The Reign Of Istar (22 page)

Here, in his journal, Horgan Oxthrall records that he reached a point of decision in his
life. He was filled with disgust and loathing for the humans and their arrogant lord.
Considering the ogre, the dwarf found it hard to muster the same kind of antipathy -
despite the racial hatred that was so much a part of his being. He wondered if the human
had spoken an inadvertent truth in his dying breath. Were dwarves any better, truly, than
ogres? Did they not have more in common with ogres, in some ways, than they did with their
so-called civilized neighbors in Istar?

He came back to the clearing and found Gobasch standing before the cave mouth and looking
at Horgan with an expression of bewilderment on his great, three-tusked face.

“Why you fight for me?” asked the ogre.

Horgan scowled. Why, indeed? So that he would have the honor, the pleasure, of slaying the
ogre for himself? There had to be a better reason than that, he told himself.

“No human has been allowed in these mountains for twenty-five years!” he huffed, angrily.

The ogre stood before him, his huge sword held defensively across his chest. Chin jutting
in determination, Gobasch regarded the dwarf, the ogre's three tusks bristling in Horgan's
eyes.

“And ogres? How long for them?” grunted Gobasch.

Even as his mind grappled with the question, Horgan knew the answer. If he carried out his
duty now, he would be no better - in his own mind - than the human bounty hunters he had
just confronted.

“Go on,” Horgan said to Gobasch. “Get out of here!” He indicated the valley, the ogre's
route before Horgan had caught up with him. There, through the foothills, lay wild country
- and beyond, the plains of Istar.

The ogre blinked, suspicious.

“Move, by Reorx! Before I change my mind!” shouted Horgan Oxthrall.

Still blinking, Gobasch looked cautiously over his shoulder. He kept looking, all the way
down the trail, until he disappeared from sight.

At this point, Horgan sets his journal aside. It is not for another year that he again
takes pen to paper, and then it is to record, briefly, the events of the intervening annum.

Horgan Oxthrall, being a dwarf of true honor, reported the incident to his thane. The
closing words of his journal are difficult to read, but indicate that his gesture toward
the ogre cost him his post in the scouts, and he was banished from the high thane's court.

Nevertheless, as I read his words, penned in the year following his banishment, I see no
sign of regret, no desire to change the decision he had made with regard to Gobasch, the
ogre. If anything, the words of Horgan Oxthrall fairly swell with pride.

This is the first scroll of the cheesemaker's find. It leads me to believe, Excellency,
that the tales of the Last Messenger are true! Somewhere in the heights above me lies the tomb of this hero who preserved the history of the Khalkist dwarves. I go to seek
this trove, an opportunity that any historian would seize - though not all, I dare to
venture, with as much stoicism as I!

With the coming dawn, Master, I set out for the icy ramparts that have framed my view for
these past months. I will send further word with all the haste I can muster, though I
doubt that ready accommodation will present itself for the passage of messages.

Until my next word, I remain Your Devoted Servant, FORYTH TEEL, Scribe of Astinus ***** My Most Honored Master:

I can only beg the gods of good and neutrality to see that this missive retraces the path
I have recently traveled. My own survival I take as proof of divine providence - and
should this brief note reach your hands, I shall claim no less than the benevolent
intervention of Gilean himself!

Of course, Your Grace, as always I press forward without complaint, but - by the GODS,
Excellency! - the summits that have loomed above and below me! The thundering avalanches
spewing their deadly weight across my path a dozen times a day! And this, along a route
imperiled by monstrous bears - beasts that could tear the limbs from a man without
apparent effort, jaws that could snap off a head....

Forgive me, Lord. My nerves are not at their best. Truth to tell, we saw no bears. Still,
the knowledge of their presence, you may be sure, robbed me of even a single decent hour
of sleep.

Now I have reached this cheesemaker's place, and before me are spread the scrolls of the
Khalkist dwarves. As soon as my hands thaw out enough to unroll the parchment, I shall
continue my perusal. (In the morning, hopefully, the sun will come out and, by its pale
heat, I may manage to save a few of my fingers.)

In the meantime, I await this humble dairyman, for he has ventured out into the night. He
promises to bring me something of interest. But until his return, the scrolls around me shall keep my
attention. I turn to them now.

*****

Excellency, hours of reading allow me to present a summary of the additional scrolls.
Further efforts yield a wealth of material, all relevant to the history of the Khalkist
dwarves - -but alas, little of it relating to the decade immediately preceding the
Cataclysm. The mystery left by their disappearance remains.

I have unearthed a few items of note, mostly gleaned from the tales of dwarven lore. I
have endeavored, as always, to cull these legends into the most conclusively indicated
facts:

Extensive financial records were saved by the bold messenger, who gave his life to carry
these scrolls to safety. It is clear that the dwarves were taxed by their thane at an
extreme rate during the years 60 PC through 10 PC. Then the tax records end. Was this
massive treasure expended? For what? Is it hidden somewhere? Destroyed in the Cataclysm?
Or taken by the Khalkist dwarves when they left ... wherever they have gone?

One dwarven record postdates 10 PC, and this is unusual for not only the date, but that
once again we encounter our friend, Horgan Oxthrall - though only in a peripheral sense.
The record itself is the history of a battle that was fought at Stone Pillar Pass, around
7 PC. It is the last known contact, in human records, with the Khalkist dwarves.

It seems clear, as claimed by Istar, that the Kingpriest's invasion of the mountains in 7
PC was considerably more successful than had been the attempt of a century and a decade
before. However, the Istarian tales of great victories and righteous massacre of the
“dwarven heathens” are, at best, grotesque exaggerations.

For one thing, evidence indicates that this was a war with few battles. Indeed, I can find
evidence of only one major skirmish. It occurred on the Stone Pillar Pass road and is
hailed by the Istarian histories as the Kingpriest's greatest victory - a “rout” of the
defenders. There is a note in one of the scrolls about this battle, however, and it is
interesting to contrast the dwarven point of view with that of the humans. From the dwarven perspective, the engagement is regarded
as a moderately successful holding action. A gorge in the road was held for one day, and
then abandoned - as so many dwarven positions were abandoned in this war.

Indeed, it seems as though the dwarves fought merely to gain time for a withdrawal into a
more remote, unassailable position. Finally, they were able to fall back so far that the
humans could no longer find them.

In his arrogance, the Kingpriest declared the war “won,” his enemies “destroyed.” The
truth seems to be that the dwarves simply yielded the mountains to the humans and
disappeared. Their escape route and destination remain one of the great mysteries of the
world.

Forgive me, Your Grace, I wander. There are two unique points associated with the Stone
Pillar Battle. I feel confident enough of their veracity to report them.

First, the curious reference to Horgan Oxthrall, who once again plays a role on the stage
of history. He was the commanding general of the dwarven army standing against Istar. (I
get ahead of myself, Your Grace. A new thane, Rankilsen, had taken the throne. Oxthrall's
banishment ended in 12 PC. The venerable warrior had been readmitted into society. He took
command of the field army shortly thereafter.)

Second is a tale that defies ready explanation, yet is referenced enough to compel its
inclusion here. As the battle waned, the human forces - with rare initiative - attempted
to encircle the dwarven army. Reports indicate that this tactic almost succeeded, save for
the intervention of a sudden reinforcement. An unexpected brigade marched out of the
mountains in support of the dwarves, breaking the human flanking action and allowing the
dwarven army to escape.

The curious thing is the identity of this rescuing brigade: you see, all of my sources are
adamant in their insistence that the army of Khalkist was saved by a brigade of OGRES!
Where they came from, where they went - these are questions that will entice future
historians. What I know is this: The ogres fought as allies with the dwarves against Istar
and then, like the dwarves themselves, disappeared.

Implausible? Certainly. But it seems to be a fact.

I have to wonder, as I know you, Excellency, yourself, must be wondering: Could this have
been a return of the boon, a life for a life?

Gobasch and Horgan meet again on the field, the bodies of the shattered human army
scattered like trampled weeds around them.

“I come onto your lands again, dwarf,” says the three- tusked ogre, his jowled face
wrinkling into a wry grin.

Horgan looks up at the beast as his army escapes, filtering into their caves and tunnels,
turning their backs on a sun that most of them, during their lifetime, will never again
behold.

“I thank you for coming,” Horgan says, quietly.

The two clasp hands awkwardly. The sun sinks, casting mountain shadows across the human
camp in the valley. Multitudes of fires blink in the darkness, and drunken revelry begins.
To the humans, it was a “victory”

“They are your mountains now,” adds the dwarf, turning to join his people. “Care for them
well.”

“We shall do our best,” Gobasch replies. *****

I hear a noise at the door, Your Grace. It is my host, returning with his mysterious
burden. I see - he brings me the skull of the messenger, this lone courier who brought the
secrets of the dwarves into this remote range before the Cataclysm! My historian's heart
thrills for their brave hero, perishing so that his words could be read in a future age.

Who is this brave soul? Why did he strike out, alone, to carry the tale of history?

Imagine my shock, Excellency, when the cheesemaker holds out the whitewashed skull, the
remains of this courageous figure. For the skull belongs to an ogre! From the jaws jut
three yellowed, but clearly recognizable, tusks.

As always, Excellency, I seek the truth in your name;

Your Humble and Devoted Servant, FORYTH TEEL, Scribe of Astinus Filling The Empty Places Nancy Varian Berberick The minotaur fell to his knees on the cracked, filthy cobbles of Beggar's Alley. Covered
with rough red fur, the man-beast had the head of a bull, horns as long as my forearm,
hair like a mane growing down between his shoulder blades. He foamed from the corners of
his mouth like an animal.

I'd taken the minotaur two days before in an unexpected end to a fruitless search for
heretics. He'd come at me like a storm, rising up out of the tall savannah grass, a knife
in each fist; charged me roaring, dark eyes afire with battle-joy. Minotaurs don't much
like humans or anyone else, and they do love to fight. But this one, it seemed, hadn't
reckoned on my horse. The gray reared high, hooves flailing, and the minotaur went down
before he knew what had hit him. He stayed senseless long enough for me to get the
manacles, hobbles, and chains on. They have a strength beyond believing, those horned
man-beasts. Bound and hobbled is the only way you can take 'em prisoner.

I never liked bringing live heretics to Istar, but sometimes - like in the heat of summer,
when you don't really want to be traveling with the dead - you have to. That's the way of
things and seasons, and that's the way I was working in that long, hot summer of my
thirtyfifth year. By then I'd been fifteen years in the bounty trade. I'd had good times
and bad, pockets filled with gold and just as often empty. In Istar they called me
“Hunter-Doune,” and I was good at my work.

Fair quiet it was in Beggar's Alley that evening, but for the minotaur cursing and panting
on the cobbles. Rats ran in the filthy gutters. Tumbledown shacks and unpainted, drab
houses huddled together, empty and looking lonely. At sunset the panderers and pickpockets
did a better trade over by the great temple. From a distance - beyond the alley, beyond
the market and the slave auction - rose a hymn, a gathering of elven voices, as soft and
sweet as any dream of what song should be. The holy choir was beginning evening devotions.
Elven women, famous throughout the world for their piety, lifted eerily pure voices in
praise to the gods of good. Tonight they celebrated wise Paladine and his gentle,
compassionate Mishakal.

The minotaur, struggling to his feet again, lifted his dark, homed head. He spat in the direction of the temple. I should have kicked him for it,
but because no one was near to see what could be considered my own heretical omission, I
let the minotaur have his way. I wasn't one for tormenting prisoners. It's bad business.

I had a partner once - a mountain dwarf. That was all right, no chargeable heresy in those
days to be seen with a dwarf. Toukere Hammerfell, his name was. He'd been in the bounty
trade longer than I had, and I remember all the advice he gave me.

“One thing you need to know in the trade, Doune, my friend,” he once said. “Don't let
feelings become part of the hunt. Now, some people think this means don't let softer
feelings get in the way. No pity, none of that sweet nonsense. But the harder feelings are
just as much a trap. If you want to do well in this business, you'll empty out all those
places where your feelings are, the soft and the hard. Mercy costs you money, Doune. So
does taking time to plague a man with kicking and beating when he's going to be dead soon
anyway.”