WARLORDS IV – STORY

Chapter One: Gathering Darkness, Gathering Light

The creature on the rack was a pathetic thing. Had it once been human? If so, where had it been twisted? In the towers of Ohtar at the hands of Sartek? Or deep in the bowels of Mortuus, by some fell art of Lord Bane or his black minions? Perhaps not. Perhaps the Dwarves brought a normal creature here -- a man, was it, or a woman? -- a creature used to light and air. Took it to this pit and bound it in darkness, where the wind can stir nor sun shine? Deprived of sustenance, not just food, but that which sustains the soul, did the prisoner blacken and shrivel and reduce itself to this . . . thing?

There were other answers, of course. Perhaps an acolyte in Duimenhoth whispered an incantation and plucked with his dark arts a being not of this world. And was the being twisted in passage, like a child ripped untimely from its mother? Or on its nether plain was it normal? And yet more possibilities there were -- endless, truly, for endless were the ways of the world's malevolence, and countless were the curses that forgotten gods had levied against the living.

But these were not the questions that needed answering. Daerec had come not to learn the provenance of the creature before him, but the truths it held in its broken mind. He still wore the tattered blue cloak that had shielded him from rain and hail, from the scorching sun and blistering wind. The burning sword that was the crest of House Grovium had faded and was nothing more than a white splotch across the blue. The tabard he had worn was discarded. His face was haggard: too much bone and not enough flesh, too much scar and stubble and not a hint of anything gentle. He, also, was at home in these mountains.

The Dwarf who had brought him there from Lysea was there with him. Kurgen One-Eye stared with eye and empty socket at the Lysean traveler. "So this," he growled, pointing a stubby finger at the faded crest, "is what has become of the Grovine family?"

Daerec gave no answer; the answer was on him, was he himself -- the last member of a line that had laid stones at Malbec, the first city of his people.

"There was more to Grovium when we took Drak-Dum," Kurgen continued, now running his hand through his beard. Even in the half-darkness of the chamber, Daerec could see that the beard was more gray now than black, that Kurgen's one eye was itself watery and pale. "Your father. . ." And then the Dwarf fell silent and clenched his hand into a fist. After a moment, he covered it with his other hand and held them there. It was the old salute of a people steeped in grief. "We all have our sorrows," Kurgen whispered, and he did not need to gesture to the mountain about them, or speak of its silent, empty halls. "He was a good man."

"I am his son," Daerec answered. "And I have come to honor promises that run in both our human blood and that of the Dwarves." Daerec paused, took a breath, and added. "I come, too, because there is no one else who would answer. Lysea is still weak. Mankind is broken. All our people huddle behind city walls, building them ever higher, yet knowing, always knowing that one day they will tumble down." Now it was the human's hands that clenched in fists. "Who will it be? Bane? Sartek? Antharg? Or will it be the Orcs, or the Elves, spurred on by some new spite?" His voice then betrayed him -- his youth, his fury, his fears and doubts.

The old Dwarf sighed and turned away, for these were the passions gone from his people. "It will be none of them, Daerec son of Owen. There are darker tidings to tell."

With that, Kurgen struck the iron gong in the corner of the room, summoning those who would extract the answers for which Daerec alone had come. They entered with tongs and coals and whips and barbs, and set into the creature with a coldness that surpassed hate.

As they made their work, Kurgen approached Daerec and spoke loudly, over the screams. "I have heard the thing speak already. It will tell you of a new evil. Though my people will endure -- for what else shall we do, but endure? -- I fear that this may sweep yours away. For you shall hear. . ."

Whatever he was to say was interrupted by a howl that was too human to deny. Daerec spun and found himself staring into the eyes of the creature on the rack, spread wide and bloodshot. "The Mistresss. . . the Mistress . . . she gathers to her secrets, yes, secrets. My secrets, too, good servant of the Mistress, she shares with me. Yes, secrets to be shared with a servant who pleases her and will be exalted." The thing's whispering had turned to giddy laughter and it howled, "Exalted! Yes, Mistress, raise me up! Raise me up!" But the Dwarves did things then with pokers glowing red, and the laughter ceased. "Please, no more, Mistress, protect me. Yes, but secrets I'll share. I will be good. Here is a secret, a name: Mordaine. A secret, a thing: the books, the words, the words of power, to break, to remake, to bring an army! Yes, and I will be exalted! Raised up!"

The laughter, too, was human, so human that it sickened Daerec. For there, gibbering on the rack seemed to him to be his people's destiny: slavery and madness and fear and weakness. The Dwarves tried to silence the thing, to end its obscene glee, and at last there was silence, or almost -- only the last rattling in the creatures throat of a breath escaping, or a spirit fleeing, bound for peace at last or hell eternal, no mortal could ever know.

"A second Sundering," was all the Dwarf-lord Kurgen said, though it needed no saying. At that moment the darkness of Duernoth seemed stifling to Daerec, and from then on, it would not leave him.

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Kurgen and Daerec sat in the cavernous Great Hall of Duernoth, whose vaulting heights were filled with shadows. The Starstones that had once made the Great Hall a wonder of the world were gone -- some set in weapons with which to scourge back shadows more dangerous than those in the Hall, some sold to buy provisions, and others lost in raids and retreats. Now, the only light came from lanterns hung about the table. They made for slight comfort.

"Who else has been called?" Daerec ask. "Surely there are others who would come. . ."

Kurgen drank slowly from the flask before him, as if unhappy to give response. At last, he laid down his ale, wiped his beard, and sighed. "I told many. The Thanes of Khaz Argoth and Dhar-Khosis, and the other lords, from Khaz Barak to Khorinbar. But their answer was every one the same: 'We have Goblins to hunt' or 'The wars of Men do not concern us.' As if this were a war for Men alone." The Dwarf spat on the stone floor. "And then to the giants I sent messengers, for their folk is strong and proud. But the answer was no different: 'We are weary of war. If darkness comes, we will meet it. But we will not seek out it.' Then to the elves in their spired cities, though loath I was to ask their aid. Loath, too, were they to grant it. 'Dwarven mischief is for Dwarves, and secrets in the dark are oft lies. Do not spread your rumors here.'" Kurgen drank again, down to the bitter dregs. "To all the human kings I sent word, and to those in the Empire whom I could trust. From all save the Sirians came excuses, rejections, denials -- and from them came nothing at all. No, young Daerec, you are the only one."

Daerec opened his mouth to protest, but there was nothing to be argued. "Then tell me: where did you find the creature, and how do you know its words are true?"

The Dwarf scowled. "The Orcs of Kor have been amove for years, and we have watched them closely. We assumed that it was another invasion, nothing more. But their movements were too canny, and their raids showed a cunning unknown to Orcs. So I traveled from citadel to citadel, learning what I could from our spymasters and warlords. There was talk, half said in jest, that there was a new power gathering and a new doom moving in the world. I returned here and ordered that the passes be watched, from hidden tunnels. We captured . . . others . . . before the thing you saw today."

Daerec leaned forward. "Other what?"

Kurgen snorted. "Things. Some human, some not. All were twisted, in mind or in body. What you saw today was not the worst. Some, we set free and followed, but they escaped into the wilderness in the Realms of War. They were seeking something, all of them -- ancient spells and forbidden texts. Secrets. Always secrets. The one you saw today gave the most. It spoke of its Mistress, of summonings, and of Mordaine." He growled out the Elvish name. "You, too, know his tale. It was he who sundered the world and leveled Drak-Drum, who set the oceans wild to swallow your people's cities."
Before the Dwarf could say more, a trumpet sounded in the hall, echoing off the hard walls. Daerec's eyes brightened and he jumped to his feet. The Dwarf stood more slowly.

"The Sirians?" Daerec breathed. "Have they come?"

"A Sirian," came the answer. Daerec spun about. There, dressed in the silver armor of a Sirian paladin, was a woman of more striking beauty than he had ever seen. He blinked twice and started to stammer a response, but could not find words. The woman, however, had no such loss. "My people do not march at the beck of a Dwarf."

Kurgen bristled and stepped forward. "So the Sirians, too, will shirk this duty?"

She laughed. "Nay, Dwarf. We have ever been the bulwark between the forces of evil and the weak. What know you of duty, scrabbling in the darkness for gold and diamonds? And what knows this sorry specimen of man of anything?" Again she laughed, cruel and cold. "Nay, Dwarf, I come to see if there is aught that should truly call forth the hosts of Marthos, or if this is but a nightmare of a tired, dying fool." She glanced from Kurgen to Daerec, a small smile creeping across her lips.

"Does he speak?" she asked Kurgen. "Or is this some cavalcade of the lame, and he the mute to complement your blindness?"

"I speak," Daerec answered, for the spell the paladin's beauty had laid over him had left him. She was no less beautiful -- her hair no less golden, her eyes no less piercing, her form no less perfect -- but beneath that beauty, above that beauty, was the ugliness of her words and deeds. "I do not have your fine armor, my lady, or your quick tongue, but I wear the burning sword of a House that has endured many wars, and bear with me a blade that, too, has known much battle." He pointed at the bejeweled hilt that extended from the scabbard at her side. "Have you ever wielded that, my lady, or do you only cut with your wit?"

Laughter filled the hall then, too gentle for the Dwarf or the paladin. Daerec glanced about again, and only then saw the red-robed figure emerging from the shadows. Two Dwarven warriors flanked him. One, bowing deeply, announced, "My lord Kurgen, I present the Lady Terrwyn of Mathos, and the Wizard Arvad, who claims no home." He whispered then, but loud enough for Daerec to hear, "My apologies, my lord, the woman entered too swiftly."

Kurgen smiled, though grimly. "Very well then. Terrwyn, Arvad, be welcome in Duernoth. You are too late to see our prisoner. . ."

The wizard raised his hand to forestall further words. "Kurgen One-Eye. Your name carries weight with it among those whose memories stretch long. These two are too young, old warrior, to know of battles fought 'gainst Orc and Gnoll, Ghoul and Minotaur. But where knowledge is guarded close, your words were heard, and I have come." The wizard pushed back his hood, revealing ancient eyes sunk deep in a face that seemed far too young to house them. "We, too, have kept watch on what transpires. We do not doubt that something ill is afoot. What have you learned?"

Kurgen stepped forward and held his hands out, pleading, grasping toward the wizard's crimson robes. "If you know," he said, his voice weary with despair, "then why only one, and one who claims no home? Why so little?"

Arvad bent his knees and squatted before the Dwarf. "There is much evil in the world, old warrior, and few of us who would fight it." He stood, gesturing to Terrwyn. "The Sirians are among that few, but they have quarrels of their own. And those of the Empire who still hold true to old resolve have a home to rebuild. And walls, too," his voice and eyes piercing into Daerec's heart, "have their place. Fear is not misguided in these times." He turned back to Kurgen. "If we are all, then we must be enough. Tell us, and let our work begin."

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