Elven Dwarf: Dwarves of Norhar Cycle, #1

By Amanda Redhead and Craig Petillo

Are you a fan of Tolkien, then you will love Elven Dwarf. 
An evil presence arising in Neldorailin forces young Alluria onto a harrowing path of danger.  Born to a sturdy clan of dwarves, and fated to be raised by wood elves, Alluria gathers a rag-tag company who find themselves improbable heroes in a high-stakes gambit for control of the Dunsinar Region, and ultimately, the very fate of Neldorailin, itself. Elven Dwarf is the second book in the popular Neldorailin novels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amanda Redhead
• Release date: Jul 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386793465

Book preview

Elven Dwarf

The Dwarves of Norhar

Book 1

By Amanda Redhead

And

Craig Petillo

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organisations is entirely coincidental.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The Dwarven language in this book has been sourced from the following google page. https://docs.google.com/docoment/d/1VoIULr6evJqsszELhleCtkh690DvbP9w6dG0kjUiTos/edit?pli=1#

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Cover art by Lunafae; lunafaerie.wix.com/lunafae

Copyright © 2014 by Amanda Redhead and Craig Petillo

Dedication

I wish to thank my dear friend and co-writer Craig Petillo for all his help, suggestions and contributions to the writing of this book.

We would also like to thank Lunafae @ lunafaerie.wix.com/lunafae for her brilliant cover art picture, which brings our main characters to life perfectly.

We would also like to thank all those who participated in our Beta-Read Project, without whose critiques, comments, and suggestions, Elven Dwarf would be a husk of the tale it has come to be.

The Dwarves of Norhar Cycle is dedicated to The Players' Guild of Central Oklahoma, whose adventuring spirit is prevalent throughout the pages of these works.

Map

Map(s) of Neldorailin Copyright 2014 by Amanda Redhead © All rights Reserved.

Table of Contents

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

Glossary

Chapter 1

Our tale is old, as old as Belonilarn's bark, back from the time when Neldorailin was young, and populated with tribes of people, both large and small.

Giants, pixies and great winged dragons: their size not measuring the value of their worth.

Some creatures had horns, some had wings, some with snarling, gnashing teeth; yet some others were industrious spirits. Kind, gentle and tender, working toward the betterment of all they lived with, extolling the virtues of love and compassion.

This is Alluria's tale, a story of great heroism, pain, and heartbreak. A story of how she was born to a sturdy clan of dwarves yet came to be raised by a village of wood elves. And yes, a story of one small dwelf thrust into circumstances on a collision course with destiny.

Much of our tale takes place in the Dunsinar, and the mountains, above. The forest was still lush and thick in those days, and the glades buzzed with the busy flight of fairies. The trees played host to dryads and sylphs, and elf clans made their homes among them. The stalwart dwarven folk lived above the tree line, and the two races seldom had cause to have much to do with the other.

Travelling high up into the mountain ranges of Northanger, where the ice and snow lingered upon the stones well into the warm summer months, we come to the place where Alluria lived, (known as Aliaga, then) born among her band of dwarves known as the Clan Norhar. They mined the earth for precious ores, forged weapons both serviceable and ornate and worked polished facets into sparkling jewels. The dwarves of Norhar were renowned throughout the lands of men and the elves of Dunsinar alike, for their fine craftsmanship and cunning skill.

The clan chief and lord of Norhar Hold was named Gomdin Armorcaster. He was an elderly dwarf, his long greying hair shot with black streaks, and he carried his three-hundred seventy years with a regal grace and bearing. His gruff countenance stood as a testament to his reign that had not been without its challenges, yet had seen long continued years in peace and prosperity.

Gomdin had been blessed by the dwarven patron gods in having two strong sons. They were named Dugmaren and Kl'rak. Gomdin had tried to instil duty and honour into his boys, but like all children, their interests did not always coincide with that of their father. Although Kl'rak was the eldest, Dugmaren had become the current heir to his father's throne.

Kl'rak had disappointed Gomdin by leaving Norhar with his wife Broinwyn, the two making their home in Waldheim-Over-the-Mount.  Broinwyn was a priestess to the clan, headstrong as she was beautiful, and Kl'rak had pledged both his honour and protection to her by entering into service as one of the god Dumathoin's paladin protectors. Though Gomdin was proud of his elder son, he disapproved of his son's choice, and the headstrong priestess. It had never sat well with the chief that his eldest son had taken up with a conjurer and finger-wagger. Broinwyn had been offered a position of teacher at the Druid's Stone, an academy which taught a vast array of magical arts, and had done so knowing full well how this would sit with Gomdin. The choice would take the two to dwell away from clan and kin, in faraway Waldheim-Over-the-Mount.

Dugmaren, on the other hand, had worked industriously, and taken up the crafts and skills of a proper dwarf. Well-versed in both smithing and ore-extraction, Dugmaren earned both his father's pride and blessing when it was announced he would take his childhood sweetheart, Bilina Tannershorn, in wedlock. Gomdin had not only given his blessing to the union, he had passed to Dugmaren the position as heir.

Bilina held friendship with Miira Sapphirege, the clan's healer. Bilina had recently sought out Miira's help with a small female problem she was having. (Perhaps it was due to her beard beginning to show signs of growing in, as was the case in those dwarven women who had surpassed a certain age) It was this problem that had brought Miira foraging for herbs on this fine spring morning, in order to make a potion that would ease the discomfort of the change.

Miira was married to the clan's master smith, Crugeon, (who in turn had tutored Dugmaren) and all in the clan respected them both for their skills and wise counsel.  Each dwarf had a place and job within the clan and the whole of Norhar was made better for it. Miira would often seek new and exotic plants to make potions and creams to help soothe burns caused from the forge, and these excursions would take her foraging down into the forest, below.

Miira had a wealth of fiery red hair that she adorned with a flat band etched with her clan sigil and that of her husband's. It flowed in unruly grace down her shoulders, befitting her wild and somewhat unruly nature. She had been given the clip on her wedding day by her husband Crugeon. She wore serviceable clothes, carried a staff over her shoulder, and a bag filled with the plants she was collecting. She moved with an air of confidence, befitting her sturdy, yet lithe four and one-half foot frame.

And, so things were as we begin our tale. And, while we took a crooked path in introducing our heroine, such is the way of dwarves to work steadily toward a common goal. Dwarven society is both Clan and kin, friend and co-worker, family and boon companion.

On this morning, Miira had brought her daughter Aliaga with her out onto the mountainside. Aliaga had recently turned nine years of age and Miira was teaching her the many skills of a clan healer and wise woman.

Our Aliaga was a precocious yet curious child, in many ways a copy of her mother, but for the height and girth. She had the same colour of hair, which caught the sunlight as she moved about the mountainside. Hers had been braided in a long plait down her back to hold it in check.  The lass possessed both the same temperament of spirit and curiosity of the world around her. Miira saw these qualities in her daughter, and like any good mother wished to nudge her along a path of independence and service to her clan.

It would be many years yet before the girl would be accounted a woman and came into her age. It was common for the dwarves to not celebrate the coming of age until their fiftieth year. Miira smiled fondly as she watched her daughter frolic. It had been a long winter cooped up in the clan halls, and this was the first day since the snows had melted, they had been able to go outside.

Aliaga was asking lots of questions about the plants they were collecting. What's this one, Mum? she chirped. That, my popkin, is Gummin's wort. We use it boiled in a tea, to ease your tummy aches when you've had too many of yer Da's sweeties he brings back from the lands of men. Miira smiled, ruffling her daughter's hair. She stooped down beside her daughter and began collecting a few sprigs when she spotted an object in the sky to the northeast flying toward the upper mountain reaches. Miira wondered what the object could be when her attention was brought back to Aliaga stumbling to her knees, catching her leg on a jagged rock, and causing it to bleed. Miira jumped into action, deftly wrapping the child's leg in some leaves until she could clean the wound back at the clan halls. The object in the sky was totally forgotten, and the two hobbled back toward hearth and home.

Once back in their chambers, Miira cleaned Aliaga's wound with boiled water, rubbed on some paste made with herbs, and re-wrapped the leg with clean boiled leaves. These shall draw out any poisons that may have gotten themselves into your cut, Popkin. After they dry, we can remove them and let the salve do its work. Miira smiled once more and began to prepare the potion for her friend Bilina, although the problem would probably resolve itself in the long run. A little draught couldn't do any harm. Much of a healer's job also required conveying a calm, confident air of trust. Once the potion was ready, she poured it off into a bottle, corked it, then she made her way to Bilina's chamber, where she instructed her to drink a spoon of it morning and night until the next full moon.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

Some weeks later, Crugeon came to Miira's workroom, waving a parchment dispatch he had received from the courts of King Geren in the realm of Gwynethshire, asking him to come and repair some swords and lances. Crugeon wiped his brogans on the mat and dusted his jerkin of ore dust.  I will leave in a few months. First, I must see to preparing the new mine carts and tracks for level four. I sent him a reply with the messenger that brought this missive. It be Gomdin's hope we can barter for aid in helping us to quiet these growing orc tribes. Nodding, Miira acknowledged, Will you be back in time for Aliaga's naming day? Of course I will, promised Crugeon, I wouldn't miss that for all the human lasses batting their eyelashes and flippin' up their skirts! Miira gave him a sharp tug on his braided beard. You are incorrigible!

Crugeon took the beard-yank as an excuse to lean in closer and gaze fiercely into his wife's twinkling green eyes. Who be the incorrigible one, eh? As I recall, it were you who threw the betrothal circlet at my feet an' flipped your skirts! He lifted her up then, gripping her firmly by the bum and kissed her deeply. Miira responded by wrapping her legs around his waist, her arms around his back, and her fingers tangling themselves in his unruly hair. She returned his kiss just as fiercely.

Just then, a young dwarf burst through the door, Please come quickly Miira, we cannot wake father. Miira blushed a deep crimson and sliding from her husband's grip, smoothed her skirt in mock embarrassment. Duty calls, Hinney. Be safe for me. She then grabbed her bag and threw Crugeon a wink. Crugeon waved dismissively and grinned, saying, Off with ye, then. I'll see ye at supper. She followed the boy to his rooms, where she found Thinlin, the boy's father, barely responsive and burning up with a fever. Turning to Fimia, the boy's mother, she asked, How long has he been like this?

He complained of not feeling well before bed last night. I just thought he had eaten some bad meat. But this morning, I couldn't wake him. Fimia wrung her hands in anxiety. Miira nodded and started preparing a potion over the stove, saying, Let this cool slightly, before giving it to him, you may need to soak a piece of cloth with the liquid, and dampen his lips until he can drink it himself. Give him as much as you can. I will be back later to check on him. I need to check the clan histories to see if an illness such as this has spread so fast before.

Bidding the two farewell, Miira began making her way towards the clan vault. As she made her way down the corridor, she was called to another chamber, where a young dwarf boy was showing the same symptoms. Making the same concoction and repeating the same instruction, she made the young patient comfortable and then made haste to the vault where she pulled the clan histories from the shelves.

Bending her head in intense study, Miira scanned the pages for hours, until at last; she threw the final book on the table in disgust. She had found nothing even remotely describing this particular illness. She stood wearily to her feet, as yet another dwarf came rushing in saying, Miira, The Chief has fallen sick, and six others are showing signs of it too! We need you!

Miira grabbed her things and once more, hurried to aid the dwarves stricken with the mysterious sickness. Two patients later, she had worked her way to the clan Chief's chambers, where she found Gomdin struggling to breathe. With methodical precision, she set about making her potion over the fire, and she whispered to Dugmaren, I'll do what I can, but it doesn't look good. You must prepare for the worst. Nodding, Dugmaren turned away wiping a tear from his face. Soon the concoction was finished, and Miira set to soaking a piece of linen and pressed it against Gomdin's mouth saying, Sire, if ye can, please suck on this. Seeing no movement, she squeezed the linen into his mouth, the liquid filled his mouth and ran down his chin and still, Gomdin didn't swallow. Miira leant over his face, listening for a sign of breathing, hearing nothing; she held a polished silver disc over his mouth, to see if it clouded up. Nothing happened. Miira's weary head fell upon his breast. Bowing her head in prayer, she recited, May Dumathoin be with you. Closing his eyelids, she turned to Dugmaren and intoned, The Chief is dead! Long Live The Chief, Dugmaren the Mighty!

The chant could be heard taken up all through the halls. Leaving Dugmaren praying over his father, a crest-fallen Miira made her way to her workroom, where she spent the next few hours preparing more potions to help bring the fever down in her other patients. She scarce noticed her husband bringing a tray with cold supper, and a kiss of support.

As the days passed and more dwarves became ill, Miira tried many different potions until at last, she hit upon a remedy that would bring the fever down. The dwarves who had been ill started to get better slowly, yet the toll had been worse among the very old and the younglings. Miira had not slept for days, and that night she climbed into bed utterly exhausted, thinking how lucky they had been to have only lost a few dozen dwarves to this dreadful illness. She would have to make new entries into the clan journals so she and others would know how to treat this should it make a return.

The next morning Miira said to Crugeon, I need to go foraging this morning, dear heart. I have depleted all my stocks of willow bark, thyme and elderflowers. Crugeon nodded and replied, I wish that ye could take another day to bed your own self. Your eyes have bags ye could fit into bags of their own. Take a few warriors with you, Hin. The orcs have been more active of late. Crugeon leant in, pressing his forehead to hers. Nodding she said, I am meeting Bofalk and Bilo by the lower gate. Miira kissed her husband before making her way to the lower levels in the keep, where she had arranged to meet the two warrior brothers who would serve as her escorts.

A snuffling aurumvorax padded past her heading up for the main door, and she remembered the missive she had composed in her chambers for her brother Dimgar. Seeking advice about this strange illness, she had inquired if her birth-clan had any experience with treating it and had included the concoction she had discovered that stabilised the fevers. She had treated so many who had become stricken; she hadn't managed the time to seal the letter up for sending. She made a mental note to take the missive to Nalak, the keeper of the aurumvorae, upon her return to the keep.  It could then be included in the dispatch case to her brother's hold in the Dwinrak Mountains and carried by one of the badger-like creatures trained to deliver such messages. The dwarves had kept a dozen or so of the exotic creatures to aid in sniffing out gold ore veins, and their tenacity and singular attention to purpose had also been useful in training them to carry messages over distances. She was brought out of her reverie by Bofalk calling out, There ye be Miira, we were beginning ta think ye had forgotten.

The three left the keep by a small, heavily guarded door and iron portcullis, next to the water pumping station which was fed from a small cavern lake several hundred feet below the main halls. Following the path past the lake, they made their way down a steep grade to the secluded iron grate mounted in a cleft where the cavern lake exited the mountain into a ravine behind it. Here the flow from the underground lake poured into the fast-flowing river Duns and wound its way to the coast at the port of Carthen. The spring snow melt from the mountains above kept this little-used portcullis submerged throughout much of the year.

A trail which led east along the steep precipice had not been used for many a year due to it being so frequently flooded, so they made their way west up the ravine instead. They soon came to a small copse of trees below the waterfall feeding the river, where Miira began to trim some bark from one of the willow trees. Bofalk stood guard, whilst Bilo helped Miira collect her ingredients. They had nearly filled Miira's basket when the copse was filled with a hail of crossbow bolts. Bilo was shot through the back before any could even register surprise.  Bofalk shouted, Run, Miira! Take the plants and get back to the halls! Miira grabbed her basket and ran back down the ravine, as Bofalk was shot through the head with a bolt, crumpling where he stood.

Miira reached the gate and fumbled with the keys, the rust on the old iron lock causing it to groan in protest. Glancing frantically over her shoulder, she saw five leering orcs running at a clip up the path toward her. Miira flung the gate wide and dashed inside, scrambling her way up the slope toward the safety of the clan halls beyond.

Howling with the glee of the hunt, the orcs pursued her in earnest. Miira had scrambled to the top of the slope when the first of the bolts struck her with such force that it knocked the wind from her lungs. She stumbled to one knee and desperately dislodged a boulder to send crashing down the slope. Shouts and howls of rage told her it had hit a mark. She lurched to her feet and moved again with increased purpose. One hundred yards! Only one hundred yards more! The war-cries echoed throughout the cavern sending shivers up her spine.

The lake came into view as a second bolt whizzed through the air and lodged itself in her lower back. Crumpling to the floor, Miira watched the clan door open and the dwarves come streaming out yelling battle cries at the tops of their voices. Answering the orcs with volleys of their own, her kinsmen joined in the fray and fought their way to Miira's side. Lifting her up and carrying her over their heads, three stout warriors made their way back inside the hold. There they laid Miira gently on the flagstone floor. But, they had arrived too late; the light had dimmed from her eyes, even as she held the basket out to them containing the precious healing herbs.

Crugeon raced from his forge upon hearing the news, but there was nought he could do. Cradling her fiery head in his burly arms, he wept. His inconsolable cries of despair echoed throughout the mountain, and Norhar would never again be the same.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

Clan Norhar buried their dead; the clan chief laid to rest in his stone vault and Miira under the open sky of a forest glade. Slowly, life and bustle began to return. Dugmaren took up his father's mantle, and a grief-stricken Crugeon buried himself in his work.

A few months later, Crugeon took Aliaga to one side saying, I will be home in time for your naming day, Popkin. I wouldn't miss that for the world, but I did promise King Geren months ago that I would repair some weapons for him. Your Da must keep his word. In another year or two, you'll be big enough to come along with me, and see these lands yer own self.

Sobbing, young Aliaga had begged her father to stay, but she knew deep inside he was right to keep his word.  A dwarf was nothing without his honour.  And the clan needed the alliance promised by King Geren upon the arrival of the iron ore, and her father's skill in forging fine weapons from it. She had heard the grown-ups talking about the orc tribes gathering in strength, and her father's work was important.

He left Aliaga in his sister Storia's care. Leaving the halls by the main gate, a much resigned Crugeon and his pack mules weighted down with ore for the humans on the plains, made his way down into the Eledhwen Forest and out towards Gwynethshire, beyond.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

Before we continue with the telling of our heroine's tale, we must whisk you off to Waldheim-Over-the-Mount and the Circle of the Twelve. It is here that certain events transpired, which gave rise to the fell nemesis Alluria's very life was fated to combat.

At the heart of Waldheim lies a grove. Not just any grove, you understand, but a grove of harvested trees, of gardens, of magical waters, and of intersections of the flows of elemental currents known as The Ley. A grove whose traditional guardianship was bequeathed to Algernon, an arch-druid who presided over a school dedicated to the magical arts.

How Algernon and his companion, Huk'a'oor, found themselves at the heart of this grove before a stone altar, and injected their energy and spirits into the flows of The Ley, begins with one pupil's lust for power, a master's resolve to deny him this lust, and the Council of Twelve's failure to thwart the events which gave birth to our Elven Dwarf.

We take you first to a gathering of The Twelve. Which, by definition, isn't really twelve at all, but things will become clearer in the telling.

For the first time in months, Algernon had convened an emergency meeting for the Circle of Twelve. The Circle was the ruling body of The Druid's Stone; an academy dedicated to the magical arts. The Twelve saw to matters both great and small in the governance of their affairs. It was customary to actually have twelve wizards holding seats, but, due to vacancies and others away on wizard business, they would have to see to solving matters with the resources and members at hand.

Algernon sat at the head of the long table, his proud antlered crown resting upon his head, commanding obedience and respect for his station. Algernon held the office of the Hierophant Druid,