Part 1
2687, Age of Peace
Somewhere high in the Ninguland Mountain range, south of Rebluff
Bitter winds affronted the mountainside, icy flakes of snow whipping the crags. A blinding white it was, the storm howled like a banshee as snow pooled in every crack and nook it could find. While the granite of the sheer peaks could not be entirely suppressed by the torrent of snow, windrifts swirled like waves on ledges and the valley below was blanketed in an ocean of white. Only the tips of the spruce could be distinguished, swaying to the blizzard’s demands. The icy gauntlet of winter gripped the Ninguland Mountains.
Galmur huddled beneath his woolen cloak, seeking warmth on the edge of a precipice. He grimaced beneath his burly and short blonde beard - not nearly as full as his fathers or any other dwarves in his clan - which was bristling with chunks of ice. He cursed to himself as he idled in the blizzard, buried to his chest in the powdery chunks.
Forty and six days he had only inched along the narrow mountain pass, driving at the snow with nothing but an ice pick. It was a cruel mockery, the snow seemed to only pile higher and deeper as he slaved to clear it away, a tug of war between man and nature. Dwarf, to be precise. Behind him were frosted silhouettes, stout shapes draped in dark cloaks, hacking with shovels, picks and even a few axes. Shrouded by vanes of snow, he could not see their faces, only the blurs as they swung their iron down into the snow. Galmur cursed again, gripping his own ice pick by the well-worn wooden handle.
Wedged between the towering crags of insurmountable grade was the isolated mountain pass, a cove driven like a spearpoint driven into the rock. Few if any had ever visited the reach, it was one of thousands of obscure passages in the expansive mountain range known as the Ningulands.
Clearing snow in a narrow path, the seven figures in the mountain pass could be the first to discover the area. To explore the entire region of the Ningulands and it’s uncountable peaks, tunnels, alcoves, and gorges would be impossible in any one’s lifetime. Even for a dwarf, whose lifespans far surpassed that of any man’s. However, the entire expedition would be in vain if this were to be true. To the toiling dwarves braving the winters storm beneath, they could not be the first to discover and walk the mountain pass. Their lives depended on it.
“How much longer Hjolm?” to the group it was no longer a question, but rather a jest, prodding their elder to keep their minds from the task at hand.
A grunt came from Thulyr, black bearded and fiery-tempered. “Maybe if you stopped asking and started shoveling Buurjen, we would be there already.”
Banter, but nothing more. Of the seven, Buurjen was famous for his verbal barbs, the rest of the dwarves were content to listen in. Together they were Galmur, Fiirsen, Erdum, Hjolm, Buurjen, Thulyr and Dovolm. Born not in the high northern passages of the Ningulands as their forefathers, but a motley collection of dwarves hailing from the Ingulheim. Of varying backgrounds, each was a warrior in his own respect, though with his own trade. Farmers, miners, leatherworkers, even a scholar.
“If it’s even there,” piped another, Fiirsen, Galmur’s cousin. Despite his cousin’s resolute being and steadfast attitude, Fiirsen was doubtful.
Despite their verbal chatter, the ringing of steel on ice continued, though deafened by the howling around them. At their lead was Galmur, setting the pace for his companions. Lifting the ice pick above his head, he let the iron split the hardened ice. Chunks were sent, powder flying in sprays. Galmur felt his muscles begin to seize, only ever so slowly. Unlike the others in the group, Gamur was no miner, blacksmith, or warrior. Galmur was a scholar.
“Can you see it lad?” the voice came from his shoulder. Peering through eyelids that were speckled with frozen droplets, the elderly figure shuffled next to him. Hjolm, the leader of their arduous expedition. Gamur could see the swaying beard of white that cascaded atop the figure’s cloak.
He shook his head, freeing loose snow that covered the hood of his cloak. “Not yet”
“Storm’s getting worse,” Hjolm reflected rather neutrally, peering into the gray sky
Galmur attacked the snow, throwing his entire being into clearing it. Chipping away at the ice, he wondered how long it would take them. Their tenacity was commendable, but for forty and six days had the storm lasted, as if nature itself willed against their quest. What would have been a journey destined for the passages of history now turned into a battle of survival, their only ally the meager supplies left in their packs and the warmth of their cloaks. Time was running short for the dwarves on the mountainside.
No longer biting at their faces or tearing at their cloaks, the ceaseless storm blew harmlessly against the rock. Safe from the barrage of snow, the group hunched in a circle inside the cavern. It was less of a cave and more of an alcove, sheer rock at such an angle that it remained dry, only a handful of flakes fluttered into the dark and cramped inlet.
Despite the lack of tinder or wood in the barren mountain pass, a fire crackled inside, the product of Dovolm’s ingenuity and alchemic knowledge. For a blacksmith the dwarf was acquainted with the arts of magic, specifically the chemical compounds found in the various metals of the earth. On the night the storm blew into their path, the dwarf dug a number of objects from his pack, grinding them into powders and chunks, then igniting them on the ground. A mixture of several elements produced the magical flame he recreated each night, though his supply of the materials dwindled to a few pebbles that he kept wrapped in an oily rag.
Thauril, he had explained to them, was the catalyst. A rare element found deep underneath their mountains. Sought after by elves and men, it was the only physical compound that could channel magic, and when combined with the right ingredients it could be used for any number of uses. Shaving it to a dust, he coated black lumps of coal with the stuff, lighting it with a tinder. Instantly and to their amazement was a flame produced, crimson though tinged with a violet hue.
Dovom, holding a whetstone, set about sharpening his steel, honing its faceted edges. It was also a creation of his own, a mattock bore with spikes on its face. Designed to obliterate ice, it came rather in handy. The rest of them tended to their own things, unwrapping biscuits and smoked meats from their packs.
“What do you think we’ll find?” like his jest earlier in the day, Buurjen’s query was a ritual they held each night. Each dwarf had his own answer, an argument over what their quarry would contain as they discovered it.
Thulyr roared, “A hoard of dried meats, pickled carrots and as much beer as I can keep down”
“You keep the mug, I’ll take it by the barrel,” Erdum chuckled, tugging at his cloak. A girthy dwarf, despite his size he was renowned for his ability to wield an axe. “What about you Dovom, eh?”
The blacksmith grinned behind the umber bush of his beard. “The famed armory of Rauden and it’s metals of course.”
“You’ll be lucky if there’s but a dagger left there. Scavengers will have left it bare, that is except for the athenaeum. It’s been locked for centuries,” Galmur boasted, twisting a metal contraption in his hand.
A dwarven key, shaped as a hexagonal cube was intricately engraved. With a loop on it’s end he had fashioned a chain to keep it around his neck. An ancient art in the lockcraft of his people, this key had been passed down to him from Galmur’s father. For generations the key had passed from father to son, crafted in the forges of Rauden. Its purpose: to unlock the doors to the ancient dwarven library. Galmur’s quest.
Goldbeards, they were called. Forefathers of stone: the original dwarves, bloodlines of the stout folk that delved deep into the rock below. From their mines were treasures brought up: silver rivers, barrels of pure gold, and riches of untold value such as thauril, adamantite, and vorostone.
They were not the first to dwell in the mountains however. Once, long before man or even elf had set foot in the world were the herdsmen or giants, the first kind. Aelorad had once been an icy tundra, some said, and the giants once were the shepherds of the frozen wasteland. In the first war, known otherwise as the Fall of the Giants, the massive creatures were defeated by the draukir, or scalefolk and dragons, usurping their power. Though their armies destroyed and only bands remained, the giants remained in their great fortresses built into the mountains, the last holdouts.
Until the dwarves arrived- a thunderous band of warring folkthat earned their trust among the dragons. Their bones scattered in the forests of pine before the walls of stone, of those giants that could fled to the south to Ingulheim, the rest lost their way into the forgotten canyons of the Mountains. Leaving their halls for the dwarves to reclaim, the ancient shepherds of the ice were gone, their tribes never to be seen by the eyes of men or dwarf.
Armed with chisels, picks, and the great smiths did the dwarves reshape the giant’s halls, forging doors to protect their monstrous tunnels. Naming them after the language of their old masters, such as the great city hall of Helden, these mountain halls became the home to the dwarven people. Famed for the glittering treasure hoarded in their vaults, they were called the Goldbeards. A fitting name, but short-lived.
The Second War came, or known by it’s name in the Eiidyaur as Vaiel uj Tor: The War of Blood. Spreading their filth across the mountains, the dwarves were the first to be affected by the plague known as the Children of Dusk. Burning the countryside, the demons devoured the north entirely, feasting on the flesh of men and dwarf alike. The corruption spread like wildfire, seeping into the stone fortresses of Helden, Dembur, Njaurden and others. Rather than cowering in the mountains the Goldbeards took to the fields of battle alongside men, elf and dragon. Cleaving their foes many a dwarf was slain in the great and terrible battle that lasted for days, leaving tens of thousands dead. Utterly destroyed, the Children of Dusk and their cities were cast into the depths of the Underlands, never to touch the light of day with their scourge again. It came at a cost however, for the dwarves.
Far from the scorched battlefields in the east, darkness seeped from the warrens of rock beneath the halls of Helden, Rauden and others: a horde of indescribable horror. Victorious the masters of the holds returned to halls barren, overtaken by a foul evil. An attempt was made by the Goldbeards to retake Helden, the jeweled city of the dwarven kingdom, but it was forsaken. Corpses overtaken, ghouls with talons, magical fire that swallowed the stone tunnels with an inferno, there was naught but death and destruction left in their prized city.
Thus began the sorrowful journey, the trek south for that what remained of the Goldbeards and their clans, a scrap of what was once a powerful empire. Following the footprints of those they vanquished hundreds of years prior, the dwarves followed the Giants south to Ingulheim where they sought a new life. Christened as the Lost People or the Ironbeards, the dwarves built new halls in the frozen tundra at the end of the world, grand monoliths carved into the ice. Clans grew, life flourished in the fortresses of Jalbraaken, Stedmjor and Hammerhall.
Despite their newfound life in the Realm of Ingulheim, the dwarves did not forget. Elders spoke of the riches of their ancestors, the very metal that ran through their veins came from beneath those great halls in the north. One day, they would reclaim what was theirs. One day the children of the Goldbeards would walk through the massive doors of Helden, to gaze upon the city of their people with their own eyes and not through the fabled tales of their elders. One day they would rekindle the fires in their forges, to draw the ore from the mountains, and stand where the first dwarves did. One day.
It was deeper. Too soft was the term blanket, for the snow stood taller than any of they, a windrift that rolled like icy white waves. Such was the state of the mountain pass for the seven as they pulled themselves from their shelter, facing the aftermath of the night before. The dwarves met a light flurry as they drew their tools, their woolen cloaks dancing in the wind as they dug away. With pick, shovel and axe they resumed their work, the warmth in their muscles rolling off as sweat.
His cousin beside him, Galmur ploughed away with his icepick, furthering their trench. Panting as he raised the steel, the dwarf’s thoughts were distant, deep in the mountains before them. Lost cities of cold stone, entombed behind the snow-capped crags, halls that had been abandoned for millennia. Ruminating, he did not even hear the ringing. Ching. Without thinking, the pick was swung again, clanging again. Cling.
“Oi, that’s metal!” Fiirsen shouted, peering over his cousin’s shoulder.
Galmur stirred from his mulling, brought back to the present. Before him, the ice had cracked, it’s blue hue splintered where the pick had broken through its hardened face. Ancient, it had split finally, revealing a dull iron sheen. He recoiled, swinging downwards again. Ching. Ice shards scattered. In their place was a singular groove, a perfectly square corner inlaid in thick iron.
Hjolm, energetic as the young dwarf he was not, sprung up to the two, patting Galmur by his shoulder, “This is it, buried beneath the ice!”
“What is?” Thulyr joined them, as did Dovolm, Erdum, and Buurjen. Leaning on their tools, they peered into the facet of frozen water. His white beard fluttering, Hjolm berated them, kicking Thulyr.
“Stop standing about and gawking, help him clear it away!” the elderly dwarf was mad with excitement, practically stomping the matted snow beneath.
Scrambling by the dwarf’s command, the remaining five drove into the ice with fervor, the energy pulsating about them with anticipation. Even as the storm intensified, the flurry transforming to a blizzard once more they attacked the ice. Breaking away the ancient glacier the dwarves began to uncover an object, an intricate rectangle of metal buried in thousands of years of frozen water. When they finished, the seven dropped their tools in amazement. Just as the elders had predicted, it still remained shut. The entrance to Rauden.
Withdrawing slender sticks covered with oiled rags, the seven produced three torches, lighting them as they stepped inside. Narrow was the hallway before them, a simple tunnel barren designed to lead to a greater chamber. The air was chilled, pockets of blue ice where cracks split the stone. Cracking, the echo of their tinder boxes rang throughout the empty tunnel, and the orange flicker of their torches cast shadows that stretched long before them.
“After all these years...” Hjolm gazed about the simply carved stone, his cowl thrown back. Balding, the dwarf’s tufts of hair were white as snow.
Buurjen and Fiirsen stuck to the rear, the others ahead. Flanked by the larger Thulyr, carrying a long-handled axe with many a scar on it’s edge, Galmur strode forward bravely. Winding like a great serpent in the mountainside, the long tunnel was dogged by many a turn, perfect angles chiseled into the corners. At times, the scholarly dwarf halted the party, inspecting every shadow.
Like a flower the tunnel blossomed, opening into a broad chamber. Orange light from the torches filled the room, revealing its dark secrets. Fashioned from the forges of old were two massive doors of iron, left opened on their hinges. Once painted crimson, their immaculate faces of squared edges were marred, flecks of gray metal shining through. Fiirsen gasped.
Decayed and covered with age-old frost were the skeletons. Left lying were dozens scattered, shoved against the doors, sitting against the stone, but many were facedown on the cold stone, left unceremoniously. Cobwebs covered the bones in silvery heaps, wound around the arrows that riddled the corpses. Hanging like ghostly banners the webs were strewn from the intricately carved doors, threads lain by spinnerets casted eerie reflection on the torches.
Beyond the remains of the massacre before them, darkness created a void past the open doors, unaffected by the glow of the torches. Gloom settled in the frigid air.
Wading through the cobwebs the dwarves were timid, tiptoeing through the dust strewn cavern. Galmur winced as a helmet was dislodged by Buurjen as he carelessly swung his foot out. Audaciously the younger dwarf shrugged, “What? It’s but a pile of bones, nothing to disturb here.”
Hjolm fixed a steady eye on Buurjen. “Careful now lad. Rauden didn’t fall yesterday, but there are foul things that dwell in these mountains, evil that should not be awoken. We should be so wary, lest we wake that evil.”
“Ramblings old one, nothing more,” Thulyr drawled, shoving aside a web-covered skeleton with the butt of his axe. Cracking, the gray mess splintered on the stone with an echo.
Standing before the open passageway into the abandoned hold, it felt as though even the fiery glow could not pierce the inky gloom beyond. Though the fear of the unknown haunted them all, the company of dwarves took the gamble, forcing beyond the doors. Filing into the darkness, their ragged and dark cloaks bounced, leaving the ghastly memorial behind them.
Built in the likeness of vertical mine, Rauden was a single shaft comprised of many levels, shooting from the topmost point of the mountain it was built inside, delving deep into the black. Even for the standards of modern masonry, the shaft was carved as a hexagon, the grain of the stone walls was perfect and smooth. Inlaid on the cornice of each level were ornate molds, etchings of runes in the granite itself. Supporting each level beneath itself were pillars, evenly spaced and tucked against the stone. Between the shafts of stone were squared archways, pathways around each level. In the center of the gaping shaft was a system of chains comprised of triangular links and intersecting brackets. Suspended on their level was a cage of a platform, furnished with a series of pulleys above it: an ancient elevator.
It was everything they imagined, the vivid descriptions from the mouths of the elders back in Ingulheim coming to life. Lacking the countless bodies discarded and piled in it’s many levels, the grandeur of Rauden was untarnished by age. Not even the crisp gale of wind penetrated the thick walls of the mountain city. The only sign of life itself was the slight rot remained in the stale air, bottled up within the abandoned shaft. Shadows clung to the hundreds of facets in the city, stretching forth from the pillars by the distant torchlight. Pinned by arrows to the wall, the corpses of those left behind by Rauden’s fall played tricks with their eyes, dancing silhouettes against the stone
Dovolm whistled to himself. “Never in my days did I think I would see this.”
"Uj je thaum, vaeyl je," Erdum echoed the dwarven expression softly,“Stone of mine, my blood.”
Boots scuffing the stone, the seven edged towards the chasm at the center, admiring the craftsmanship before them. Even Buurjen was awestruck. “It’s incredible.”
“Remember what we came here for?” Galmur reminded them, his retort echoing throughout the myriad of levels. Calmly he faced them. “We can recuperate from the storm, but we must not forget our task.”
“Aye, our leader speaks the truth. Find the athenaeum, and we find the key to Helden,” Hjolm responded, his beard bouncing.
Clicking the chains rattled as the enclosed platform descended. The metal groaned, though the smithed ore was sturdy and held. Atop the platform the dwarves hung tightly to the rungs of the elevator, peering at the endless dark beneath their boots. It shuddered as the device plunged the dwarves to the deep. Geometric corridors flashed in the glow of the torchlight.
Buurjen and Thulyr stared outward as the platform screeched to a halt, the chains became taut. Together the duo stepped to a dais that sprung from the smooth floor. Buurjen casted a wary eye up the shaft. Hundreds of feet upward was the flicker of orange, a firebug in the distance as their companions surveyed the floors above. Divided the dwarves had split into pairs, save Galmur, who explored the top-most point of the abandoned city. Ironically Buurjen and Thulyr had pulled the short straw, and now faced the dregs of the stone shaft, where little light could reach the bottom.
“I see. You’re a courageous adventurer until you step into the unknown, then you become just a coward,” Thulyr grumbled, noticing the other’s gaze.
“And if you had to answer even the simplest of riddles to drink a glass of water, you’d shrivel up and die due to your stupidity,” the dwarf answered the jest with his own verbal riposte.
They stood under an overhang, a suspended ledge of rough stone that had not been smoothed to perfection as the remainder of the shaft had. Hewn into it’s dark passageways were a series of straight tunnels, perfect junctions coming to ninety degrees at each elbow. Blocky runes were carved into the faces of each, names above the archways that intersected. An ancient byway of some kind, the passageways leading to other similar tunnels underneath the mountain itself. Stories spun by the elders told of the great Highway of Rhol, a grid of tunnels connecting each of the dwarven cities and fortresses. Through the stone underbelly of the Ninguland mountains their kin had utilized the Highway to trade supplies with one another, send messages in the dead of winter when no pigeon or raven could fly, even the dwarven armies of old would take the black tunnels in the deep.
Rhol who was a great traveler and explorer of the caverns of the world, the legend who orchestrated the construction of the Highway in his name, discovered something else. Something far more sinister, found by accident as the tunnels were dug. Lying in the bedrock, far beneath the ruined halls that the Giants once held claim was world of darkness. The Underlands.
Of the few who ventured to the dark world, they spoke of a grand monstrosity lying beneath the earth. A cave of unfathomable size with entire cities built like honeycombs of a bee’s hive, subterranean civilizations that had been undiscovered. Forests of moss, lichen and mushrooms that glowed like the moon blanketed the rockscape, immense waterway and lakes dividing the terrain like flowing pools of ebony, their depth unknown. Crawling among the rocks were tube-like insects the size of horses, creating tunnels as they devoured stone. Primitive creatures who covered their pale translucent skin with the goo of glowing mushrooms, four-eyed abominations that preyed on the lone dwarven explorers.
It was said that Rhol himself was lost in the dark subterranean world, the dwarf’s last legacy living legacy consumed by his own exposition. Only negligible details of the Underlands surfaced, scarce were the dwarves that returned many gone mad.
Buurjen shuffled about, inspecting the dust coated passages with the tip of his boot. The athenaeum would not be located anywhere close to the floor, such a chamber of importance to the hold would be kept out of the reach of invaders, or worse. Despite this, the younger dwarf was uneasy at the prospect of clambering around the bottom of the abandoned city, treading on the hallowed ground amidst the bones of the dead. Superstition filled his being, only heightened by the tendrils of shadow cast by his torch.
“You’ve hardly moved since we got down here,” Thulyr grumbled, pulling the other by the collar. Dragging Buurjen, the two dipped beneath a squared arch. They stood in an atrium- bisected by narrow corridors into apartments, an octagonal hearth carved a few meters below the floor, and stone benches lining the walls. Bones, contorted and covered by the dust of millennia were scattered about the chamber.
Buurjen was jerked from his thoughts. Something clattered beyond, a faint echo rebounded off the darkened corridors beyond. He froze, “What’s that?”
“Eh? Someone upstairs probably knocked over a chamberpot,” Thulyr muttered noncommittally. Hefting his axe, kneeled to inspect a corpse. Tarnished by web and neglect, he could still see they were mangled, the jaw hanging by one side. Thulyr frowned. What in the hells did this, he mused.
“No, that came from the tunnel stone-ears. Listen,” adamant, the younger dwarf reached for his belt. Sheathed in a buckle was a short-handled falchion, squared at the end. Drawing his weapon, Buurjen edged forward.
No sound emanated from beyond the atrium. With a contemptuous chuckle, Thulyr kicked the bones away. “You’re imagining things brujaur. Nothing left here but dust and rock.”
Just then it came again. Unlike before, Thulyr too heard the sound; scraping. Dragging like a razor against the inner stone workings, the shrill echo pierced the atrium. A dull reverberation ensued as the disturbance ended abruptly. Both of the dwarves tensed.
Quivering only slightly, Buurjen backpedaled, his heel knocking against a battered shield. Thulyr was but a few paces ahead, so he hissed. “Believe me now? Let’s get back to the elevator...”
His sentence was cut short. Something emerged from the inky void of the tunnels beyond, a shape materialized from the darkness. Crawling forward, Thulyr’s questions were answered, the fears he tucked deep into his conscience, masked by his virility and outward hardy nature. A horror sprang into the torchlight.
It was there, at the upper level of the vertical shaft, supported by pillars from below to uphold the singular chamber. Heavy-set, the iron doors were engraved with the depiction of a dwarf holding a scroll in a relief. Runes scrawled across in bands along the top and bottom of the doors, affirming the purpose of the chamber beyond. And a lock.
Squared except for the hole for the key to fit inside, which was hexagonal. It was intricate, even ancient dwarven contraptions still remained a wonder to outsiders. But Galmur was no outsider.
He lifted the hexagonal cube, fitting it neatly through the slot, the looped end provided enough leverage for him to twist. Humming in his hand, the lock clicked, whirring could be heard inside the box built into the door as pins were dropped in staggered motion. Steel bars ground against each other, and there was a grand clunk. Ever so slightly, a gap appeared between the thick dwarven doors. Stale air slipped between the crack, the stagnant fume of scrolls, books and the binding glue that kept it together.
The burden of doubt lifted from his chest, Galmur felt a surge of energy. Years of preparation, their rigorous journey from Ingulheim had led to this moment. Grasping the metal handle to the right, the dwarf prepared to enter.
Traveling upward from the tunnel, a sound broke the stillness of Rauden, disturbing the dusty bones. Clashing of steel could be heard at the apex of the mountain, disturbing Galmur from his revelation. A dwarven battlecry echoed throughout the arches, passageways and ruin that was once the great stronghold carved into the stone. It was not an unrelenting roar of destruction, or even one he had heard in the skirmishes in the far south. It was a warning cry to all of his fellow companions, one that resounded and filled his ears- the call for a retreat.
Run...
