The Reign Of Istar (20 page)

Reports of specifics vary here, Your Grace, but I am assured that witnesses attested to
beams of silvery light emanating, sometimes from the ground, at other times from the
clouds. Others heard choruses of heavenly voices - songs that tore the hearts of even
stalwart dwarves with their pure beauty! O Exalted One, it makes me tremble to think of it!

But, excuse my rambling. In any event, with the failure of the oxen's charge, the defense
of the bridge held and the human army met its grim fate. Legend has it that the river was
tainted blood red all the way to Istar itself. (A precursor, if you will, of the great
bloodletting that the gods would send against that unholy city! Indeed, Excellency - a
sign of the coming, the making of the very Bloodsea itself! How splendid is the will of
the gods - shown to us through the window of history!)

The tale concludes with the young hero dubbed, by the high thane himself, as Horgan
Oxthrall.

It seems that, technically, Horgan Squire was too young to serve in the army. But, as the
war gradually had developed into an epic victory, every young dwarf who could break free
from his hearth and home hastened to bear arms. Apparently, Horgan wove a beard of goat
hair over his own sparse whiskers to give the appearance of maturity. The ruse worked - he
was accepted into one of the last companies mustered for the war.

It was this company of young dwarves, formed with virtually no training, that was sent to
the valley of Stone Pillar. This untried, inexperienced unit found itself standing astride
the final link in the human escape route. Then, the miracle occurred - the oxen followed
the youth into the ditch, and the human charge was stopped.

At the ceremony, Horgan seems to have been given some official post, perhaps honorary. I'm
not certain. Nothing further of him appears in the histories.

I have enclosed this legendary note, Your Grace, for your enjoyment as much as anything
else; I cannot swear to its veracity. Yet I FEEL - and I hope you do as well - that there
is a least of hint of real destiny in the tale.

As to the rest of my assignment, I can report little progress. Many have heard tales of a
brave courier of the Khalkists - one who carried historical texts of the dwarves into the
mountains on the eve of the Cataclysm, there to conceal them for some future age. But no one can give me even a hint of the whereabouts of
such a cache.

As always, I shall continue my labors to bring to light more of this obscure phase in the
history of our world!

Your Most Humble Servant, FORYTH TEEL, Scribe of Astinus ***** O Exalted Historian!

Please forgive my inexcusable delay in the filing of this report. I beg your indulgence,
only to hear the tale of my recent discovery - and of the light it sheds upon our earlier
image of history! I write to you by faint candlelight, from a windswept vale in the high
Khalkists. My reasons for coming here, and my news, I shall endeavor to communicate while
blood still flows through my cold- numbed fingers.

I have not sent word, Excellency, for I have been on the pathways of history for many
months. I journeyed into the mountains to investigate a report that had filtered down to
me from the most convoluted of sources - a young stable hand, who has a cousin who visits
the high country, and there hears tales of the shepherds, and so forth.

The gist of the tale that reached my ears was the story of a cheesemaker who kept a herd
of milk cows in the highest valleys of the Khalkists. In search of shelter one day, this
humble dairyman stumbled upon a cave that had lain hidden since the time of the Cataclysm
and had been only recently revealed by avalanche.

Within the cave he found a skeleton and a bundle of tightly wrapped scrolls. A shred of
the wrapping was brought to me. Your Grace can no doubt imagine my excitement when the
pattern of dye marked the scrap as dwarven - PRE-CATACLYSMIC dwarven!

Could this be the lost messenger? The one who carried the records of the dwarves into
safety, even as the Cataclysm showered death across the lands of Istar? I hoped, but could
not believe for certain. Yet the piece of evidence could not have come at a better time.
Due to my ceaseless and uncomplaining diligence, I had exhausted every other bit of documentation in my local sources. It had begun to seem that the tale
of the Khalkist dwarves would vanish into legend a full century before the Cataclysm, but
now - now I had HOPE! Indeed, the proof was profound enough to draw me from the comfort of
my study, uncomplainingly, to make the strenuous pursuit of knowledge for the library.

My journey into the heights has been arduous in the extreme. I wish you could see,
Excellency, the slopes that yawned below me, the dizzying spires of rock poised above, as
if waiting for the moment to cast a crushing javelin of stone onto my poor and unprotected
head! Always I kept in mind my duty, to be borne without complaint, as you command.

But I digress. I finally reached the small, remote village of Saas Grund, still some miles
below the cheese-maker's farm. Here, however, that worthy dairyman met me and provided me
with one of the scrolls he discovered. That volume piqued my hunger for more, and so it is
with resolute and uncomplaining vigor that tomorrow I accompany the man even higher into
the mountains, to his lofty abode. No matter the precipitous slopes before me, nor how
deep the depths of snow! Not even the icy bite of the killing wind shall deter me, nor
make me long for this comfortable fire ... the fire that even now sends its warmth to my
bones and soothes my weary muscles and promises to restore life to my poor, benumbed
fingers. The fire, and a little spiced wine ...

Forgive me - once again I lose my path.

In short, I pen this note to you tonight, Most Esteemed Historian, in the hopes that you
soon shall receive the remainder of my tale. But even in the one scroll I have perused I
have discovered a story of relevance to my earlier work. I admit, however, that I present
it to you with some embarrassment, since it seems to contradict an incident I had earlier
reported.

The scroll I read is the family journal of Horgan Oxthrall - the young warrior I told you
about who miraculously drew away the oxen at the Battle of Thoradin Bridge. It was written
later in his life, in 92 PC, to be precise, as he worked in the service of his thane.

Horgan recalls, in this journal, the story of that day of battle, when the human invasion
had been broken. He described that sturdy wooden river-crossing that he had only later learned was called
Thoradin Bridge. The battle of twenty-five years ago was a memory that had been etched,
vividly, against the canvas of his brain. In his mind he could still hear the white water
frothing below him. He saw, as if it had been this morning, the snorting oxen lumbering
toward him, steaming breath bursting from the monstrous creatures' black nostrils.

And, as always with the memories, came the guilt, the lingering sense of shame that would
never quite give him the room to breathe.

He knew the tale that legend had created, of course:

the power of Reorx had blessed him at the moment of battle-truth, and he had cast a thrall
over the massive oxen leading the human train, luring them away from the charge that
certainly would have opened the escape route across the bridge. Horgan even remembered the
looks of awe upon the faces of his comrades as they witnessed the “miracle.”

Yet, in his own mind, he recalled the stark terror that had seized him like the coils of a
constricting serpent, threatening to crush his chest and squeeze his bowels into water.
All he could think of was escape, but shock prevented his legs from responding even to
this, the most basic of emotions. Even as his comrades streamed away from him, panicked by
the oncoming beasts, Horgan stumbled numbly until he stood, alone, before the lumbering
charge.

We see proof of one thing in his words, Excellency:

oxen did indeed inspire a panicked terror in the dwarven troops - a terror that seems
peculiar to their race. Of course, most of the Istar War had been fought in terrain too
rough for the beasts to play any major role, but on flat ground the huge, buffalolike
creatures loomed over the dwarves and were truly intimidating.

Horgan's mind reeled, and here - in his own words - we learn of another source of his
shame. It seems that the young hero was stinking drunk! Before the battle - quite against
orders - he and several in his platoon had snitched a bottle of potent rum. Horgan claims
to have guzzled far more than his share. Indeed, he states that his hands shook so much
that he spilled the stuff all over himself.

Now he stood there, dumb with shock, gesticulating wildly - to some mysteriously. Finally,
his brain's frantic messages to flee reached his legs, and Horgan turned toward the ditch. The bridge stood
open to the human wagons.

But the oxen ignored their drivers' commands and veered sharply from the road. Bellowing
loudly, pawing the earth with their great hooves, and snorting in agitation, the beasts
lumbered after Horgan, following the dwarf determinedly into the ditch. To the other
dwarves, it had seemed a miracle. The wagons were immediately mired, blocking the road and
the bridge, and the entire human army was crushed. Only Horgan Oxthrall knew the real
explanation.

The oxen stared at him stonily, their eyes glazed, their breath putrid ... and rank with
rum. You will remember that the poor creatures had been fed a goodly dose of spirits
themselves. Now, in the midst of battle (probably starting to sober up), they sniffed out
this equally intoxicated dwarf and followed him in eager anticipation of more rum!

Of course, none of the other dwarves figured out what was going on. Horgan was a hero.
After the battle - when presumably, EVERY dwarf stunk of rum - the thane appointed Horgan
to the elite order of Thane's Scouts.

As one of the scouts sworn to High Thane Rankil, Horgan's job was to routinely patrol the
rugged Khalkist heights, which formed the border of a dwarven nation surrounded by
enemies. The scouts were drawn from the finest, proven veterans of the Istar War. It is in
the service of his thane that Horgan Oxthrall labored for twenty-five years, a full
quarter century after the victorious war. Lonely patrols through the heights, battles with
groups of human brigands and trespassers - it was a solitary and adventurous life that
seemed to suit Horgan well.

Incidentally, My Lord Historian, it appears that Horgan performed well among the scouts.
He mentions that he held the rank of captain and was assigned to patrol the most remote
areas of the realm. He was one of the few dwarves who worked alone.

His words tell us of the way his service changed in the years preceding 92 PC. He
patrolled the mountains as always, alert for human incursion. But lately there had come
another foe, one that presented a grave threat to the lonely scouts, isolated in their
posts on the frontier.

Ogres. For long years the dull humanoids had avoided the mountains, since the inherent hatred between ogre and dwarf ran deep and universal
among both races. The dwarves, with greater organization and led by heroic fighters, had
banished the ogres in earlier centuries, but now they came again, fleeing from the even
greater menace of the Kingpriest's bounty hunters. Those ruthless killers sought them out,
together with hobgoblins, minotaurs, and other creatures that had been branded as “evil”
by the ruler of Istar. The scalps and skulls of these unfortunate beings - including
females and young - were taken to Istar, where a handsome bounty would be paid in the name
of the gods.

Horgan Oxthrall began his journal while he was on the trail of one of these ogres.
Apparently many thoughts had been churning in his mind for some time, no doubt agitated by
his long periods of solitary marching. His writing shows a need to communicate, for he
shares the tale of these days in some considerable detail.

He first spotted the ogre from a distance of many miles, across the expanse of a high
basin. To the best of Horgan's knowledge, the ogre had not seen the dwarf. Only through
the most diligent efforts did Horgan locate the creature's trail.

For three days, Horgan tracked his quarry along the valleys and slopes of the Khalkists.
The ogre worked his way through a series of low, brushy vales, moving slowly and
cautiously. The dwarven scout gradually shortened the gap between them, though during the
pursuit he did not spot the ogre again. Horgan wondered if the creature knew he was being
followed. If so, he might be leading the dwarf into a trap. But then the dwarf shrugged,
accepting the threat implicit in that possibility but undeterred from his single-minded
pursuit.

In any event, Horgan ALWAYS eyed his surroundings as if he expected an ambush at any
moment. The dwarf's keen eyes examined each patch of rough ground, each shallow stream
bank or nearby ridge, considering them for lines of fire, potential cover, and routes of
retreat - all the while steadily pumping his stocky legs.

The trail wound downward from the lofty crests. The ogre and, some miles behind, the
dwarf, skirted the foothills of the Khalkist Mountains near the borderlands, where the
outposts of Istar asserted the Kingpriest's arrogance at the very feet of the dwarven realms. Alert for humans, Horgan nevertheless
maintained his pursuit, steadily closing the gap.

On the fourth morning, Horgan reached the ogre's most recent campfire to find the ashes
still warm. His quarry, he deduced, was less than four hours ahead of him. The monster's
trail led along a crude pathway that followed the floor of a narrow, winding valley. A
deep stream alternately meandered and thundered beside Horgan, in the same direction as
the ogre's trail.

The mountainsides to the right and left loomed so close, at times, that the place became
more like a gorge than a valley. The view before Horgan was often restricted, though
sometimes the dwarf would come around a bend to see several hundred yards of the path
before him. Every once in a while the route crossed the stream on a crude but sturdy log
bridge.