chapter 4

Chapter 4




    As if Galedian’s prayer was heard, a turn of events was about to take place far off to the north.  Deep beneath the snow covered mountains of Silverglade, in the dimly lit halls of the dwarven kingdom of Thorin’s ancestors, all of Thorgaiden was in an uproar, for no sooner than the King passed into the great dwarven halls among the stars, his brother, Dorn staked claim to the throne, Thorin’s birth right.
    Thorin had been in deep thought since his meeting with Bohrin and the news he brought with him, now he prepared for the funeral.  So lost was he that he had not even spoken to his mother who now stood on the balcony across from his watching him with great concern.  “Thorin ye must face yer uncle, his claim can not go unchallenged.  For yer father’s honor, fer yer own.  Don’t disgrace the family name.”  She scorned him.
    “Are ye saying I’m scared of me own kin?  Ye be the one showing shame, insinuating yer own son is a coward.”  
    “Well, ye’ve been sulking about locked up in there for hours now.  What am I spose t’ be thinkin?  What is the clan supose t’ be thinking?”
    “That I am Thorin Hammerax.  That I am son to the great king of Thorgaiden come from a long line of honor back to the beginning.”  He shouted at the insult.
    “Then quit yer stalling and answer the challenge.”
    “Stallin?  Now ye says I’m stallin.  Fer yer knowin, I be thinking.  Thinking o’bout what to do.  Thinking bout what all has come to pass.  Thinking o what mi father would want?  What I want.  What’s right fer the clan?”  He roared out of frustration and anger.
    “By the gods forge then talk to me, I’m yer mother not yer enemy.” She cursed.
    “Talk to ya.  What in the abyss, does ye think I’m doing?  You don’t wanna listen.”
    “Yer actin like a foolish human not a dwarf, not a Hammerax.  I’s think ya been traveling from home to much.”
    Thorin spun on his stubby legs and threw his mug against the wall smashing it into pieces.  “Tyrell would know what to do.”
    “Tyrell Nacar.  He’s the reason ye be actin this foolish nonsense out.”  She stopped short knowing she had crossed the line. She knew she had no call for striking out against Tyrell.  He had been friend to the dwarves for many years and dear to her late husband.  Many dwarven battles against invaders from the underdark did he assist in when it was not his place.  She cast her eyes down in shame for her treacherous words and awaited her son’s brutal retort.
    “Tyrell has!”  He started in a vicious rage, but as he turned and saw his mothers disgrace he changed his tone.  “I don’t have t tell ya what he has done fer this kingdom.  Not a Dwarf here will support such thoughts, and ifn they did it’d be my axe they face.”  
    She looked up at him.  She was not about to apologize for it was not in her nature, it was not in any stubborn dwarf’s nature.  “I know yer heart aches fer yer father, and I know yer troubled cause ye weren’t here for the battle.  I just don’t want ya feeling shame or blame.”
    Thorin bit down hard on his bottom lip.  His mother’s words struck true to his heart, but he was a dwarf and fired by the forge as strong as iron he would not show his remorse, at least not in front of anyone.  “What is wrong with Dorn’s claim to the throne?  He has as much rite and all the mountain knows it.”
    “It is yer birth rite!”  She scolded.
    Thorin looked up at her with discontent.  She was now leaning on the thick stone rail of the balcony facing him.  She had that look about her that said she was his queen not his mother. He drew in a deep breath that raised his thick chest high into the air and let it out slow.  His stubby fingers tugged at one of the braids in his long bushy beard.  It was an unconscious act that he suddenly became aware of as he notice his mother doing the same thing, only her beard was much shorter than his.  In fact, it was custom for all dwarven women to keep their beards just past the chin.
    He let out a snort realizing he had more of his mother in him than he knew.  “Look.  Dorn is kin; the same blood runs through his veins as does mine.  He has many honors.  He has more experience in matters of war and politics.  He takes great pride in his people and he is a strong leader.”  He said now in a defensive tone.
    “Yes.  He is as solid as the mountain, much like yer father, even his lust for mithiril.  Why, them two would get together and dig for days on end in search of the sacred metal.”  She replied as her thoughts dwelled on the memory of her late husband.  A tear moistened her eye.
    “He will be a great king mother.  It is not my time to take the throne.  I can better serve our kind as a royal emissary and continue to make peace with the humans and elves.”
    “You have your father’s wisdom.  Do what you must. Now go with my blessings.”
    “Aye mother, I will make you proud.”  Thorin said in his usual husky voice.  He then turned to take his leave.
    “I am already proud of ya lad.”  His mother yelled after him.
 The entire city gathered in the Great Hall of Heroes.  Here they waited for Thorin to proceed with the burial ceremony of their beloved king.  They stood in perfect silence waiting for his arrival.
    There were no doors at the entrance of the Great Hall, only an opening that arched above thirty feet.  The entrance was twenty feet wide and the walls five feet thick.  All the stone was perfectly smooth.  Not even a mark from a tool could be found.
    The ceiling vaulted nearly a hundred feet above them.  Pillars ten foot in diameter and forty feet apart carved from solid stone to support the heavy rock above.  The Hall was exactly two hundred feet wide and four hundred and eighty feet long.  A towering column stood in each corner and two evenly spaced on each wall in the middle.  A row of nine ran down the full length twenty feet from each side of the hall.  Along the walls, there were six levels of lanais filled with spectators the full length of the room.  
    Twenty feet from the ceiling, from each pillar, an arch support eight feet wide stretched up and out to meet in the middle and against each wall. Each of these twenty-six pillars glowed with an orange and yellow light from the heart of each that showed the swirls and layers of the crystal like stone from whence they were carved.  The Great Hall filled with this warm hue night and day.  Never did the lights go out.
    At the far end was a great set of stone stairs.  Thirty feet wide and climbing thirty feet high to another level, they were steep.  This level was like a great stage, and was as wide as the room.  Above was another level with stairs on each side cut of stone leading up another twenty feet to the ceremonial platform.  Twenty feet from the steps, straight back was another arched doorway that opened beneath the upper level.
    This doorway led into the Room of Resting Kings.  Above the archway a balcony over hung in the room, given access from the upper level.  Here all the dwarven kings of past lay beneath heavy stone sarcophaguses carved in their image.  Here there would be a new memorial made in the likeness of Thorin’s father.
    Thorin made his way up the steep smoothly carved steps to the ceremonial alter.  His uncle and his mother along with dwarven priests awaited him patiently.  The body of his father lay fully dressed in armor with his great axe resting on top his chest with his hands folded over the handle.
    Thorin met his uncle’s gaze as he approached the top.  He could sense his uncle’s anxiety, for he expected Thorin to challenge his claim to the throne.  Thorin then turned his gaze to his mother, who gave him simple nod to show her support, and then he let his gaze rest on his departed father as he stood for a moment to honor him.
 From his place, fifty feet above all who gathered, he swallowed hard and went to the rail to give his speech.  He knew that most of the dwarves were loyal to him and would support his claim to the throne, but what he did not know was how they would take to his decision to support his uncle.
    “Many who are here lost kin folk at the battle of Southgate, protecting our home against the goblin attack.  They are all honored as well as those who survived.”  Thorin roared as he glanced around the hall.  His tone filled with anger as he continued.  “We have come to the Great Hall this day to honor our king.  He gave his life defending his kingdom, his people.  He died with great honor.  But, I tell you this…I swear by my beard he will be avenged as well as all those who fell.”  
    The room broke into a sudden roar of thunderous cheers that echoed through the empty halls of the dwarven kingdom.  Thorin waited for the roar to subside.  “As you know war threatens the human world.  As you can see, it threatens our very doorstep as well.  I don’t care if’n you don’t like what I’m obout to say.”  
    His tone became serious and threatening, as well as his stone hard features as his eyes narrowed.  Only a few dwarves fought in the great catalyst.  We did not enter the Great War as a kingdom.  We will fight this war as a kingdom and we will show the world dwarven courage.”
    Again, the thunderous roar filled the room this time even louder.  “Tyrell has stepped forth and reclaimed his birthright as Tieyarkiel, last of the platinum knights.  When I last left him we had just retaken the Tower of Narsh-Turath and defeated the ancient demon.”  Thorin held his hands up to prevent the cheers as they started to erupt again.  
    The dwarf paused for a second so he could moisten his throat with a hard swallow of rich dwarven ale.  He slammed the mug down with a thump and renewed his voice.  “But we did not come here today to discuss matters of War…No; These I swear by the king’s axe are my father’s wishes.  That we go to war and join the elves and humans.  Also that his wishes are, that Dorn, his brother and my uncle take his place as king of Thorgaiden.”
    The silence held its lifeless grip on them all.  Anticipation and expectations fell to the cold stone floor like heavy armored feet.  Thorin could sense the rise of confusion among his kinfolk.  His mind raced and with the reaction of the dwarves, he began to reconsider his decision and challenge his uncle’s claim.  As he opened his mouth, the words were lost.  His dark beady eyes darted around, and then he turned his gaze behind to his uncle.  Peace found refuge in his heart again laying his anxiety to rest.  He turned back to the stunned spectators.  “To long have I been on the road.  To long have I adventured with our friend Tyrell in endless quests to restore peace and balance.  I know not the politics of kings.  However, I do know the will of mi blade and I better serve mi keen and mi father by quenching its thirst with orc blood.  I support Dorn’s claim as ye’ all shall…He will be a great king.”
    With that, Thorin turned and took his seat.  Dorn stood to take the floor.  As he passed Thorin his gaze fell to him, and his step slowed momentarily as he studied his nephew.  Then the priest came to his side and together they stood over the fallen king.  The priest took his place at the head and Dorn to the right with his eyes cast down.  
    The priest began prayers for the king’s safe passage to the realm of gods.  After a while, his voice simply became a muddled noise to Thorin as his mind filled with memories of his father.  He was not even aware the prayers had ended and that his uncle before the rite of passage of the crown started made an unusual request.
    “Thorin…”  His mother nudged him.  “Thorin!”  She nudged him again, this time stirring him from his thoughts.  He opened his eyes and stared at her in wonder.
    “What-What?”  He gruffed, then shook the fogginess from his head.  “What!”  He snapped in a harsh tone under his breath.
    “Dorn has called you to stand with him at your father’s side.”  His mother replied in a serious tone.
    Thorin turned to his uncle confused.  Dorn stood staring at him, his brows scrunched together.  He gave a subtle nod of his head as a gesture to come forth.  Thorin, still confused turned his gaze to the priest.  He stood as well in silence with his stare locked on him.  Quickly Thorin sprung from his seat and with awkward, heavy steps, he advanced.  The priest motioned for him to stand to his left.
    Standing now straight across from his uncle, Thorin searched his face for answers for this was not normal in the ritualistic rites of the crown.  Uneasiness stirred in many of the dwarves in the crowd.  Shadows flicked as hundreds of dwarves in the layers of lanai shifted on their feet.  “You may continue.”  Dorn said to the priest.
    “From the Halls of Valor, the mountain kings of my people-back to my bloods origin, watch now in witness to my Oath as king-” The Dwarven Priest paused and as he stood in silence, Dorn repeated his words.  Once he was finished the Priest continued.  “So’s that I hold true to the mountain or loose my place among them in the halls of valor forever.”  Again, the priest stopped and Dorn repeated as was the rituals custom.
    Then Dorn began the next phase.  He reached down and took forth the deceased kings mighty axe.  As he did, he admired the beautiful and deadly weapon, and then spoke his words.  “With me blood by this axe, as he and his father did as their fathers’ fathers before, I swear me Oath and theirs as King under the Mountain.”  
    When he finished, he gently place the palm of his hand on the lean-keen edge and pulled the curved blade slowly and smoothly with a slight amount of pressure until the thin crimson line of his hearts life flowed.  “This is my oath.”  He then proclaimed holding his hand up for all to see his life force drip from his wide square hand.
 Thorin remained confused, he had no idea why his uncle would request him to be part of the ceremony, but he waited in patience for the bizarre notion to be revealed.  The rest of the ceremony was as it has been since always.  The next and last thing was for Dorn either to claim the axe as his own as a symbol of ruler ship or to restore it back to the old king as rightful property to be buried with him.  Finally, the crowds roar dwindled and Thorin refocused his mind back on the ceremony.
    “As a symbol, I take this axe ‘For`eal’ynar’, forged by me own hands…a gift to me brother, our king.”
    At this, Thorin grew angered.  For`eal’ynar, or in the common tongue Fire fang, was his fathers and should be buried with him by rite.  Even though it was his uncles life quest and masterwork, blessed by Wora`ex, dwarven god of war, and in all his skills could never again make its equal.  Dorn bestowed it as a gift to his father and as such, should remain so.  This was the one thing Thorin dreaded would happen, and now that it was, he felt sickened ant the urge to protest boiled .  However, by formal procedure his uncle could make such a claim, to Thorin it was almost a sacrament.  Just as he was going to break tradition and declare his objection, Dorn turned to him, his expression hard.
    “I give it now to Thorin, son of Thowin, so he can fill it’s thirst for orc blood…and so that during my rule as king, ever should it sway false, by Habbuku’s will…it’s edge draw forth my Blood oath.”  Holding the axe in the flats of both of his hands, he held it over the body of his brother, offering it to Thorin.
    Thorin was shocked, and as if the anger that had welled up inside him was a great vessel of fire that suddenly capsized-swallowed by the calming sea, he could not react.  He stood motionless with a blank look on his face as his emotions churned.  Then just as quickly, his heart filled with admiration for his already well-loved uncle.  It was a great gesture and carried an even greater honor.  As he pulled himself together from his mixed emotions, he gladly extended both hands slowly to except such a gift and symbol.  Never before in dwarven history had such a thing been done, and as Thorin grasped the mighty axe in both hands, cheers exploded in a deafening roar.
    After the ceremony, Thorin and his uncle-King Dorn were in the chamber of council discussing matters of war.  The misunderstood tension between them was no longer present, and things were almost as they had always been under the new circumstances.  Thorin‘s deep voice boomed in the empty chamber.  “There is an unknown master behind this war.  An army comes from the sea to the south, and though the battle of Narsh-Turath was won, the dark army scattered to the winds and Reinhold and his men fled to the Black mountains.  I seen this army. Ten thousand orcs and goblins, and only a third of em were slaughtered.  They will regroup; they are too many to just disappear.  In addition, when they do, they will come with more.  The traitor Braxon Reinhold still has three thousand reserves waiting just east of Brindale.  They rally the plainsmen, barbarians and who ever else will fight for a purse of coins as we speak.”
    “I understand yer worry, and as I said, troops will be sent in a few weeks.  We have to have time to prepare, gather supplies, or make strategies.  Only a fool would march now under such short notice.”  Dorn replied logically with a sympathetic tone.
    “Hauken and his men don’t have that kind o’ time!”  Thorin roared.
    “I will not send our kin to their deaths!”  Dorn said raising his voice, but maintaining his temper.
    Thorin crossed the room and clanged the silver-jeweled goblet on the stone table causing it to sing out with a ring like tone.  He hung his head in despair and slumped over the table supporting his stout frame with his hands on the cold stone as his mind raced for some sort of conviction to persuade his king.  He had exhausted his mind from ideas.  He had strenuously pointed out the importance of a sooner march, yet his uncle’s words were wise.  It would be certain death to take leave without proper provisions or battle plans.
    He stared at the rich honey colored elixir, “What would Tyrell do?”  He said to himself.  His stubbornness and loyalty to Tyrell would not let him give up the argument.  He stood up straight and sloshed the remainder of the ale down his throat, then wiped his beard and mouth with the back of his hand.  He had one last suggestion.
    “Set march in three days with five hundred.  That should be plenty of time to get them ready.  Follow up in two days with the other six hundred, provisions, battlements and any other supplies.”  Thorin bartered.
    Dorn thought it over as he took a swallow from his own goblet, which was similar to Thorin’s.  The idea was not so bad, but then there were added problems.  “We would need more wagons to haul the extra supplies and mules to pull the battlements.  I don’t know if we have those kinds of resources just yet.”  He said finally.
 Thorin took the response not as a “NO”.  Quickly he thought for something to say to seal the deal before it turned out like the rest of his efforts.  Suddenly his chin set firm and he set his empty goblet down on the table leaving his gaze locked with his kings.  “Well I leave out at first light to rejoin Tyrell.  I need an answer before then so’s I might let him know.”  He looked down at his father’s axe that leaned against the stone chair and picked it up.  “It would not be this blade I’d be worried o’bout if’n we’re to late.  It would be Tyrell I’d be keepn a mind o’bout.”  He slung the blade over his shoulder and headed towards the heavy iron door.
    Dorn did not take his words as a threat, but knew them well for their true meaning.  Tyrell, as everyone called him now was very dear to Dorn.  Hundreds of hears ago, Dorn helped train the great platinum knight in the ways of weapons and fighting, helped mold the legendary Tieyarkiel into the man he is today.  “It seems he has given a great deal too many, and many now call him friend.  We owe- Tyrell a lot.”
 Thorin paused with his thick hand on the iron lever of the door.  He gave no reply, only turned his ear just enough as if he anticipated more words to come.  
    “Five hundred march in two days.  No more, no less.  I swear it by me beard.”  Dorn proclaimed his promise in a serious tone.  Thorin grunted and his shoulders relaxed with the comfort that he was victorious.  He had no doubts that Dorn would hold true to his word for it was he who knew Tyrell first and later introduced the platinum knight to Thorin.  It was by Dorn’s mouth that Tieyarkiel became legendary among the dwarves to begin with.  Satisfied, Thorin took his leave and retired to his chambers to catch up on his rest.
    Dorn stood a moment staring blankly at the closed door.  Memories swam back to him of long ago.  Back to when Tyrell was a lad, starting his training; even then, he saw the qualities in the young boy’s eyes.  Dorn, among others was summoned to teach the would be knights the arts of fighting.  The memories were so vivid; it was as if it were just yesterday.
    Nine youths born of dragon blood, around the age of five, stood obediently while each instructor was introduced.  He remembered how amazed he was at such discipline and later, the cunning and intelligence.  They each trained hard and studied without question.  The years passed and Dorn watched them grow with pride, and he, unlike the others grew fond of Tieyarkiel in such a way that they formed a relationship other than student and teacher.
    At age fourteen, Tieyarkiel’s skill surpassed the others by far; he had even disarmed Dorn for the first time.  It was then that they all knew he would be captain of the Platinum Knights.  By the time he was eighteen, he could easily defeat the weapon masters in a few sword strokes.  Tieyarkiel naturally took the role of leadership and the others followed him without question.  Soon he was sparing with his brothers to hone their skills as well.
    His favorite though was his little sister, as he called her, Dra’nel.  Dorn could see it, their closeness, and sometimes he wondered if there was more.  Even though no one else could, Dorn stood near by as the two slapped theirs swords together.  The strength, the speed, it was exhilarating to watch.
    “Don’t just go through the motions, feel them.  Fight with your heart, anticipate your opponent’s moves, force his blades where you want them.”  Tieyarkiel instructed her with each strike.
    Dra'nel moved around him, an acrobatic furry of thrusts, flips, twists and roles as she launched her attacks.  Tieyarkiel’s blades defended the assault without effort.  His feet moved in a rhythm to his dancing blades.  He had combined the methods and created his own, continuously improvising and turning it in to a precise skill, deadly and dangerous.
 Dra'nel’s breathing was hard Tieyarkiel’s was controlled.  She rushed in with her blade, a ploy, at the last second she leaped into the air in a summersault like flip and landed behind him.  However, her captain expected the move and his ploy was not to let on that he did.  She kicked out with her foot in an upward arc aimed for the back of his head.  Tieyarkiel stepped to the side and spun around with a blur, catching her by the foot and throwing her to the ground in one movement.
    The surprised girl found herself on the flat of her back, the damp green grass brisk upon her face and his blade at her throat.  “You are doing well little sister.”  He said removing his blade and offering her a hand up.  She accepted it gracefully and climbed to her feet.  “Control your breathing.  Do not strike with all your strength; instead use your speed and your heart.  Your heart is wise and will not let you down.  No matter what, you can always trust in it.”  He said to her.
    The words echoed in his thoughts.  It was the first time he had heard such a philosophy and it was not of his teachings.  Dorn’s thoughts came back to the present, but the words of Tyrell were still fresh in his mind.  “Follow your heart, it is wise and will not let you down.  No matter what, you can always trust in it.”   He said under his breath.
    Felling rite about his decision, he stormed out of the room.  He had to make haste if he was going to get the troops ready to march in a day’s time.  Confidence and hope found him as he charged down the halls shouting his orders to find wagons and mules.  Down he went deeper into the tunnels turning right then left through the doorways, his pace quickening as he made his way to the barricades.  
    He shoved the door open and barged into the room, “Commander, put down yer ale, there’ll be no drink this night.  Start ready’n the troops.  I want five hundred of em packed and ready by nightfall tomorrow.”  He glanced from side to side at the dwarves who were in the room.  “We dwarves will not let the blood of orcs and goblins be spilled by Hauken Moonspur and his men alone…Why should they have all the fun!”
    “To war-to war!”  Thundered the dwarves.
 

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' The silence held its lifeless grip on them all. Anticipation and expectations fell to the cold stone floor like heavy armored feet. Thorin could sense the rise of confusion among his kinfolk. His mind raced and with the reaction of the dwarves, he began to reconsider his decision and challenge his uncle's claim. As he opened his mouth, the words were lost. His dark beady eyes darted around, and then he turned his gaze behind to his uncle. Peace found refuge in his heart again laying his anxiety to rest. He turned back to the stunned spectators. "To long have I been on the road. To long have I adventured with our friend Tyrell in endless quests to restore peace and balance. I know not the politics of kings. However, I do know the will of mi blade and I better serve mi keen and mi father by quenching its thirst with orc blood. I support Dorn's claim as ye' all shall�He will be a great king."' Oh ... I adore this part - and "To war-to war!" Thundered the dwarves. The anticipation is wonderful. Pammy