The Last Druin

By Christopher Clanton

Be vigil my children, for when the day comes that the gods of old arise again, and the Wanderer walks abroad, the Uncrowned King shall stand beside the Last Druin and unite the lands against the Void But do not be deceived, the Great Beast Azkalon, Lord of the Void, shall awaken from the Beyond, woe to the unwary for even the dead shall cower in his wake.
~From the Prophecy of the Uncrowned King~

War has come to us at last. We had been warned. But the hubris of men has blinded us to the past, and all the alliances of old have faded. The Druins, who had stood to oppose the gods who have ruled our people for countless generations, are no more. They had been betrayed. We allowed them to free us, and once we became strong again, we destroyed them. Where should we turn now? For five hundred years we have stood upon the might of our Imperium. Will we be able to contend against the might of gods? I fear the dark shadows that grows beneath the mountains, for our doom is fated by the deceit of our own pride. We stand alone. The old gods have returned, once again Thangar will know the might of the Dwarves who worship them. ~Spoken by the Forgotten

The days of prophecy are upon us.
Let the Uncrowned King ride the course of Fate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503579149

Christopher Clanton

Christopher A. Clanton writes from his home in the Valley of the Kern. He lives with his wife, and their dog Myra and overly spoiled cat Jasmine. He is currently working on the second book in this epic fantasy series and hopes to publish in the next year or so. You can currently follow him on Facebook, and forthcoming through his website and through twitter.

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Copyright © 2015 by Christopher Clanton.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2015909843

ISBN:      Hardcover   978-1-5035-7912-5

                 Softcover   978-1-5035-7913-2

                 eBook         978-1-5035-7914-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 06/25/2015

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Contents

A Prophecy of the Return

The Fall of Magic and the Great War

And So Came a Wanderer

Prologue: The Sentinel

Chapter One: Even the gods have Gods

Chapter Two: A Debt of Blood

Chapter Three: A Summons

Chapter Four: A Wanderer’s Tale

Chapter Five: Of the Days of Old

Chapter Six: Sentinel

Chapter Seven: Dragonsmount

Chapter Eight: The Keeper’s Realm

Chapter Nine: Northwatch

Chapter Ten: Beneath the City of Stone

Chapter Eleven: Shadows of the Beyond

Chapter Twelve: A Voice in the Dark

Chapter Thirteen: Before the Alikire

Chapter Fourteen: So it Begins

Chapter Fifteen: The Meridian Crest

Chapter Sixteen: When a Legend Dies

Chapter Seventeen: Dreams

Chapter Eighteen: Orcrist Stonehammer

Chapter Nineteen: A Walk Among the Fates

Chapter Twenty: The Phoenix Flame

Chapter Twenty One: Nyjun

Chapter Twenty Two: To Dine with Captain Orion Kole

Chapter Twenty Three: A Night of Inquisition

Chapter Twenty Four: The Code of Zathrean

Chapter Twenty Five: The Sea of Tears

Chapter Twenty Six: Before the Pit

Chapter Twenty Seven: Words

Chapter Twenty Eight: Within the Pit

Chapter Twenty Nine: A Touch of the Wild

Chapter Thirty: Within the Warlords Palace

Chapter Thirty One: An Echo of the Past

Chapter Thirty Two: The Children of Makr’don

Chapter Thirty Three: Within the Hall of the Runemaster

Chapter Thirty Four: The Precipice of War

Chapter Thirty Five: Calanon

Chapter Thirty Six: Wild Magic

Chapter Thirty Seven: The High Lady of the Imperium

Chapter Thirty Eight: A Riddle of Stone

Chapter Thirty Nine: To Dance with Fate

Chapter Forty: The Death of Arkia’el

Chapter Forty One: Before the Path of War

Prologue: Pieces of the Past

Glossary

Author’s Forward

The journey began in the minds of two brothers nearly 16 years ago. One was eight and the other was six. From an early age, my brother Steven and I loved to play games with magic and dragons. Our mother used to read us stories filled with wonder that splayed across our young minds and fueled our creative nature. I read my first fantasy book when I was ten, Terry Brook’s The Sword of Shannara, and right away I was hooked. My love for fantasy grew when the Lord of the Rings, and Star Wars Episode One came out in theaters. Captivated by the imagery these films produced, I began to hunger for more. My young mind yearned for books, and I ate threw Terry Brooks, Terry Goodkind, J.R.R Tolkien, Robert Jordan, David B. Coe, and Christopher Paolini (just to name a few). The more I read, the more I was inspired.

But, it was perhaps the world of video games that really brought to life many of the things born within the imagination. Within the games, I could re-create these heroes that my brother and I created in the land we called, at the time, the Dragon’s Realm (What is now called the Seventh Realm). Within, I was able to fight monsters and physically see what these characters looked like. As we began to get older, the stories we came up with matured, and the characters became more real. I was thirteen, my little brother was ten, when we began to craft the ideas of the Eledar, Hindulians, and the peoples and lands of Andinarea. It was during this time, that characters (many who are not in this book, but will be in future books) like the Wanderer, Therin Snowmane/Rythor, and Travis Tyre/Gildaruin began to come alive within our hearts.

But, as with all childhood games, we reached a point when we were too old to play with toys, our creativity and longing was now primarily played out in videogames and books. When I turned fifteen, I began to write. My brother and I loved this world we created and many of the monsters and heroes were very different than anything we had ever heard of or read before. My brother encouraged me, as did my teachers, and parents to write down this story and craft it into a book. My brother Steven had no love for writing, but it was his encouragement to keep the spirit of these characters alive that started the real eight year journey that has resulted in this book.

Eight years is a long time to write a story, and I will admit, mostly my writing was a secondary hobby (gaming, getting lost in books, school, and work consumed most of my time). During that time, I created many of the races and cultures that have come alive within the book. I created architecture, histories, maps, and languages that you will see throughout this series. I crafted villains, the three continents, and gods, and legends, much of which were very different than the game we used to play as children. But the soul of what we created, was still very much alive. I pulled inspirations from my longtime love of mythologies, history, and folklore.

The first book I began to write actually took place five hundred years in the future of The Last Druin. I started it in the middle of 2011. By the latter part of 2012, I had the book 80% finished when I stopped typing, on page 568. I had spent years crafting the storyline and characters. I knew what each book would hold, but I had a very big problem. I had created so much history and back story to this world, that I found myself going through long sections of explaining why things were the way they were. Now some find this very thrilling, and though I love history myself, I did not wish to bore my future readers (if I had any). So I began to go back in time.

I officially started The Last Druin, in early 2013. I had no idea where to begin. I spent so long creating the mythos of what happened in the past, that I wasn’t sure how to pull it all together into a book. My girlfriend at the time, who has since become my beloved wife, encouraged me to stop thinking so much and just write. She knew that I loved writing, and that I held dear the memories and characters I was trying to preserve.

So I started writing, and the result is what you see here. I finished in October of 2014. I allowed the characters of the book to pull me along on their journey. Often they took me to places I had no idea we were going. Characters I had no idea were going to come alive suddenly cropped up, radically altering what I thought we were doing. I realized the more I tried to control the flow of the story, the worse it was. But when I stepped back and allowed the characters to tell me their story, well that’s part of the adventure of writing, and it all fell into place. This is the first of a series of twenty I plan on writing. Even as I write this I am already working on the next adventure.

Now before this one begins, I do want to say a special thanks to a few people. First, of course, to my younger brother, Steven, who through years of creating together has helped me see many aspects of this world come alive! Thanks for letting me tell the tale of the Wanderer. I also want to thank my Uncle Tim Dotson, and his daughter Sarah who have helped me take a jumbled mess and transform it into a coherent story. I would also like to thank my wife Amber who has been a source of understanding and encouragement though this entire production. I would also like to thank Cindy Silcotte who has produced many of the pictures you will see in this book. Also thank you to xlibris publishing house for being patient and helping me take my ideas and produce them in this book. Finally, I want to thank my grandpa who taught me the wonder of books, and encouraged my love for reading.

So here we are dear readers. We stand at the doorway of the Seventh Realm. I do hope that it takes you deep within its mysteries and delights you as much as it has me.

So with great love I dedicate this book to family, and all of you, of

whom there are far too many to mention,

who have helped make this book happen.

Eastern%20Thangar.jpg

A Prophecy of the Return

"~And so it shall come to pass that the fires of the Return will blot out the skies and cover the lands with the fires of war. The Chosen of Agronon will cover the lands as a plague upon Thangar. For Agronon the Desolate will raise from the Beyond and the Sentinel shall meet him upon the fields of Kel’heen. And so shall the Betrayer fall. And the High Lady will cry for her doom is harrowed by the trickery of the old gods and the Imperium shall crumble.

Across the Ocean made of Tears a bearer of Mazral’s blood shall ride the course of Fate. The Old God’s wrath shall cover the Fold and awaken the beast that sleeps within the Beyond. And so shall a call sound fourth from the heavens and awaken the Bearers of Old.

A child will be born, both of man and elf, which will carry the blood of the Fallen. So shall he be called the Atara Nyuke, and bear the Druin’s call. Born of life-fire and justice he will carry the Winds of Fate.

A war of blood stains the heart of brothers and civil war shall break the realm. And when the beast awakens and sets free his wrath, the realm will quake and the earth morn. For the great beast Azkalon, First Fallen of the gods, Lord of the Void, has risen and even the dead shall cower in his wake. ~"

Spoken By: Anira Wythrn the last Druin

Recorded in the Hall of the Assemblies

In Nyjun, Capital of Thangar, Throne of the Majaric Imperium 6E 9723

The Fall of Magic and the Great War

"Once, in ages long past our world was ruled by the Deep Dweller’s and their Dwarven Overlords. The lands and Races of Thangar were enslaved, and with the might of the old gods the Dwarves created a mechanical army that tore across the lands. The influence of the old gods gave the Dwarves unnatural power, and they used it to reach deep into the minds of all Thangar. With their newfound power’s, they forced us to mine their Tylarien Crystals, and with them, they created a Dwarven Imperium that stretched across the lands. The Imperium would have usurped the heaven’s themselves if not for the Druin Mystics. The nine warrior monks from the east wielded a power that challenged that of the old gods and their forces from the deep.

The Druin Mystics freed the peoples of Thangar, and led them in a rebellion against the Deep Dwellers, and the Dwarven made army of machines. Together we drove back our most hated adversaries. The Druins banded their powers together and cast down the souls of the old gods banishing them deep beneath the bowls of the earth never to walk the lands of Thangar again. We were free.

But the deep seeded prejudice against magic burned within the hearts of all Thangar. We swore that we would never again be made slaves by those who wielded magic. So we turned on our saviors. The Druin’s, being naive to our prejudice, established an order of Majaric Priests and taught them how to resist the thralls of the old gods. It was their hopes that this order would be the shield against the inevitable return of the old gods. We however, saw the order as a different kind of shield.

The Majaric Order began to hunt down and destroy the Druin Mystics. One by one the Druins fell beneath their gilded blades until their kind was no more. If only then we knew that deep beneath our feet the souls of the old gods called and our once masters listened…"

From: Reflections: Past, Present, and Future

By: A man who refers to himself as The Forgotten

Found in the ruins of Ga’hara in the Temple of Fate; 6E 67

And So Came a Wanderer

It is time for me at last to reveal the truth behind my actions. I’ve been called crazy and with good reason. Like a madman I have pursued and dedicated my life to finding the facts behind one of history’s greatest questions: Who is the Wanderer? And now you, like so many others, have asked why. I shall tell you, but like the others you will mock me but I have gotten past caring long ago…

I’ll never forget that day when I was but a lad of twelve. The stranger that came through the door of my parent’s inn would forever be burned into my memory. The man stood out from the local rabble of drunks that usually favored my family’s inn. He was undoubtedly the oldest man I had ever seen at my young age. He was stooped and walked heavily with the aid of a gnarled old staff. He wore plain gray robes like that of a monk, but carried himself with the air of a man who was used to being held in high standing, perhaps in a nobles court.

He had long gray hair and a silver white beard. His eyes were overshadowed by bushy brows and strange tattoos that could be seen on either side of his leathery face. But more than anything, I remember the man’s half crazed eyes. They were wild and pale gray. They spoke of wisdom and adventures that a sheltered boy, like me, longed to hear and dreamed of doing. Growing up in an inn I could hardly call myself shy around strangers, often I found myself speaking to many adventurers who happened upon our small inn, but there was something intimidating about that old man.

He walked slowly around the inn and took a table closest to the hearth, which burned brightly this time of year. The old stranger glanced over at me as if he could feel my curiosity. There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes and he beckoned me over. As if in a trance, I found myself walking towards him. When I was just a few feet from his table, he leaned forward and pointed a crooked finger at me. It had been ravaged by time and callused over as if born from the knots of an old oak tree.

Ah yes, as I suspected, your name is Varic Cole is it not? And you are a bright young man if I could be so bold as to make a guess, The stranger said in a kindly voice. Ever since I walked into this fine inn of yours I’ve noticed that you’ve been watching me, curious. Well, I happen to find myself obliged to indulge your curiosity. So tell me Varic what can an old, old man do for you?

I was unsure of what to do or say and I found myself overwhelmed by the same curiosity that drove me to notice the traveler. How did he know my name? Who was he? Where did he come from? I knew instinctively that this man was no ordinary traveler; he was dangerous despite his grandfatherly appearance. So I simply told him, I wish to hear a tale of your adventures. The old man seemed to consider this, an amused smile on his face.

Ah, and there it is at last. A straight forward young man, you skip past the uncertainties and delve straight into the heart of it. I like that, you seek knowledge, I can appreciate that more than anyone. The old traveler leaned forward slightly, warming his hands before the open fire. His eyes became glazed somewhat, and he appeared deep in thought.

So you wish to hear a tale then? Mine are not all that interesting, but I could tell you a tale of adventure that changed the course of history across the Seventh Realm. The traveler’s words drew upon the very depths of my imagination. It was as if he knew exactly what type of tale I wished to hear and I couldn’t wait to hear what he had to say. My other questions danced away from my young mind. What did it matter who the man was or where he came from? He was a traveler one that knew things that no one else did. More importantly, I felt within my very being that what the man had to say was going to change everything in my young life.

Is it a true story? I asked, unable to contain my excitement.

Again, the stranger regarded me with mild humor as if the very notion of my question was somehow a joke. So you wish to know the truth? Indeed, that is something young children seem to always need in abundance. Very well so where shall I begin? How about with a beginning… The old man sat back and cleared his throat, suddenly lost in time. I saw the wisdom of his ancient eyes, many countless years reflected within. I knew immediately this would be unlike any story I had ever heard. The old man took out a pipe from within his robes and stuffed it full of tobbac before lighting it with a small stick from the fire. He took several long pulls, then settling himself comfortably, he began his tale. His voice was filled with wonder and I was ensnared.

"Before the founding of the modern realm, before history began, back when the world was still young, even before humans existed, there was a time when only the Elder Races Ruled. This was the Age of Myth, an age of Elves, Druin, Wynori and Nazraal. It was also the Age of Azkalon and the Void.

The darkness of the Void came from deep beneath the earth sealed away by the creator after the creation of the world. It is here, within the Void, that all nightmares and evil are born. Somehow, for there is no way to know for certain, a rift formed between the Void and Creation allowing a bridge to form between our world and the Void. This bridge allowed Azkalon and his demon hordes to enter our world. The old man blew out a long puff of smoke, he looked me up and down and a sadness entered his smoky eyes.

"Ah, I can see from your face you have no idea who Azkalon is? Or perhaps you do not believe in demons? Now listen child and heed an old man’s words… Azkalon, Lord of the Void, First Fallen of the gods, is very real. And his hunger for power burns strong. His heart is twisted with hatred towards mortal kind and his wrath is insatiable. As for his demons, imagine the most twisted vile creatures rent with darkness and rage so powerful that no mortal words could describe them justly. Some have claimed that it was mortals who created the bridge between our worlds, and that the demons were the first of these mortals twisted and transformed by the corruptive power of the Void. No one knows for certain. It matters not their origins, for they exist and their evil was poured upon the world. And such an evil it was. Their cruelty and malice drove them to enslave and kill and torture in the name of their dark lord, Azkalon.

"Azkalon made war against the Elder Races, and after countless years of fighting they lost and Azkalon enslaved them all. He sent the Druins to the lands of Thangar to mine his sacred Tylarien Crystals. The Elves he forced to build him monuments all across the Seventh Realm, such things still stand to this day.

"The Wynori were sent into the deep southlands of Andinarea where Azkalon experimented upon them with Void and Blood Magics. He twisted them until nothing mortal remained. Even to this day, the Elves of Tresinare wage war against the wraiths the Wynori have become. What remains of that ancient Race has faded from history, along with their humanity. But I suppose there may be remnants hiding within the Shadowlands, lurking beneath the trapped souls of their brothers…

"Oh yes, I cannot forget of the Nazraal, theirs is a curious fate. Many have not heard of the Nazraal, their fate, like so much of history’s wonders, have been lost to time. Azkalon forced them deep into the Plendren Mountains, here within Andinarea’s costal borders, to tear open the riches of the earth. So long did he force the Nazraal to remain beneath the earth that their race began to change. They became what we know today as Dwarves and many still call those mountains their home.

"I digress, I’ve gotten off topic. You wished to know the truth. Very well… For countless generations Azkalon ruled over the entire realm, with his demon servants quick to extinguish any form of rebellion. He sought desperately to destroy all of creation. Many believed there was no hope. That’s when the Sword-Bearers first entered history.

"The first Sword-Bearer was an older Druin named Zathrean Aldaran, he took two children not much older than you, one of the Dwarven race and another of the Elven race, and hid them from their demon captors. When the chance of freedom came, Zathrean and his charges fled into the wilds.

"While they ran for freedom a man appeared to them. He called himself Mikkel the Wanderer. No one knows who he is or how he evaded capture himself, but according to the journals of the three Sword-Bearers, we do know that Mikkel sheltered the three and hid them from Azkalon’s sight.

"The Wanderer told them of an ancient power that could defeat Azkalon and bring freedom back to the world from the clutches of the Void. But the journey, he warned, was fraught with dangers. If they were to search for this lost power they would face the trials alone. For reason’s they could not understand this powerful Wanderer could not aid them directly. The three agreed to undergo the journey, so the Wanderer gave them a magic compass that would lead them to the lost power. Using the strange compass, the three made their way into the Old Kingdom. That forgotten land lies far beyond the known borders of Andinarea. The journey was fraught with peril, and it took the three nearly seven long years to complete.

It was there, within the Old Kingdom, that they found the Tears of Creation. The three believed that the Tears fell to earth after the foundation of the realm was placed. The Tears held within them the essence of the Creator, one held the foundation of Truth, another contained the wisdom of Justice, and the last bound the presence of Life. The three took the tears and returned to the Wanderer, who helped them forge the fabled Blades of Power. At this the old man sat forward, becoming animated with his tale. My own heart pounded in my chest. Everyone had heard of the Sword-Bearers, the three who wielded the magic of the Swords of Creation. I had heard so many tales, but never have I heard any tale that sounded like the truth I so desperately longed for. Finally a true adventure tale not wrought with half-truths and false heroes.

The man cleared his throat, "With the three blades the Sword-Bearers were born. The three used the power of the swords and drove Azkalon and his demons out of the Seventh Realm. The Sword-Bearers used their combined powers to create the Beyond. It is an inescapable that exists between our world and the next. The Bearers banished Azkalon and his followers within. Unfortunately, a remnant of Azkalon’s legacy had seeped within the lands. Many had been enslaved for so long they knew not concepts of freedom or morality. These wicked creatures fought on in Azkalon’s name long after he was banished.

"And so the story of the Sword-Bearers does not end here. The three knew that the swords held too much power, and they also knew that due to the nature of free will, Azkalon and the Void, could one day be released from their prison within the Beyond. What they did next would forever marked their names in history, and their legacy has shaped and reshaped our world time and again…

"Talia Unary, more commonly known as Talia the Just, wielded Cinthorus, the Sword of Justice. She returned first to her people, the dwarves, and freed them from their imprisonment beneath the mountains. So great was her prowess in battle they named her the Battle Matron. Talia led her people against the remnants of Azkalon tyranny. She later became the first Dwarven Queen, from her line all other queens since have descended to this very day. When Talia was very old and near death she took Cinthorus and traveled into the Shadowlands in the hopes of freeing the Wynori from their curse. Neither she, nor Cinthorus, was ever seen again though many have made crusades into the Shadowlands to find her remains; each has always vanished like the fabled Battle Matron before them.

"Zathrean Aldaran was perhaps the most influential of the three Sword-Bearers; he wielded Lycos, the Sword of Life. His connection to life made him a man of renown among the races, and they called him the Atara Nyuke, or Life’s Warden, in the Old Tongue. Zathrean was a powerful Druin even before he forged Lycos. Once his people were freed of Azkalon’s tyranny, Zathrean returned to his people in Thangar and chose nine disciples among them. Zathrean taught these nine Druins the mysteries of the Deep, and established them as priests among his people. These priests were later known as the Nine Thrones, and sat together on a ruling council that saw an age of peace and prosperity for their people. He and the nine priests drove out the last machinations of Azkalon from Thangar. Seeing that his people would live free, Zathrean left Thangar in the hands of the Nine Thrones, and ventured into Andinarea. Never again would he return to his homeland.

In Andinarea, Zathrean took on nine more disciples and taught them of the wisdom of life. Their descendants became the Hindulians who even to this day still hold the teachings of the Atara Nyuke as law and spend their entire lives defending the Andinarea and all of its creatures.

"Kaladrin Andilar’s legacy brought him to the wild dragons. The fierce race of immortal creatures had long been servants of Azkalon and the Void. But a few of the immortal race took pity on mortals and turned away from their brothers. It was to these dragons that Kaladrin came. Kaladrin made an alliance with the renegade dragons, who taught him the sacred art of soul melding. In order to share their powers with a mortal, a dragon and mortal soul had to be bound as one. So Kaladrin bound to the leader of the renegade dragons. He became the Dragonlord and wielded Veritas, the Sword of Truth. Together the Dragonlord and his dragon led the rebels against their immortal brother’s. They hunted down all the Dragons that had followed Azkalon and banished them within the Beyond. After these Dragon Wars, Kaladrin founded an order of dragon riders known today as the Eledar. Their order still guards the northern parts of our world today.

So now, my child, you know the story that has been passed down from age to age and has survived the daunting passage of time. I can see by the look in your eyes that you doubt that such a tale could be true. I ask you then to humor an old man and consider then how the legacy of the Sword-Bearers and their impact upon this world, has remained when almost everything else has vanished within the wake of time.

Who are you? And how do you know these things are true? I asked, my mind racing wildly with images of great battles and dragons and heroes of old.

Why me dear boy, The old man said his kind eyes dancing with glee as if he immensely enjoyed my curiosity. My name is not so important you see. For I have lived and traveled and fought for such a time that people hardly notice me at all. I know what I speak as fact because, my dear boy, you see before you a Wanderer and Mikkel is my name…

From: And So Came a Wanderer

By: Varic Cole

3E 6786

Prologue

The Sentinel

"The Druins were a race of beings native to the kingdom of Ga’hara. (More commonly known as the Ga’harien Sea in modern Thangar) Very little of the race’s culture has survived, but the ruins and monuments of their empire stretch across the three continents, and their culture has touched that of nearly every modern race.

During the First Era, the time of rebuilding after the Ages of Myth, the Druins stood by our people, the elves, as one of the last surviving of the Elder Races of the Seventh Realm. By our oldest accounts, the Druin Empire covered all of modern Thangar. At the height of their empire their rule stretched south across the sea into the lands of Galgoroth, and even went so far as to touch the eastern shores of Andinarea. The empire was ruled by a council of Nine Thrones, and even our people coveted their wisdom and power. For millennia they ruled over all in peace and prosperity. They proclaimed themselves the first watchmen of the Seventh Realm. None who stood against them ever prevailed, and ultimately the empire was destroyed from within.

A civil war broke out between the Nine Thrones for complete domination of the empire sometime in the Third Era. Trying to consolidate their considerable power, the Nine Thrones withdrew their people to Thangar where the height of the Civil War was fought. Our people were cast from their lands. None now live that knows the outcome of that bloody war. It wasn’t until late in the Fourth Era that our people, with the aid of the Dwarves, returned to the land across the Great Sea of Tears, to Thangar in search of our ancient brothers. Instead of the Druins, however, we found a young race that called themselves the Akadin—Human.

The Druins had become nothing more than myths and legends, their monuments spectacles of a greater age. We believed their race to be extinct… Where the Nine Druin Mystics came from that vanquished the Dwarven Imperium that would later rise to dominate Thangar has remained, to this day, a mystery… We may never know the truth of our saviors; for the last Druin Mystic died nearly a hundred years ago at the hands of the Majaric Priesthood, but before her death she proclaimed that the old gods would return. And that deep beneath the Drogue Mountains the remnants of the old kingdom would rise again and with it would harrow a darkness that would cover the lands of Thangar until the Time of the Last Calling."

From: A Reflection of Druin Heritage

By: Authion Beldorion, Scholar of Elven Heritage

Held in the records of the Temple of Thalion, in Calanon, capital of Ardiin Fel

6E 9785

Thangar—The Ga’harien Sea—6E 9824

A blistering wind arose off the wake of the Sea of Tears and blew north across the slave mines of Kurn giving the laborers a brief respite from the scorching heat. North and east the winds blew across the Druin Strait and into the coarse sands of the Ga’harien Sea. The winds swept over the hollow ruins of Rujakuhn, the sound of the wind blowing through the ancient halls moaned the passing of ages long forgotten. Northward and across the Bor’koron Mountains the winds blew following the canyon city of Ga’hara into the petrified woods of the northern plains. Further north the winds stretched out and bit into the plains of Kel’heen sweeping up monstrous walls of course sands that obliterated everything in its wake. But even the winds halted before the Rift.

Crouching high atop the mountain watchtower of Uthmar within the Fields of Kel’heen the Sentinel gazed across the lands. The ancient watchtower had served the Druins of old as the final stronghold before the imposing Drogue Mountains just a few miles to the north. The withered stones and monolithic statues that had once depicted the Nine Lords of Ga’hara were now so eroded by time and the blistering sands that they were unrecognizable. Like much of that forgotten time the statues were all that remained of what had once been considered the greatest stronghold ever built. Much of the towers history, like the Druins who built it, had faded into the sands of the Ga’harien Sea.

Even now entire portions of the watchtower were covered with sand. The once mighty walls were nothing more than burned rubble and ash that jutted out of sand dunes as if clinging to the last vestige of life. It had been nearly six hundred years since the end of the Dwarf Wars, and the tower owed its survival to the lone mesa that it was built atop. The Sentinel knew, that like everything else though, it would only be a matter of time before even the mesa would succumb to the thralls of the sands bearing down against it. In time it would vanish like the people who had built the tower becoming an echo of a distant age.

His eyes shifted once more towards the Rift; grudgingly the Sentinel had to admit that perhaps some echoes were so great that no matter the forces allied against it, it refused to be forgotten. Very few ever braved the Ga’harien Sea, fewer still ever dared challenge her and survive, but those who did always spoke of the Rift that seemed to swallow up the northern plains like a mighty crack that split the earth with jagged fishers as far as the eye could see. And at its core was a crater so vast that no light ever seemed able to penetrate the ever present smoke that swirled from within.

Indeed, from atop the tower, Hokoron’s Rift opened up as far as he could see like some demon of the Void. Massive canyon tendrils snaked away from the crater which was nearly five miles in circumference. The canyons branched off like arms some stretching for miles others for just a few hundred feet. It was impossible to see how deep any of them went, for the ever present smoke swirled from within thick and impenetrable. Even the gales of the sandstorm below had no effect on the smoke, and the sands fell short of the Rift causing imposing sand dunes to form around its base some of them reaching several hundred feet. It was as if some invisible force held the elements at bay.

He had heard the whispers over the years, the idle speculation of mortals as they debated endlessly as to how such a thing had came to be, and always his heart grieved at their ignorance. So much had been lost and so much still had yet to be sacrificed…

He tore his eyes from the Rift as he felt the familiar pang of guilt and grief that always came when he viewed it. Very few knew the true origins of Hokoron’s Rift, but he made himself remember each year he came to Uthmar for his vigil. It was formed at the end of the Great Dwarf Wars, when Hokoron Kalzamar, the last Archon of the Dwarven Imperium, created a bomb infused with Blood Magic. It was powered by the souls of a thousand sacrificed slaves and knowing that his armies would soon fail, Hokoron detonated it.

The Druin Mystics banded their power together to try and contain the force of the blast and save their own armies from certain death. But the power of the bomb was too great and in the end all they could do was force the blast downwards. But it was not enough, countless thousands died on both sides, the Rift and its fractures tore the earth apart creating earthquakes and volcanoes that threatened to destroy Thangar. The biological effect of the bomb reached deeper still, and stripped the once fertile lands of Ga’hara bare; in a few short years the Ga’harien Sea was born. Giant creatures mutated by the effects of the bomb now roamed the desert plains below preying on many who dare challenge the desert. In essence, the Rift had become a silent headstone to the innumerable dead that lay buried beneath the sands: a perfect monument of war and its destruction.

From atop the tower, the howls of the wind sounded more like the accusing cries of those forgotten dead. Tears burned his eyes, and with an irritated growl he stifled them. All he had fought for and sacrificed had been in vain, and now all he had was the grief and his vigil. He made this trek each year to the Rift first in morbid distaste, then bound by oath, and now by a bond of kinship with the forgotten dead. Bound by the death of their very souls, he found comfort in the solace they brought, in a death he envied and the end he so desperately searched for. Even now he remembered their eyes, their names, and deeds. Each had faith in him, and each had died knowing he had failed them. But more importantly he had failed her…

His breath caught in the back of his throat as it always did when he thought of her. A vice gripped his chest and his vision blurred anew with tears, but this time he let them come…

He is traveling across the Ga’harien Sea. The sun had already risen to its zenith, and even with the use of magic, the heat was sweltering. Anira rode ahead of him. She sat tall on her bronze warhorse Manzaraq. It had been nearly a week since they had left Borune, and already they had made their way along most of Hokoron’s Rift. It was a ritual they repeated often, and it is one he scarcely understands.

But Anira had never had need for what she did, she did only what she saw in her visions, and when the visions came so too did change. He would have followed her to the Beyond if that was what was required. It was his task to protect her, made more so by the fact that he loved her.

He knew almost immediately that something was wrong. It happened the moment they started out that day. Anira had become suddenly withdrawn and rode like one who was trying to escape a fate that had already caught her.

He had thought to leave her be, but it is hard for him to see her struggle so, and he wonders if he has done something wrong. Putting his knees into Alya’s side he quickly caught up to her and drew them to a halt. She does not seem surprised by this. She looks up at him with haunted eyes, and for the first time in his life he finds himself not wanting to become lost in them. What is it? he asks impulsively. She shrugs and tries to avoid his gaze, but he will not let her. A deep frown mars her beautiful face.

Ask me again when we reach the Heart of the Rift… her voice trails with finality to it. He sighs and takes her in anew. Her normally pale skin had taken on an almost sickly gray, and her long silver hair did not seem to glow nearly as brightly as it once had. Small bags had begun to appear under her eyes, and her ageless face seemed to have suddenly taken on the rugged passing of their long lives. He swallows wondering if perhaps she is sick. Before he can ask though, she raises her hand and brings Manzaraq into a canter…

The Sentinel blinked and the memories faded like a mirage. He let out a moan of grief that echoed the winds. Time had lost meaning, food and drink had become bland, and he clutched the hollowed pit that had once been his heart like a vise refusing to relinquish his pain or suffering. He bore it like a personal penance for all he had failed. Even his sanity had begun to slip until only his vigil remained. It was all that mattered now, a single last defining task that bound him to life, though he begged for the silence of death. He was haunted, broken, and it seemed that nothing short of a release from the hell he was forced to endure would ever sate his brokenness.

He was the Sentinel and he would keep his vigil and he would keep his oath to her. He chanted this reality over and over as a silent litany that drove him to stay alive. But more and more it felt like a noose tightening around his neck, and he feared that his final vigil was beyond his ability to endure.

With a final sigh he took one last look over the Rift, and froze. A shiver coursed through his body and the slight echo of magic washed over him. He glanced down at the silver flamed medallion he wore around his neck, the usually smooth dull amulet now shown as brightly as the sun. It cannot be… he breathed as another tremble overcame his body.

His sharp eyes glanced back over the Heart of the Rift searching for what he knew he would never find. Something had passed beyond the magical seals he had placed long ago upon the Rift, something born of Blood Magic, something born of the old gods. The reality of what he felt stunned him.

He had waited so long for any sign of the Return. He knew it would come as surly and he knew the moons would rise and the sun would set, yet standing before the brink he felt numb. What now? he asked himself, a thousand thoughts probe through his mind each darker than the last, and the bitterness of his heart smothered his resolve for action. But then, like shackles, he remembered his oath.

The weight of his burden tore at his soul, his hatred for the mortals which left him bereft of all he loved mocked him, for his oath bound him to protect the very ones he so desperately despised. He barked a dreadful laugh. His laughter was joined by the mocking howls of the forgotten dead; their voices given birth in the dreary howls of the wind, tormenting his soul. But one voice sounded above the rest, Murderer, the voice whispered, Bane of Agronon…Insane laughter tore into him and the Sentinel closed his eyes and covered his ears. But the voice continued. I warned you that you would regret this day, your pride has cost you everything… More laughter echoed off the walls.

He did not remember descending the tower but he found himself standing at the bottom of the fortress in a daze. Something nudged him and he blinked up into Alya’s silver blue eyes. She was a powerfully built warhorse nearly twice as large as an average horse with silver blue hair and white mane and tail. Her eyes reflected intelligence beyond that of a normal animal. Those silver eyes took him in speaking of her concern. He glanced up at her and once again the horse nudged him with her snout. She let out and nervous whinny.

There there girl, he whispered, patting her gently on the nose. Alya had been his only companion and friend since he began his vigil what seemed like a lifetime ago. He had learned long ago to trust her to guide him. And as strange as it sounded, even to his own thoughts, he would have given up long ago if it wasn’t for the horse’s stubbornness to bear him here to the accursed lands of his people’s final grave.

Like him, she was the last of her kind. She was of the Zin Duni—First Steeds—long ago in a time that no one living could remember, the Zin Duni were granted as lifelong companions to the first priests of Kia’mathose. When he was just a boy he had been chosen to be one of the priests. And when he was strong enough he was gifted Alya. She had remained at his side ever since, and would until the day he died.

Alya looked pointedly at the glowing amulet around his neck. He glanced down as well, he had almost forgotten in was there. Strangely it now felt heavy. She was right Alya…its time. The horse blinked and walked over to her saddle which lay on the cold stone floor with the rest of his gear. She snorted then gave him a then-what-are-you-waiting-for look. He nodded at her before slowly packing up his small camp.

It wasn’t much. It was made up of a small portable tent made of fabric that blended in with the desert surroundings, and Alya’s large saddle bags packed now half-full with an assortment of supplies. The tent easily collapsed with the removal of some key tie cords, and it took him only a few minutes to wrap the whole thing up in a tight bundle that attached easily to Alya’s saddle. He then carefully saddled her and led her outside before mounting her.

The wind and sand beat at them relentlessly and the sand stung like a thousand annoying ants. V’ara Iest, he spoke the ancient words softly, but that was all it took. Immediately he felt a small drain of his strength and he felt the vast essence of V’ara—air—enter his mind. The wild strength of the wind wrapped around his mind and caressed him with its familiar touch. Very few other than elves still remembered the ancient Ga’harien tongue. Of those only he remembered its true power. V’ara welcomed him and he shared with it his need for safely from the wind and sands. It took only seconds, and the wind bent to his need. The winds spit around him as if blocked by a large rock forming a protective bubble around them.

Again he hesitated. He knew what he was going to find if he continued. He also knew inevitably where that path would take him. He stood upon the precipice of fate, if he took just a step towards it he would fall into its maw. Alya shifted beneath him impatiently and turned her massive head towards him and fixed him with her silver eyed gaze. She blinked at him deliberately as if to say we haven’t got all day.

Despite what he felt the Sentinel smiled, Oh very well Alya let us dance with the Keeper and run with Fate shall we? He nudged her sides and brought her into a slow walk. Slowly the great warhorse wound her way down the weathered slopes of the mesa, and even as they came to the desert floor he kept Alya to a brisk walk. It wouldn’t have taken long at a full gallop for them to reach the Heart of the Rift. The watchtower stood only a few miles from it, but he was afraid and had little love for what he would find. Even so, the crater loomed closer with every step.

The winds continued to part around him, walls of sand sounded their mournful wale. The walls of shifting sands carried by the force of the winds brought with them the memories of the battle that was fought here. The dead cried out with the wind, taunting him, accusing him once more. He made himself listen and forced himself to remember.

The march was like any other he had commanded. For nearly two years he led his men against the remnants of the Dwarven Imperium. Victory after victory had granted him favor with his men and each rallied under his banner. For where the Bane of Agronon rides so shall the Horns of Victory sound. He had heard the litany many times since he began his campaign nearly ten years before. The Dwarven Imperium was vast, and letting even a single stronghold remain would only allow the Imperium to rise again.

He had searched long and hard for the Dwarven Archon Hokoron. It was his line that had the ability to commune with the old gods, and it was they who ruled the Imperium. He had found and slaughtered all of his heirs, but Hokoron himself had thus eluded him, until now.

You smell that lad. I do believe this is a good day to die? The Sentinel glanced over at his friend who sniffed loudly as if to emphasize his point. A’ngar was a wizened short stature of a man with shoulder length wispy white hair and a ruff of silver whiskers at the nape of his chin. His golden eyes gave him the look of a man half mad, but no one who knew him would dare make that assumption. What he lacked in size and strength he more than made up for in his uncanny skill with Jie’than’ue—War Sight, the ability to predict the outcome of a battle before it even began just by reading the enemies disposition. Jie’than’ue was a rare gift even among the Druins.

A’ngar was one of the Nine, and out of all of them he was the most cunning. Like him, he wore dark robes fitted loosely with straps of leather across his chest and arms. Silver Ga’harien symbols lined the outer lace of his hood and across the front of his robes and up his leggings. The runes would protect them better than any armor. Twin blades were strapped across his back, and his stern face was hidden within the confines of his cowl. Even as he spoke he rode his steed, Frarien, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

You always say that A’ngar. He replied grimly. He hated it when A’ngar said such things particularly when the stakes were so high.

Aye and I always expect it… A’ngar trailed off his words seeming to have more weight than they should. They both glanced anxiously at the soldiers behind them. Many of them were young men and women barely old enough to no longer be called children. All of them however, young or old, man, or elf had known only slavery and terror their entire lives. Each would fight for their freedom to whatever end. Freedom was what united them, and bound them stronger than any oaths. He felt their hunger and their passion, but above all else he felt their unwavering faith in victory.

A’ngar cleared his throat and lowered his voice, We should have brought the others Quinn, Hokoron is not to be underestimated, nor should your pride blind you to how dangerous he is. If you expect to end this war with nothing more than desperate children, then you have far more faith in the mortals than I do. A’ngar trailed as if bored, he almost sounded as if he were talking of the weather though there was no mistaking the seriousness of his claim.

He swung Alya closer to his old friend so as not to be overheard. I am not underestimating our adversary A’ngar. This has little to do with pride. Anira is leading the others north along the Drogue Mountains to thwart the enemies retreat. We all agreed that this was the best course of action. Besides, you heard her last night this will be the end of this war.

Aye the end, but what sort of end? War’s end by many means, and some not in the matter we would wish. You of all people should know that Anira’s Viewing can be cryptic at best and cannot always be trusted. Look around you Quinn, look at those who have fought for you. Are you willing to risk their lives for your interpretation of fate? A’ngar finished, directing his gaze towards the army around them.

Quinn followed his gaze and faltered. Thousands had come when he called. Each more than willing to follow him to into the Beyond if it meant justice upon the Archon of the Imperium. But his faith in victory was as strong as those around him, Can you not feel it A’ngar? We have given them hope. It is belief in one’s cause that wins most wars. You once taught me that.

Aye but when your enemies’ convictions are as great as our own, then what? The wizened man straightened in his saddle slightly, Im not saying we shouldn’t strike Quinn, but Agronon wouldn’t have chosen a fool to lead the Imperium.

Quinn forced his eyes from his army, and made himself look instead at the Drogue Mountains. Before them the rich green fields of Kel’heen stretched towards the base of the mountains. Birds flew chirping gaily across the plains, and antelope darted away from the sounds of so many soldiers on foot. Overshadowing it all was the Drogue Mountains. The surreal beauty of the mountains made it possible to forget the evil that awaited within them. Then what are you saying?

"Im saying that we must be cautious. Something moves beneath us I can feel it in my bones. Hokoron is no simpleton Quinn. His skill at Jie’than’ue is nearly as honed as my own. He would not have announced his location unless he expected us to come to him. We may have overthrown Agronon, but his soul lives on, and his followers still have means of which to commune with him. Even from the Beyond Agronon can still influence the dreams of others; perhaps Anira’s vision are not what we think they are.

Furthermore, Hokoron has thus hid himself from us since the start of this war, and I find it unsettling that he has so blatantly revealed himself now, something is… wrong… A’ngar trailed and seemed suddenly more interested in a pair of vultures circling above them than in their conversation.

Quinn cleared his throat and bit back an angry retort. He was angry but not at what A’ngar had said. He himself had thought much of the same thing since he had begun their march across Ga’hara. He told himself that he was being foolish. He and the Nine knew the land better than even the Dwarves for they had long since called it home even before the Dwarves had first stepped out of their mountain halls in Andinarea.

If anyone could find a way to dig the tick that was the Dwarves out of Ga’hara it was them. But still, his doubts remained. What had finally swayed him was Anira’s vision. He knew that A’ngar was right, that other beings besides Kia’mathose could influence her visions, but it would cost an enormous amount of power to do so. The old gods possessed such power, but they had already been bound beneath the earth. Such power would drain them of what little remained of their strength, now that their mortal forms were gone. He doubted that they would risk such a daring feat.

But it was more than that; he had to believe in Anira. She had been gifted with foresight the moment she became one of the Nine, and she had to know the difference between their God and a demon defiler, besides, Kia’mathose would never allow it. Would he? He shook his head refusing to let his doubts hold sway over his own convictions.

Why do we fight this battle? What sets this one apart from all the others Quinn, A’ngar spoke so suddenly and so quietly he barely heard him over the sounds of the horses and the men at march.

We fight because we must. We fight in the hopes of being forgiven and freed from our curse. Quinn answered mechanically, it was the same argument he always told himself, and each time he and the Nine were summoned he felt a flicker of hope that his argument would prove true. They had lived so long and even death did not grant them release from their curse. If death found them they would be forced to live on as shades, forced to pay their penance even in death until their curse was paid in full.

Perhaps we have forgotten why we must fight, or why we must be forgiven. Perhaps we have cursed ourselves. A’ngar said the last with such sadness that Quinn brought Alya to a dead stop. Behind them their army stopped as well their hungry eyes looked questionably to their saviors.

When he spoke he made sure his voice was loud enough to carry to all those around him. No A’ngar we fight for justice and the hope that we will one day see the freedom we have so desperately fought for. We fight, and we die for those who have lost their lives beneath the boots of tyranny. We fight the old gods and those who have lost themselves to the corruption of their power. And we fight for the children born and yet to be born so that they may live in a world of freedom. The last was met with a roars of approval. Nearly Fifty thousand voices joined in one accord shouting, Freedom, and Victory, But above all else he heard cries for the Nine and the Bane of Agronon.

He glanced over at A’ngar and frowned. The old man seemed to be offended by his speech.

A’ngar shook his head sadly, And that Quinn is why we have forgotten, he said motioning towards the soldiers. They would follow us blindly to their deaths. Their faith in us is unwavering for they have exchanged one set of gods for another…

Quinn opened his mouth to retort but was cut short. Ahead of them, appearing off the plains, a single rider rode at full speed. The shouts of the soldiers slowly died as they noticed the rider and a weighted silence enveloped them, disturbed only by the sound of the rider’s horse. The rider rode straight to them and stopped only long enough to offer them both deep bows atop his horse.

My lords, the Dwarves are amassing an army upon the fields of Kel’heen. I counted nearly a thousand Argonauts and nearly ten thousand War Golems. The Deep Dwellers have amassed upon the fields, and the Dwarves themselves march under the Banner of the Archon. Their numbers are beyond counting, The last the rider finished in a huff.

That’s impossible, A’ngar said with a growl. "They would never be able to move an army that large without us knowing