint.

The sound returned. Ripping flesh hits a horrible note. It’s worse when you know it’s your own skin stretched beyond its limits. Though he felt the arm rip from his body, it still felt like it was attached to his shoulder, even after that bastard trogmortem clubbed him in the head with it.

“Help,” he cried out again.

“Be holding him steady,” Chialdaan finally answered, “and I’ll be chopping that beast down.

Glaadrian had no more words to share. His entire body burned like fire licked him from all directions. He hadn’t seen his good friend assault the monster who’d been chewing on him, but he heard the axe connect. The sound Haram-Vi made when that glorious dwarf axe connected with his thigh would have brought him the greatest joy if his mind weren’t absorbed by pain and the stark realization that his soul had precious few moments to remain in the broken sack he’d become. He barely even noticed how far the trogmortem had tossed him into the fairy weeds. He’d probably die there among the enchanted plants.

It was a sad thing when he realized the last bit of joy he would have in the waking world was listening to the glorious sounds of his chums cutting his killer down. He wished he could see the results of their vengeance, but Haram-Vi’s agonizing cries did a fine job of telling the story. The beast growled like a wild mountain scarra threatening an amatilazo off her pups. Both Chialdaan and Muljaak sounded just as monstrous growling, howling, and threatening right back at that monster. Oozing over the top of the grotesque symphony were other more horrible notes. The whistling of sharpened dwarf axes slicing through the mountain air before chopping through meat and cracking bone sounded a fine rhythm worthy of a foot-stomping dance. The drip and slop of blood and fluids and organs and entrails made a melody soaring over the top of it. If he’d had the voice left to spare, he may have sung out some words to finish the beautiful ballad. Ode to a Pile of Slop Who Used to be the Vilest of Vermin had quite the ring to it. If only that vermin hadn’t destroyed most of his limbs, it might be a song he’d get to sing someday.

Glaadrian’s mind drifted as the song played on. The fire raging in his body still burned, but it slowly lost its grip on his awareness. He felt weak. It was an odd thought, a thankful distraction. His heart was pumping as strong as ever and pulsing the blood right out of his mangled limbs. He’d be dead soon. As he lay there barely clinging to consciousness, dying wasn’t the thing filling him with sadness. He couldn’t stand up, grab his axe, and help his friends. What if they failed? What if that beast was chomping at their limbs like he’d done to Glaadrian? That was the saddest thought in his mind in that moment. He was a goner anyway. He didn’t want his friends to die too.

“Let’s go,” Chialdaan’s voice in his ear was an even sweeter song.

“Did ye vicious dwarves chop that monster into stew?” there wasn’t much force behind his words, but he managed to muster the slightest chuckle.

“Aye, we did,” Muljaak whispered in his other ear. “We chopped him up good. Ye’d be proud.”

“Good go ye then, lads,” a smile danced about his whispered reply.

By the time Tiegran made it up near the main gate, hundreds of men had already formed into tight columns in front of it. Daritus ranged up and down the ranks shouting out the glory of Druindahl and Havenstahl. Even limping the man appeared invincible.

Tarturan grabbed a hold of Tiegran’s arm and tugged him into the formation shouting, “You are with me. We fight until we have no fight left.”

The columns grew as men poured in from every direction. By the time the steady current of bodies rushing up the hill or from the castle or the trees surrounding the road up to the main gate slowed, more than three thousand men stood ready to fight with at least one hundred more on horseback. Some were grizzled men with years of battle reflecting in their hardened stares. Others were green, new recruits with fear in their eyes and innocence in their hearts. Tiegran thought back to his first battle. It had not been that long ago, and he remembered the feeling all too well, the fear in the eyes of those green recruits. It was nothing like what he felt standing in front of the gate at Havenstahl next to Tarturan. A chill of excitement shot up his spine. I have goosebumps. He nearly laughed out loud.

He looked over at Tarturan whose smile was just as big and shouted, “For Havenstahl!”

It nearly brought tears to his eyes when the group of soldiers formed up with him replied, “For Havenstahl!”

“For Druindahl,” he shouted back at them.

“For Druindahl,” they answered.

Tarturan let out a war cry as his heavy hand gave Tiegran’s shoulders a stiff pat. The crowd responded in kind. Tiegran hoped the giants could hear them. He hoped they knew Havenstahl would never surrender. As long as one man drew breath, they would fight until the Lake called them home.

Tiegran finally caught Daritus’ eye through the crowed. The general, the legend, gave him a wide smile and nodded. Tiegran shouted with all his might, “For Ouloos!”

The crowd answered, “For Ouloos!”

Then Daritus called the command, “Charge!”

Uneasiness swept over him as he neared the main gate of the small village. It was too quiet. There should have been something, a child playing or a man coming home late for the feast. Something. Anything. There was nothing. The entire town appeared asleep. Warily, he continued.

As he approached the first hut within the main gate, he noticed the door had been smashed in. He slowly strode inside. The stench of rotting flesh hung in the air. It seized him immediately when he entered and tugged at his attention while he quickly surveyed the room. One body, the body of a man of relatively large stature, lay sprawled out across a table occupying the center of the room. A large chunk was missing out of the poor bloke’s neck. The wound was rather dry and the corpse’s skin quite pale as if the body had been drained of all its blood. ‘Amatilazo’, he thought. A woman’s body lay curled around that of a small child in the corner. Her head lay a few feet from the rest of her. Her face grabbed his attention. It was frozen in a look of terror like none he’d ever seen in his short life. He looked back to her body still clinging to her baby’s lifeless carcass. He considered their embrace for a moment, frozen in death. She died trying to protect her own. Perhaps she could have escaped as her husband was being drained of his life’s blood, but she didn’t. Instead, she gave of herself in a desperate attempt to save her child. It was a completely selfless action. How strong must be the love of a mother.

His thoughts drifted to his conversation with Ymitoth about his own mother. He learned early on she died shortly after he was born. He didn’t have any details about her demise, but he knew he spent no time with her. He wondered if she had ever held him the way the courageous woman lying in front of him clung to her child. Did she ever cradle him in her arms, brush his hair back and sing to him? Ymitoth said she had a song sweeter than a chorus of songbirds. Had he ever heard that song? If he had he would never be able to recollect, as he would have been but a babe. A strange emptiness began in his belly as if there were a hole right through his mid-section. His head swam as dizziness swept through it and he thought he might lose his feet. He stumbled out of the hut and fell to the ground in a heap. If only there were someone to embrace him, someone to tell him everything was all right. His eyes burned as they filled up, but he fought back the tears. He struggled back to his feet. ‘Feeling sorry for yourself won’t do any good,’ he thought. He pushed back against the hopeless, empty feeling threatening to consume him and forced himself to move on.

Maelich leaned against the mighty oak crowning Keller’s Hill. The spot was a favorite of his, a place to ponder both days gone by and days yet to come. This particular occasion was similar to most. After a full day of rigorous training his mind often had a tendency to chase concepts rather than relive memories or form new ideas. Of all the concepts he mulled over while leaning against the rough bark of the great oak, mother earned the lion’s share of his attention. Of course, he knew what the concept meant. He simply had no experience with one. His died shortly after he was born. All he had were stories, and they were vague at best. There was something about a young woman and a great power. None of it was anything tangible. Nothing more than loose concepts and generic ideals.

“Hey there, lad,” Ymitoth’s voice shattered the quiet. “It be time for your feeding.”

Maelich waved his response, collected himself, and tromped on down the hill. Pink clouds caught his attention, painted by the sun setting behind him. He must have lost track of the hour. His stomach grumbled loudly as if to confirm the idea. He quickened his pace down the hill.

Admiration swept through Maelich as Ymitoth glanced back at him. His stern mentor looked like he had jumped right off a painting Maelich had seen once. It was an image of valiant men standing tall against a horrible dragon. Ymitoth could easily stand among heroic men like that. He was massive, a half-head taller than most and broad about the shoulders. The wind caught hold of his hair. It danced about the breeze glinting like rusty gold in the failing light of the setting sun. He was every bit the hero in Maelich’s eyes. There wasn’t a man who stood mightier.

Then something about Ymitoth’s expression changed. It was odd and unfamiliar. It resembled a smile the way it parted his beard from his mustache and plumped his cheeks out, but it didn’t quite fit, like a dwarf seated on a giant’s throne. Normally the sharp lines of his face looked like something that could cut stone. Accompanying the strange smile-like thing twisting up his beard was an uncustomary wave. The warrior almost looked…happy.

Maelich grinned and quickened his pace all the more. He puzzled only briefly over Ymitoth’s odd behavior as he worked to catch up to the man he had grown to know as father. There was a concept far more readily available to him. Ymitoth had always been very clear about the fact he and Maelich shared no blood. However, as far as Maelich could tell, his teacher, mentor, and trainer accepted him as a son. And, of course, Maelich loved and admired Ymitoth as he imagined any lad would love and admire the one teaching him to be a man. Ymitoth wasn’t one to fall victim to bouts of affection and show anything which might be construed as weakness. There were times, though, times when the rough and tough would crack just enough for Maelich to catch a hint that Ymitoth cared for him. The odd smile combined with the awkward wave equaled one of those times. Those brief moments were enough for Maelich. They had to be.

Every day was the same for him. Rise with the sun, take in the morning feeding, run the pastures with Ymitoth—who seemed to get slower as Maelich grew—and then bathe in Yester’s Pond. All those things were considered by Ymitoth to be, “the warm-up.” After the warm-up came sword training. Sword training always seemed to last forever. By the time it was finished he could barely lift his sword. He didn’t mind too much as he was but a lad of twelve summers and already close to being Ymitoth’s equal. The fact made him feel powerful. Stories of his master’s conquests spread as far as Maelich had ever been.

After sword training was complete it would be time for the midday feast, the nucleus of the day. Every other activity was planned around it, even the short nap that followed. Maelich’s workday ended with his book lessons, when he learned about how the world came to be and how to make your way through, “The great journey of life,” as Ymitoth called it. Once all his daily tasks were complete, Maelich was allowed a bit of time to himself before the evening feeding, which brings us back to where we began.

Pain can be a tricky thing, difficult to gauge. The same pain can be at one moment merely an annoyance detracting from one’s ability to focus on the task at hand while in the next moment the only thing on which they can focus. The throbbing in Doentaat’s leg when he woke in darkness so pitch blindness seemed the only possibility was the latter. Rather than pushing the pain away from his focus, the disorienting fear of being without sight and unaware of his surroundings only served to strengthen it. It pulsed like someone stood above him repeatedly striking the same spot on his thigh with a hammer. Attempting to sit up only made it worse, like a jagged spear tore through his flesh. The sound he made as he gave in to the pain and lay back was something to which a warrior of his stature would never admit. The Lake could have his soul if only his agony might cease.

As the dwarf king lay in darkness waiting for death to come and end his suffering, his focus shifted. It seemed accepting his eventual demise somewhat numbed him to the pain. Of course, the throbbing in his leg had not ceased. However, it slowly loosened its grip on his awareness, or he simply stopped caring about it. As his breathing grew steady and his heart rate slowed, the why seemed increasingly less important. His mind drifted to other things, and he followed.

Helpless to do much else besides lie on the hard ground and wait for death, his mind slipped to his argument with Bindaar. They had been in his chamber talking about the war ships anchoring up in Biggon’s Bay when the great horn of Havenstahl—one of the twin horns of Galgooth—blared. The sound sparked something in him, some hidden longing lying just beneath his awareness. That spark must have shown on his face.

“Don’t even think about it,” his old chum and most trusted general had told him. “The king’s royal rump had best remain firmly planted in its throne. Leave the fighting to your solidas.”

Whether it had been hubris or defiance—the king gives orders, he does not take them—his response had been less than agreeable. “This from the scrawny waste I molded into a proper dwarf. Anything good about you, you learned from me. Tell me you don’t presume to stand in my own chambers and give me orders.”

The memory of the look on his old friend’s face hurt almost as bad as the throbbing in his leg. “No,” he looked as if he might lose a tear, “I presume nothing, but reports of what came riding in on them ships have me worried for my king’s…my friend’s…safety. This ain’t a pack of rogue grongs. They say giants fill them massive ships. My friend, you have risked your own skin to save mine more than once. I seek only to repay the favor in kind. But what do I know? The king does what the king wants.”

Of course, he failed to heed the warning, and Bindaar stormed out of the room. That was the last they had spoken as chums. When the five battalions Alhouim sent to support Havenstahl in the battle at Fort Maomnosett formed up to march, he gave the orders, and Bindaar obeyed like the rest of his generals. He recalled that same look on his old friend’s face—the frightened, sad, fury, fear that looked like tears waiting to spill onto rough cheeks—when the battalions split to take up their assigned positions, but he ignored it. Friend or no friend, there was not a dwarf alive who would give him orders.

The benefit of hindsight can help a dwarf make better decisions in the future, but it cannot undo foolish decisions once they have been made. Had he listened to his old friend’s wise counsel, he would not be blind and lying helpless in… It suddenly occurred to him that his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness surrounding him. He was not blind. The pain in his leg was still nagging him enough to stifle a chuckle at how easily he let himself fall to panic, but it did nothing to keep him from feeling a bit of shame. Luckily, nobody would ever know about the moment of weakness but him.

Doentaat had not been elevated to the status of king of Alhouim by his peers because he allowed things to be done to him. He was a dwarf of action. He did things. He controlled situations, and that was precisely what he intended to do with the one he was in, control it. The world around him was still very dark, like the late hours of a moonless night. However, he was not deep into a night of any kind. The light filtering through the canopy above him was faint, but it was there. It took mere moments for him to realize he was deep in a dense forest, and the last bits of light were fading from the western sky. Had he woken just a few hours earlier, the fear of potential blindness would never have entered his mind.

With blindness out of the way as a pressing matter, Doentaat could focus on what had quickly become his most pressing matter. Despite a great urge to ignore it, the throbbing pain in his leg demanded attention. Shifting focus back to it was like blowing on a smoldering fire. Intense and furious, it flared again. Though he was not blind, there was insufficient light to see the cause of his agony. Touching the spot certainly would do nothing to ease the pain at all. Simply moving felt like a spear was shoved through the spot. He did not want to imagine what touching it might do. Therefore, he did not imagine it very long. He gritted his teeth and got to it.

It was worse than he thought. His fingers slid slowly down his right leg toward the source of distress. His trousers were torn open, the edges crusty. Though the carnage remained hidden from sight, the spot was obviously saturated with blood. How long had he been unconscious? Considering there was no wetness, it had to be a while. It made no sense to put it off any longer. He had to assess the damage. He clenched his teeth together so tightly it hurt his jaw as he shoved his fingers into a deep, ragged gash. The spear was back, and this time it sliced through and twisted. It was difficult to tell whether it was bone or meat his fingers probed, but the cut was deep, wide, and full of gore. Through tightly clenched teeth, his howl sounded more like a war cry than a pitiable expression of pain. His hand shot to his dagger, quickly slipping it out of its scabbard. He desperately wanted to plunge it into his gut and twist, end his own suffering. That would be the coward’s way out. King Doentaat was anything but a coward. The Lake had failed to claim him, and he had no intention of giving it an easy meal.