In the far North, near Norseland, under a blanket of snow, is a small trail. The trail leads to a cave, which leads to tunnel, that leads to a cavern. A very large cavern, a vast network of tunnels and trails winding throught the rocky crags of the low mountains of Norseland. This is the home of the Norse dwarves, a proud and ancient clan of dwarves. These dwarves are fighters and metal-workers. And with long blond flowing beards, and looming several inches taller than the average dwarf, they are even more beautiful than the typical clan. At least with one exception, but that comes later.
Now, to say that these dwarfs are all metal workers or that one dwarf is exceptional for wielding a sword, not a hammer, is to make a sweeping generalization. Dwarves, like any other race, have their poets and inn keepers, their fighters and peacemakers, their preists and their prophets. And the dwarfs of Norseland are no different. Like other clans, they are clever tunnel- diggers and skilled craftsmen. But the dwarfs of Norseland have long been known for their fighting prowess and their leaders have long held high positions in the upper war councils of all the dwarven clans.
The dwarfs of Norseland take prider in their long history as leaders and fighters. The culture of the clan places strong emphasis on cultivating skiled warriors and generals who will lead the clan, and the other clans. Among dwarves, the clans of Norseland are often known as the "Dnar-badduck" or "Protectors". Among others, with whom they have had feuds, the clans of the Norseland, like their barbaric human neighbors, have a reputation as fierce raiders.
As with other Dwarven people, the dwarves of Norseland are not a single clan or family. Rather they are a group of clans and cousins. While, as in human lands, individual freedom is important, greater emphsis is placed on the "clan". And while dwarves are free to pursue their own interests and livlihoods, there is a great expectation that a dwarf will follow in his father"s footsteps, so to speak. Or, more accurately, in the clan's footsteps. This is considered very important, a sort of honor offspring are expected to pay their elders. For a son not to pursure the same craft or trade as his father is considered a grave dishonnor except in the most unusual cases. But it has been known to happen, from time to time. Each clan has its own trade or craft it is known from. And usually, it is from this trade or craft or sometimes trait that the family gets its namesake. Thus, as in some parts of Europa, one will find Dwarven clans such as (in rough translation) the Stonecutters, Longbeards, just as in human lands there are the Bakers and Cobblers and Smiths. Though, Dwarven names tend to be more descriptive...
This is essentially the story of one of these clans. The Longblade clan, as the name suggests, had a long and colorful history as powerful warriors and counselors. The first Longblade, so the Longblades will tell you, got their name from the Dwarven God of War himself. However, other war-like clans scoff at this and some even call this blasphemous. This has been a source of some controversey among some of the clans.
Over time, the Longblades became more interested in fighting on a broader level. In part, this was due to their great influence in the war councils (due to their reputed prowess on the battlefield) and their own recongnition that wielding a sword is only one of the smaller steps in assuring victory. The clans ancestors began recognizing that wars were often won or lost long before armies even met on the battlefield. So, in other words, they, like any recognized war hero, moved from fighting on the battlefield to talking in the war room. This would have been a sore point for some in the clan who longed for the good old days of goblin bashing (and was though the clan to keep stories of dissention within the clan close to the chest) were it not for one thing. That thing, was one of the greatest Dwarven generals in the the history of Dwavenkind. Though this, like many other facets and facts of Dwarven history, is highly disputed amongst Dwarven historians.
Malkier Silverhammer of the LongBlade Clan was a tall, blue-eyed dwarf like other dwarves of Norseland. However, unlike other Dwarves of the Clan, or, more accurately, Clans, he had black hair and a jet black beard. Now, black hair, while uncommon throughout known Dwarvenkind, is not unheard of. However, never, not once in a thousand years, had a Dwarf of Norseland been borne with black hair. Some dwarfs would say not even brown hair, though brown hair, among the Norseland Dwarves is somewhat common. However, black hair? Never. So, though he was a first son of a powerful Longblade warrior, many wispered in the dark tunnels and corridors of the hold that his birth was an evil omen, a harbringer of dark days to come, and that he should be offered as a sacrifice to appease the gods. Of course Dalkier Silverhammer objected (though he too had reservations about his first-borne son and his jet black hair did nothing to assuage his rather fersome streak of jealousy regarding his beautiful, though somewhat flirtatious wife, the beautiful green-eyed, blond bearded wife, Desedera). This led to another bloody feud within the hold.
The King of the hold, at the time, the Great King Dorin, could not abide violence within the hold. It was indeed a dark time. Vast goblin hordes were sweeping across the lands from the East and were threatening Dwarven holds in Germania and Finlandia and would soon threaten his hold. Fear of the goblin hordes did not help damp the fear and paranoia in the hold. King Dorin was involved in the negotiations and war councils with the other holds, a time-consuming and stress filled process, and would not tolerate divisions within his hold. A decision borne more out of impatience than wisdom or foresight, Dorin ordered the feuding stopped. He intervened and ordered the life of Malkier spared. He could use every fighting Dwarf he could muster in the bloody years ahead. To appease the dwarven apocolypsists who asserted Dalkier's son was an evil omen, Great King Dorin ordered Dalkier off the battlefield to the war room (a grave dishonnor), essentially "demoting" him from a captain on the field, a position of honnor and glory, to a general in the war room. Dalkier was not pleased.
His displeasure, at first directed at his freakish son and his wife who, despite her protestations, he was sure had sullied their union, gradually dissipated, as his son grew strong and tall and as Dalkier discovered the importance of leading from the war room. While not as glorious or exciting, Dalkier found that his councils in the war room could have significance nonetheless.
The Goblin Wars, as they were called, were going badly. The Goblins had swept through most of Eastern Europa and Finlandia. The largest, and arguably (like most other things in Dwarven politics) hold in Germania was about to fall. Most of the Norseland Dwarves of fighting age were in Gemania, helping their distant cousins fend off the goblin hordes. And there were rumors of a large warg riding column of goblins, winding its way through the Finalandia mountains toward Thorvald, the principal hold in the Norseland Mountains.
With most of the warrior clans in Germania, the Thorvald was vulnerable to attack. In desperation, King Dorin, whose throne was in Thorvald, ordered Dalkier back onto the battlefield to lead the small band of mostly grey and fuzzy beards (very old and very young dwarves) mustered from the hold. It is said, even a few of the dwarven-kiln (female dwarves) took up arms, though it is unlikely Malkier realized they were part of his "army" as it is doubtful he would have abided leading women into battle had he known.
The small army of Dwarves met the gobin horde in an narrow pass in the Killuk Mountains between Finlandia and Norseland. The God of War smiled upon old Dalkier who fought with rabid ferocity. Malkier enjoyed being back on the battlefield. His axe swept through the goblin ranks like the scythe of the Black Dwarf. Dalkier ordered a small band of young dwarves up overn the steep mountain cliff face above the pass. The young hearty dwarves, obviously adept at mountain climbing as dwarves typically are, cut across the steep mountains ringing the pass to come back down behind the goblin horde.
Pushed back by Dalkier's small but fersome army, the Goblins turned to flee back the way they had come... only to find themselves trapped in a narrow, bottle-neck pass. Desperate and terrified, the goblins turned back to face Dalkier and were cut to shreds.
Its was a glorious day for Dalkier. All the more so because he suffered a mortal wound, but lived long enough to see the last goblin fall. The Father of War truley smiled upon him.
The surviors left the pass, later to be known as Dalkier's Stand, to return to the hold. The bittersweet news was taken well. Desedra, upon hearing the news, wept, though some of Malkier's foes snicker they were tears of joy.
The years passed, the dark days did not. For while the the dwarves of Thorvald chaulked up a small victory in the Killuk Mountains, the war was going badly. The goblin hordes had beseiged The Hold as the principal and oldest Dwarven Hold in Germania was simply called, for decades. Still, it had not fallen, but rumors were that the food reserves had long run out and that the emaciated and bone weary dwarves of the Hold could hold out no longer.
Young King Thorin, the Lion of Thorvald, so called because of his reputed, though largely untested, bravery and fierce temper, and son of King Dorin, was preparing to defy the War Council. The Dwarven War Council, while, like holds, there are many war councils (each hold, and even some clans have them) there is only one War Council. At any rate, The War Council, long defunct (at least since the Elven Wars), had been revived. The Council was a collection of two representatives from each hold. One representative, the king of the hold, or in his abscence, the highest ranking general or his designated representative. The other, the chief Hold Warder, the highest ranking priest of war of the hold, or his next in line.
During these dark years, the council had been resurrected and institutionalized. The Dwarven Priesthood of War had gained pre-eminence as the chief counselors and highest ranking generals. It was a Priest of War who was elected to head the War Council (unprecedented as usually a King was chosen - a king is necessarily of royal blood, whereas a priest does not have to be). And the council, and particularly the priesthood, were largely blamed for the sucesses, and failures, in the War. And, as the war was going badly, the Council was not held in high esteem by many.
Thus, it was that King Thorin prepared to defy the Council. The Council, meeting in a small but beautiful dwarven hold in the Alps had just issued its most unpopular decision... to abandon the ground campaign against the goblins beseiging the Germania hold. The hold was about ready to fall and the campaign to drive off the main goblin force there had resulted in disastrous defeats. They hoped to abandon the campaign, and launch a counter-attack deep into the Goblin held territory in the East. Their hope was to force the goblins to abandon their seige and retreat East to defeat the invaders. Their decision, while rationale, was unpopular and many viewed it as treason. Some speculated that members of the council had sold themselves to the Black Dwarf.
So, Torin, defying the Council, decided not to participate in the counter-offensive. Not stomaching the though of abandoning the hold and its brave defenders, he decided to raise his own small army and mount his own offensive to drive the goblin horde out of Germania. The goblins had dozens of banners and thousands of soldiers. After scouring the depths of the hold, Torin could find only scores of able-bodied fighters left in the hold, this time, including gray and fuzzy beards and dwarven kiln. Nevertheless, his course was set.
Now, during the intervening years between the his father's death and the eve of Torin's offensive, Malkier had followed in his father's footsteps. Sort of. Not necessarily seeking glory on the battlefield and seeing the honor earned by his father had while serving as a general in the War Council, Malkier Silverhammer (or Blackbeard as some called him -- some called him worse) of the LongBlade Clan sought to become a priest of war. Malkier had an innate abilities to lead. Some even said his understanding of tactics was unsuprassed and urged that he be accepted as a full member of the brotherhood of war. His skill as a warrior was unusual, even for a priest of war, as well. Before long, he was a reputed warrior and a respected priest of war, despite rumors and whispering of omens and evil that lingered.
Now, Torin, in mustering his small (almost pitiful) army to relieve the long besieged Hold, came to Malkier to join his army. Torin, even more rational than most dwarves, quickly accepted Malkier into his army. And, given that Malkier was only one of a handful of "of-age" dwarves in his army and the only other besides himself with formal military training, promoted him to Captain. This was another controversial move by Torin, and one that created some dissension among his ranks, for the strict hierarchy of the dwarven priesthood prevented a mere priest (actually not even a full priest as he had not been fully initiated into the brotherhood) from commanding in battle. This coupled with doubts and concerns about Malkier given his odd appearance, led to frowns and grunts of protest, particularly from the older gray beards.
But Torin would hear none of it. Probably, mostly because he needed Malkier's strong but little tested sword arm.
So, as the armies of dwarfs (and men) marched East in a counter-offensive against the goblins, Torin quickly led his army across a narrow sea by boat (an unusual and yet another highly unpopular decision) to Germania. The small army marched, marched swiflty to the Hold where they discovered an army the like of which they had never imagined. Both Malkier and brave Torin were taken aback by the sheer size of the army. It is said that the fires from the goblin camps outshown the heavens.
The goblin camp encircled a small lonley mountain in the heart of Germania. The Hold. Large seige engines hurled great boulders at the remnants of battered stone towers and walls that once stood guard over the entrance to the Hold. A massive battering ram, with a giant iron head, and swung by massive ogres pounded ceacelessly like a god's heart at the stone and iron-gated entrance.
Most horrific, a long line of pikes, with dwarves impaled on them, were arranged in a ring around the entire base of the mountain, like a grisely fence.
Torin and his capatains could think of no strategy that would overcome the tremendous odds.
As dusk approached, the sounds of shouting and wargs riding caused the dwarves on the ridge overlooking the goblin camp to stir... They saw a small band of clearly starving dwarves sneak through small crack in the iron-gate, past the ogres. At first, the goblins did nothing, merely watching the dwarves scurry and stumble. Torin's dwarves on the ridge watched in suprise could they really be letting them go? What's a dozen scrawny dwarves when you have thousands trapped underground?
Their gaze turned to shocked horror as the goblins suddenly gave pursuit, quickly overcoming the small band of dwarves. The goblins drew no weapons. Again, puzzled foreboding overtook Torin's band. The goblins tackled the dwarfs, tied ropes to their legs, and dragged them across the rocks on their wargs, back to the center of the camp. Puzzled foreboding turned to shock. And then horror. And then a rage unlike any other as the goblins proceeded to torture their prisoners slowly. The grisly and horrific torture that led to the eventual impaling of all dozen or so dwarves was unlike anything the war weary dwarves had ever heard or seen.
Horror and rage overtook them. Torin and Malkier let the dwarves in a crazed charge down the ridge into the heart of the goblin camp. Malkier and Torin and their small army cleaved into the goblins ranks. Again, and again. Heedless of the sheer masses of goblins bearing down upon them, they fought, covered in gore and blind to danger they fought with one barely articulated thought ringing through their minds -- kill. They were a machine.
And they fought until dawn. When the sun rose, after fighting ceaselessly through the night, it revealed a field covered in blood and bodies and an ever shrinking island of dwarves surrounded by a still vast (but smaller) sea of goblins.
The starving beleagured and demoralized dwarves trapped in the Hold, hearing signs of fighting throughout the night, could now clearly see the damage the dwarves were inflicting upon the goblin army. Inspired by the mad bravery of the attacking dwarves, the Hold dwarves rallied out to assist their cousins.
The specific events that occured during the night, and then day long battle, depends on whose story you listen to. Some will say that the Hold dwarves were actually in remakable fighting condition, were numerous, and well-armed and had merely been waiting patiently for an opportune time to strike out. Other say the Father of War himself came down and smashed the goblin army to cinders with his war hammer. Others say it was mere luck, chance, or maybe tactical skill, that after years of defeat, the goblins time had come. However, two things seem clear in any account. The Dwarfs miracuously won the day, somehow. And Malkier, wielding his bastard sword and with a wild other-worldly light shining from his eyes, inspired the dwarves around him with an intense battle rage. Some say Malkier called stars from the sky to smash his enemies and called brought forth pillars of flame to consume them, and attributed other astounding events to him that only the very highest level priest of war could accomplish. Whatever the rumors, it is clear Malkier played a huge part in the victory.
After this momentous victory, the dwarven army, after several weeks rest, pursued the remnants of the routed goblin army across Eastern Europa and into the steppes beyond (human and elven accounts vary). And Malkier, leading the Dwarven armies at Torins side, played a pivotal role in vicotory after victory. His prowess as a general and fighter were great, and the rumors surrounding him even greater. Battle after battle Malkier the Mighty proved himself and the rumors grew more exaggerated. Purportedly shooting flame from his fingers and stars from his eyes, Malkier helped defeat the goblins and secured himself a prominent position in Dwarven legend.
After the Goblin Wars, Malkier, Torin and their remaining cousins returned to Thorvald. Malkier eventually became head of the War Council and was Torin's most trusted advisor.
In the generations that followed, the Longblade Clan became a clan of priests and counselors to the kings of Thorvald. Their reputation as leaders, generals, and priests was untouched and the dwarves, and kings, of Thorvald looked to them for guidance and protection. Faith in their sound leadership and good counsel was untarnished -- Until another darkness began creeping into the land. And another black-haired Longblade was born.
For several generations and many centuries, relative peace came to the dwarves of Norseland. Oh, fighting and bickering continued among different Clans, and of course other races, men and elves were in constant conflict with themselves and others. But, at least compared to the Dark Time, it was a time of peace for the Nordic kingdoms.
And then the troubles started. Unlike the sweeping goblin horde, the troubles crept in quietly. At first it was rumor, carried usually by a random human trader, coming to Thorvald Hold to trade magic items or food for Dwarven crafted weapons. Whispers of strange events, odd beasts and the occasional peasant disappearing from his village. But, over time, the rumors became more frequent, and more graphic. Tales of strange and evil creatures, vampires, wolves, goblins and other more fantastic creatures abounded. Its was feared the goblin hordes had returned.
The Hold Warder of Thorvald at the time, a large burly dwarf, Glareon Starblade of the Longblade Clan, had his problems. His wife, Magula Stonesplitter-Starblade, also a rather large dwarf and a high-ranking member of the Sisterhood of Dwarvenkind in her own right, was a kiln with very strong opionions, as Dwarven Kiln usually are. And she had opinions, strong opinions, about a great many things. Moreover, Glareon, as a priest of war, and great-great grandson of Malkier the Mighty had a long beard to grow (Dwarven equivalent of "big shoes to fill"). And if that weren't enough, the King of Thorbardin at the time, Thorbald, was a dwarf with a particularly nasty disposition. And the strange events and rumors from traders who came to the hold did not help his mood any.
So, it was understandable that Glareon's beard was curled when his wife, pregnant for an especially long time, even for a dwarf, (19 months), finally gave birth. It was an especially long and difficult delivery. Magula insisted that Glareon be present for the birth, even though custom at the time was for the father to be to be at the nearest tavern, swilling ale with his comrades. And, throughout the long and painful delivery, Magula continued to "advise" (her words) Glareon on how to braid his beard, polish his sword, and couldn't he pick up their Culn? (underground house in the Hold -- sort of an apartment underground). So, Glareon was understandably distracted as his son suddenly popped out of Magula and he didn't immediately notice that his offspring was not your typical dwarf. The mid-wife tending Magula did, however. Magula's nagging (his words) was cut short and the grimace on Glareon"s face to to a round "O" of suprise as the midwife suddenly dropped Glareon's child onto the floor and fled the bedroom chamber, her screams echoing down the halls and tunnels of the hold.
Glareon, alarmed, went to retrieve his son. Stooped to pick him up from the floor where Della, the mid-wife, had dropped him. Stopped. Stared. In suprise, at first. Then bewilderment. Then growing alarm. Oh Fire, what would he tell his friends? His King? Oh Fire, what would he tell his wife? For, their on the floor was his son. A dwarf like no other. That was for sure. Was it even a dwarf? Glareon wasn't sure.
The child, his offspring (apparently), was not beautiful and bearded, like most dwarfs. What was wrong with his son wasn"t immediately clear. The combination of his features was just... wrong. Trying to convince himself that his son was indeed a dwarf, Glareon began a more careful inspection of the ragkut (baby). Well, there was the primary problem... the child had no beard! Oh Fire, in milenia of dwarves never have you so cursed a dwarf to deprive him of a beard. The shame, the dishonnor! What have I done to offend thee, Mighty Father! Glareon thought to himself. No, this must not be! Then, almost as if willing it to be so made it thus, Glareon noticed a small patch of black fuzz on the child's chin. Well, it wasn't quite a beard, but it would do. Maybe it would grow during a spurt of adolescence... who could predict. Maybe it would be ok. Maybe the King wouldn't banish him and his family.
What else, though? What else was wrong this this ragkut... it was more than just the beard, or abscence of one. The nose, not large and round like most dwarves, was long and pointy. Sort of like a human's nose, or an elf's. Only worse, his child's nose was like a hook, or a long-crooked finger. And the eyes, not full and round and wide apart, but narrow, sort of bird-like, and intense, were set too close together. And then Glareon noticed the ragkut's hair. Jet black. Blacker than a raven's wing. And promptly dropped the rag (short for baby) onto the floor, for a second time.
By this time, Magula, her advice falling on deaf ears apparently "pass the rag to me" "what's wrong" "what in the blazes do you think you"re doing" "you weather-bitten marmot, that"s not how you hold a rag!", stirred to fetch her child. Who in the flame drops a newborn rug onto the floor like that! And her's! See if she ever lets that bulging lout touch her beautiful baby rag again!, Magula thought to herself. As she stooped to retreive her child, her screams joined the midwife's.
But only for a moment. Magula, quickly composing herself, she'd be damned if she'd let the child's countenance still her pride and joy after carrying the begger around in her belly for the better part of two years. And besides, his black hair.. Could be a source of pride. After all, Malkier was one of the greatest warriors, and certainly the greatest priest the hold had ever produced. And he had black hair, as no other dwarf in the Norselands had ever had. Until Galen.
At first, the dwarves rejoiced at the news that the LongBlade's had produced a black-haired heir. "Malkier has been reborn to deliver us from the Dark." At first, Glareon insisted they keep the rag hidden from dwarven view. The knot on his head, a gift from Magula, convinced him otherwise. He was glad he hadn't suggested what he had really wanted to do with the child. Magula had a strong arm.
Magula, her pride overriding her secret horror at what her belly had brought forth, proudly took her son around the hold. "See my beautiful black haired rag?" At first, the dwarves excited to see Malkier reborn, flocked around Magula. For the most part, they were polite, but their enthusiam quickly changed to barely disguised horror. Later, in the quiet tunnels and in the privacy of their own Culns, the rumors started. From, "by my beard that is the ugliest dwarf I have ever seen" to "that"s no dwarf" it was no stretch that Magula"s black haired blessing became thought of as a curse. Some called him the "anti-Malkier" or Malkier's Dark Twin. Other's said it was an evil omen, that the corruption seeping into the land had corrupted their fabled hero's reincarnation. They said it was a sign that hope was lost.
The cantakerous King Thorbald, like his long dead great-great grandfather, would have none of it. There was serious trouble afoot in the lands and the last thing he needed was his hold in the grip of hysteria just because some kiln had given birth to an ugly dwarf. Oh, but by The Stone, that was some ugly dwarf. Nevertheless, Thorbald issued a royal edict declaring the child a dwarf, a member of the hold, and ordered all talk of evil omens and curses stopped. While, the edict put an end to the whipsering in the taverns and public halls, it could not completely squelch the rumors that would plague Galen the Raven (as he came to be called), completely. This nickname would haunt Galen throughout his young life, for ravens were considered minions of the Black Dwarf and to be called a raven was a most grevious insult.
So, as Galen grew, he spent much time alone in the Culn. The hold's scholars refused to teach him. The swordmasters spurned his parent's efforts to have him apprenticed. Priests declined to coach him. Though they were two of the most powerful priests in the hold, his parents could not persuade anyone to take young Galen the Raven under their wing, so to sepak. So, Glareon, thought, let them be damned, I'll teach him the arts of war myself. I will teach him to read. I will teach him to write. By the Fire, I'll turn him into a priest of war to shame Malkier himself!
So, as the years passed, Galen grew strong and proved himself adept and mastering the sword and understanding the art of war. And his beard even began to fill in. A bit. And Glareon was hopeful his name would be redeemed in a strong son, a priest of war who could take his place as the King's counselor.
However, it was not to be. Adolescence was not kind to Galen. His beard came in sparse and scraggly (almost worse than not having one at all), and his strange un-dwarf like combination of features were somehow made more acute as he entered early adulthood. His features were not the only hurdle Galen encountered. Rejected by his peers, and most everyone else in the hold with the exception of this parents, Galen had little interraction with others. Consequently, his social skills were never honed. He lacked the great tact and superb eloquence that characterizes others of the beautiful dwarven race.
As he entered adult hood, his kind mother called him developing" and "unique" and asserted that the Father must have given him something truly special inside and, to balance the inner-gifts, had to take something from outside. At other times, in desperation, she asserted he was Malkier reborn, and was simply twisted by time and space during his rebirth. Others, claimed he was simply ugly and cursed. And others, less kind, called him a physical and social horror, and clamored for him to be sacraficed or at least banished from the hold.
The year was 686. And it was to be an exciting year for the dwarves of Thorvald. An impromptu meeting of the war council was to be held in the hold... the first time a war council was to be held in the Norselands in centuries. As the Council met only once every century or so, unless there was a dire emergeny, this was a great and much heralded event... an event tainted with some apprehension, given the strange rumors floating around and the fact that the Council had met a scant three decades ago.
Glareon was particularly nervous about the meeting. As the King's first advisor, he would be participating in the Council. And, as the Peace Warder for the hosting hold, he would be a central figure in the precedings... And, given the emphasis on familial relations and the long history behind his name... his son, too, would be expected to participate in some of the ceremonies. What would the other Warders and kings think of him? Would they banish his son, in shock and horror? Maybe they were holding the Council here for that very purpose? Wild thoughts flickered through Glareon's head for most of the year.
Finally, in the Winter of 686, the members of the council began to arrive from all the Dwarven kingdoms... the kings and peace warders of all the holds were soon assembled at Thorvald.
Unfortunately, this was around the time that Galen's "spells" started. Spells is the name Magula gave to them anyway. His father didn't mention them, and preferred to pretend they did not exist, afraid that if word of this got out, the Hold would banish them all for sure. Now, these weren't wizard spells, or dizzy spells, or even the "spells" or powers attributed to powerful priests. These were odd episodes where, upon waking, Galen would have strange, almost uncanny, and terribly realistic dreams about events, past and present. Waking up, distraught and anxious, Galen would tell his parents about his vivid dreams. His first dream was of Malkier, slaying a goblin. Subsequent dreams were also of Malkier, his wife, and other detailed aspects of Malkier's life. At first, Glareon and Magula dismissed these as the products of an idle-minded and gifted (if ugly) rag. They decided that Galen's imagination was a product of too much free time spent daydreaming, and they increased his studies, and his work around the culn.
But as the days passed, Galen's visions became more and more terrible. He began to have an odd and persistent "feeling" that something important was about to happen, something momentous and terrible. In late 685, Galen told his parents that a War Council would be held the following year in the Hold. Ridiculous, they thought. It just met 30 years ago! His parents dismissed this as, again, further evidence that Galen's mind was idle. If he had time to concoct such fanciful daydreams, he must not be working hard enough. Idle hands make for an idle mind, and an idle mind is an easy cliff for the Dark Dwarfs scaling, as the saying went. So, Galen's chores and study-load were again increased.
Some months later, to his suprise and horror, Glareon received word that the War Council was to meet.
Further "spells" followed. One night, after a particularly awful and disturbing dream, Galen woke, tremendously agitated and frightened. Highty unusual for dwarfs in general, and Galen in particular. Galen told his parents of the terrible "vision" he had. He said he saw dwarves, miner's working a new mine in a Nordic Hold to the East, toiling. After quitting for the day, and heading back to their culns, they are attacked by fierce, odd looking creatures, with evil eyes and large fangy teeth. These dark creatures slaughter the dwarves, and leave half-eaten bodies strewn about the mine. After recounting this horrific tale, Glareon and Magula, frightened for their son who was obviously very disturbed (not to mention ugly), reprimanded him. "Never are you to speak of such things.. Never are you to think of such things.. And if you do.. Keep them to yourself or by my Father's Beard I'll flail your hide raw."
"Glareon!," Magula scolded. "Don't talk that way. Perhaps we should listen to him.. You remember the last time." But Glareon would hear none of it. If word of these strange and horrific ramblings from his son became common knowledge, the King would banish them all as minions of the black dwarf. And his good name had been tainted enough by the dark and disturbing little rug.So, after much debate (he called it) and bull-headed, lumpish, idle- headed argument (she called it), they decided it was best for Galen to keep his more disturbing dreams to himself.
And as the days passed, Magula driven by a nagging curiousity about something she had once heard as a girl, decided to visit old grey-bearded Ragnuht Slatecarver, an ancient dwarf and scholar, reputed to be the oldest living dwarf in the world. So, one day, Magula packed a lunch and hiked down the trails and caverns into the depths and bowels of the hold. Journeying along ancient, dark and little travelled tunnels, she eventually came to the small crevice that reputedly led to the tunnel that led to Ragnuht's culn. Ragnuht, extremely anti-social, even for a dwarf, chose to live as far as possible from the rest of the dwarfs.
Magula could appreciate Ragnuht's desire for privacy for quiet contemplation, but still, as she stumbled over loose rocks and boulders slimy with the slick mold that covered many rocks in the dark and chilly caverns this deep she couldn't keep from swearing "what, by my beard, kind of rock-brained, grey bearded, mold- eating old fool lives down here?"
"Well, I watch weather-bitten bitten old hags stumble over stones the size of pebbles like some elf drunk on wine, heh, heh..." replied a voice like rusty sword coming out of a thousand-year old scabbard for the first time.
Magula shrieked and, gripped by an odd-feeling, fear, began to quickly back up the dark narrow tunnel the way she had come, slipping on some slick slime and falling face-first onto the rocky floor of the tunnel in the process. "What by the Dark Dwarf's Beard are you?" scremed Magula from the rocky floor.
"What foul language for a lady, if that's what ye are pretendin' to be" replied the voice. Magula stumbled to her feet to see a stoop-shoulded, with a beard longer than her arm, crouched above her. "Ragnuht," Magula breathed. "You must be Ragnuht."
"Yeh, must I? Why must I? Carved in stone is it? Some law of nature? Must I? No. Am I? Yes. What brings ye here, disturbing my researches? Trouble brings ye? Well, don't just stand there in the damp and dark, come before you catch cold." Ragnuht's voice sawed and screeched, and without giving her time to speak, he grabbed her arm with suprising force and led her down the tunnel.
"Where are you taking me you stoop-shoulded old bug-bear? Let me go!"
"Aye, hang on little kiln, we be almost there." Ragnuht rasped as hoisted Magula round a large rock blocking the tunnel. "Yea, almost there. No need to get your fuzz all in a ruffle." And he continued to hoist her like a sack of grain, despite his frail- seeming frame, her rather bounteous bulk, and fists pounding on the hump of the old dwarf's back. "Ae, see little kiln, we be there. Here be my home. Just settle yourself down little kiln and I'll hear all your little problems. Don't ye worry."
"Look here you black-brained troglydyte, your even more ill- mannered than my rag and if you were nott half near death already, I'd beat you to within an inch of you life. What by the Maker's Forge do you think you're doing!"
"Oh, little kiln, heh he, calm your little self and welcome to my culn," rapsed Ragnuht. "What can old Ragnught do thee for and what brings such a lovely kiln to my dark old caverns?"
Magula, quickly composing herself, as kiln have the uncanny ablitiy to do (even for Dwarfs) calmly replied "My rag. I have come regarding my ragtuk. He's... special. I want to know about the legends of the Father."
"Heh, he what?! Get ahold of yourself. Your making no sense. What do the old myths of the Father have to do with some little rag, and which of the hundred or so legends of the Father might ye be interested? Bah, I don't have time for the driveled non- sense of some fuzzy-bearded kiln. Maybe you should go. Blazing kiln, always causing a ruckus. Half the reason I left the hold," Ragnuht muttered.
"Listen, wise old Ragnuht, I am sorry if I offended you. But I need your help. My son, he's afflicted with some sort of curse. I want to know more about the legends of Father's second-born and Gnirdmalg the Seer."
Ragnuht's mouth drifted into a gnalred line and then, slowly opened to a round-hollow "O". "You. You must be the mother of the banished one." The rusty voice grated out. The way Ragnught's chisled voice grated out this last words sent chills up Magula's spine.
"Yes, there are things I know that can help you. Your son, he's a far-see-er, yes?"
"What?", Magula replied.
"A far-see-er?" Ragnught heaved an exasperated sigh. "Dreams, your nasty little rag has dreams. Dreams of events, past and future. Dreams of war, and death. Dreams of things passed and to come... blood and bone, death and birth, and all that?"
"Well, uh, ah. Yes." Heaved Magula.
"Your son has the gift, as you thought, of Gnirdmalg. The gift of prophesy. The cursed sight. Your son is special and cursed. He must be banished. He must leave the hold. Like cutting out a festering wound, he must leave and not come back until the evil is expunged." Rasped Ragnught.
Oh, my Mother's Beard, thought Magula. They were right. He is evil.