Well all… here it is. The long awaited chapter 3. Wow. Sorry it took so long. But I was sucked into many things. Between school, searching for employment, and my new addiction (Star Wars Galaxies), I almost had forgotten myself. I hope you enjoy this next chapter. There is a little less exposition in this chapter and I am getting to the point where the story can actually begin. Just like in a real campaign, the hardest part is getting the key characters together in such a way that is interesting and entertaining, but fulfilling to the storyline. I would like to thank my beta tester, Eirecat for checking this over for me. Some day, I hope to write as well as her. And my second beta tester, LaughingWolf, the best damned DM I know. Please leave me a review. Enjoy.
"I know not with what weapons world war III will be fought but, world war IV will be fought with stick and stones." -Albert Einstein
C H A P T E R III
Words of Wisdom
With Einar on her back, Diahann galloped lightly through the forest to the North. Her silvery-grey coat accented the moon's light as it shone through the trees. Diahann showed no difficulty as she dodged the forest trees and parried the low hanging branches that came suddenly into her view. Her eyes were filled with determination, superceded only by the intensity of her breath. Einar was riding low on her back when he caught the glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye. Diahann, without command, or at least any command that could be heard or seen in the mundane realm, came to an almost sudden stop. Einar jumped down, nocked an arrow, and calmly and steadily aimed at the source of the movement. After a few moments, Einar noticed the man slumped, bloody and unconscious, on the horse's back. He immediately replaced his arrow to it's quiver and dropped the bow to the ground, sparing no second to assist. When Einar approached, the horse came to a stop, allowing him access to the man's limp body.
"Are you conscious?" asked Einar, expecting there to be no response. Instead, the man lifted his head very slightly and let out a half conscious grunt to signify his understanding. "I will get you help." continued Einar. "Try to stay awake. Can you speak?" The man let out a weak and subtle "yes" and gathered enough strength to look at Einar for the first time. This was the first time he had ever seen elvenkind, and wasn't sure if it were an angel or a devil, but at this point, he didn't much care either. He reached out a friendly hand and touched Einar's ears and cheek and allowed himself a soft smile before he realized that gravity was still a constant and his arm fell full force pulling him off the horse. Einar whispered some incoherent syllables into the horse's ear and the horse knelt down beside Thorin. Einar lifted Thorin up onto the horse's back. "What is your name?"
"Thorin." He replied weakly. "The fires—the battle is… " he trailed off and then continued, "my brother is still up there. Please—find him. Name—Færlin."
"I will find him Thorin. You must heal. Hold onto your horse's neck and stay awake. I will guide you to aid. When you get there, tell them that Einar said to help you." Einar's words seemed to dance off his tongue in such a beautiful way, that Thorin smiled at their grace and sincerity. With that, he whispered into the horse's ear again. The horse rose and galloped toward Thylandrill.
Einar returned to Diahann and picked up his bow. The fires were about one day away now. Either he had ridden at full gallop all this way, or the fires were getting closer. Either way, it was time to rest before it was too late. He knew that they would not be able to rest after much longer. Einar set up a camp and looked up at the sky. The smoke had nearly dominated the entire expanse and the glow was rapidly becoming more ominous. He would wait here for the others to arrive.
Piran's eyes opened to nothing more than blurry shapes and colored shadows. His head fell face first onto the floor.
"Aye. What the hell 'ave I gotten mese'f into?" he asked himself defiantly. "With all the possibilities of adventure in this world, I had ta pick mine based on the size of her beard." He clutched his head as one of the colored shadows spoke in an all too familiar voice.
"Well, it's good to see you're a man of principle."
"Gammadimms."
"And no other." She replied gracefully bowing. At least he thought she was bowing. She could have been picking up a dagger getting ready to skewer him for all he knew, or even cared at this point. "Welcome to the world of the conscious."
"I wouldn't put me there just yet." He said still clutching his head. "At least I know it wasn't a dream."
Gammadimms chuckled. "A dream?" she said softly, "Hardly a dream. There's no such thing as dreams. Only alternate realities."
"Well, would ya mind alterin' my reality a bit? It's a little unclear." He thought about it a moment. "on second thought, I remember the last time I asked for your help. You gave it to me."
She chuckled at the memory and then responded somewhat patronizingly, "I don't know. I rather like seeing you writhe on the floor at my feet. It's nice to finally get the respect so deserved a sorceress such as myself."
Piran let out a slight half moan, half grunt, three quarters sigh, and one-hundred percent curse, and finally submitted to the fact that he was going to have to wear this one off.
"Besides," continued Gammadimms, "I need to make sure you're not going to depart while I speak with you about the events forthcoming."
"Please, lady. If you're not gonna he'p me with me achin' brain, then at least talk in a language I can understand. Preferably with less syllables and more meaning. And another thing, I'm not goin anywhere until I know what's goin on anyway.
"Very well." She said with a certain confidence that dictated her awareness that she did, indeed, hold the upper hand. She pulled out a flask of reddish liquid and handed it to Piran. "Drink this if it will stop you're whining." She studied him for a moment as he moved with a sluggish, painful quality. "You're not very strong for a dwarf, are you?"
"Strong?" exclaimed Piran as he downed the liquid. "Wait til this takes effect, then I'll show you strong." There was a forcefulness in his voice declaring his pride had been touched a bit.
"Settle down, little dwarf. First, I mean no offense. Second, You wouldn't get one swing in before I had you writhing at my feet." Then she added, merely for punctuation, "again."
Piran's head started to clear and he sat on the bed that he had apparently missed the night before. Gammadimms was as beautiful as he had thought. But there was something different, as though she were now in complete control of him. The sparkle that he remembered in her eyes was still there, but it was more of a force of will than a spark of admiration. Her very presence was somewhat uneasy, but comfortable at the same time. He felt safe with her, as long as he listened to what she had to say. It wasn't as though she would harm him necessarily, but that he would have one less very good friend whom of which had the power to turn the universe inside out if the situation called for it.
"There is nothing to worry about." She said. "I am not here to cause you any harm. I merely need your help. The whole of the world needs your help."
"But why me? I am a miner. Unless the world needs some 'oles dug in 'er, I don't see 'ow I can 'elp."
"You are more than a miner, Piran." Her eyes suddenly became softer. "Why else would I have sought you out alone? I wasn't in that tavern looking for any random soul to fill this role. I was in that tavern because you were there."
There was a pause while Piran thought about her words. His thoughts began their journey at the fine quality of the ale, then meandered their way to the possibility of Gammadimms' looking for a suitable mate, and then finally rested on the possible demise of the entire universe and all elements thereof in one final devastating explosion that would last for an eternity. The latter thought was none too flattering, so he dismissed it with a shrug and the possibility that he may merely be the certain person, or criteria thereof, that this certain, rather attractive bearded woman was looking for.
"Aye. Well then. What d'ya need me ta do?" he said with an excitement bordering somewhere on enthusiasm and relent as he finally let all the muscles in his body relax into one heap on the bed.
Without missing a beat, Gammadimms felt the need to pursue the objective before Piran felt the need to change his mind.
"Excellent. I need you to meet me outside the base of the mountain. There, you will be provided with armor, a weapon, and a pack of essentials… and other necessities. From there, you will ride southeast where you will meet a man by the name of Færlin. You will know him. You must speak with him. Let him know that I have sent you to his aid. For now, young dwarf, do not hesitate to rest. For you will be longing for it in the near future. You have three hours." She punctuated her request with a smile and a head nod, signifying she had finished. She turned and walked out, leaving Piran to sit there wondering what the hell just happened, who the hell Gammadimms really is, and just what the hell was going on.
Piran did just that. "Armor? Weapons? Other necessities?" he pondered. "Aye. Well. I s'pose if I'm ta die, it best be in the name of battle and honor." His thought found their way trickling into cynicism. "Rest, she says. Three hours ta rest before I apparently am ta meet me doom. Lovely."
He laid back on the bed and thought about what was to come; but rest, he did no such thing.
Færlin's army had managed to begin pushing the opponents northwest, briefly allowing for a sense of confidence. Their will had returned to them until the Bælinites gained the opportunity to overtake them. The Bælinites moved around Færlin and his troops until they had them surrounded. The only way out was through the weakest side, which, of course, happened to be the side facing Thylandrill. Færlin ordered the troops into a block formation, with the pikemen at the four edges of the group, backs facing one another. They began to fight their way out of the opposing forces. The smell of smoke, burning flesh, boiling blood, and stirred soil mixed together to form a type of choking stench almost unbearable. It was obvious that both sides were reaching exhaustion. Many would fall merely by trying to stand up. Both sides, however, were also unrelenting, seeing to it that the final body to fall would be that of the opponent. Without hesitation, Færlin lifted his sword and with powerful dictation, uttered a slight incantation. His sword glistened briefly. He stepped into the middle of his men and made a second declaration. The men, suddenly gaining strength and stamina, began fighting with an almost unstoppable precision. Færlin wasn't one to use the powers granted to him by Bevan unless absolutely necessary. His troops now numbered approximately thirty, while the Bælinites were sitting around ninety to a hundred. It was difficult to tell through the haze of smoke and continuous movement. No matter what the actual odds, something had to be done.
His voice boomed across the battlefield, even making the flames hesitate for a moment. "BEVAN! I CALL TO YOU! IN YOUR HONOUR AND STRENGTH, DO WE SO FIGHT! IN YOUR NAME DO WE BATTLE TO PROTECT WHAT IS YOURS! TODAY, IN GLORY AND TRIUMPH OR IN DEATH DO WE FIGHT! ASSIST US!" His voice echoed through the trees and into the clouds where its thunder rattled the heavens. Within moments, it began to rain; not just rain, but rather pour down in sheets, extinguishing the fires and even the oil soaked torches held in the Bælinites' hands. The wind began to stir to an unbelievable strength. The ground began to shake. In a single flash of lightning, Færlin caught something not so far in the distance. Before Færlin could thank him, Bevan lifted his hands to the air and threw them forward, casting all warriors, including Færlin away from each other.
"In my name?" he queried forcefully. "My name is not for fighting. Protect in my name. Love in my name. Help in my name. But FIGHT in your own. The honor of fighting, of battle, is that of yourself. I am a god of warriors. I am not a god of fighters. Your request, i will grant this once. Your duty, however, i will remind you of. Do NOT disregard your purpose in my name."
Bevan reached behind him and wielded a sword seemingly almost of absolute power channeled into a single point in space. He lifted the sword above him where it almost hovered. Færlin was sure that if he let go, it would not move, would not fall until it was commanded to do so. After a moment, Bevan released the sword with a fury and strength in his voice that could only be described as godlike. The sword, with immense speed and unpredictability, found its way into the hearts of every Bælinite within moments and then hovered above Færlin awaiting the next command.
"Your heart is true, Færlin," began Bevan, "and your sword is strong. Your power in battle and your skills of leadership are great. But you have yet to understand fully the ways of the warrior. Your goal should not be to defeat your opponents. Your purpose is to make them defeat themselves. A great warrior fights little, but battles constantly. His heart and his mind work together to allow for victory, but not to be victorious. You have fought well and bravely. And so have your men. Now you must learn to be as brave outside of battle. Your purpose is coming. Your journey is beginning."
Bevan's words trailed off as his figure dissipated. The sword which was hanging ever so delicately above Færlin's head, fell rather mundanely to his feet and now appeared to be merely an ornate sword. There were small jewels circumventing the pummel, which itself appeared as a symbol of a hoof. The hilt was absolute black. Etched on the hilt in mithril and in very ornate lettering was "Færlin." The blade itself, although looking as an ordinary great sword, had a slight blue-green tinge to it. Færlin bent down to pick it up. As he touched it, a surge of strength ran through him. As he turned it over, etched on the other side of the blade, covering the entirety of the blade, were characters unknown to him. He stared into his reflection in the blade, puzzled and as frightened as he was honored. "What now?" he thought.
Just as the sword fell, so too did the troops, finally allowing themselves the chance to rest. The mud actually felt good, cool upon their flesh. The rain and wind had stopped and the fires were doused. One of the men began slowly and painfully foraging wood for a fire. Another three or so managed to gain the strength to get up and start looting the corpses that surrounded them. A few others went off to find some food. When Færlin was done contemplating the situation, he began setting up a camp. For the first time in weeks, the men would have a comfortable rest without fear of intruders. For the first time in weeks, Færlin could dream.