Salagar the Grim: The Dagor’S Axe

By Michael Egley

An ancient evil is stirring within the land of Lorathan. Halfling Salagar the Grim, known for his adventurous spirit, has just unwittingly discovered a room hidden for centuries deep within a mansion. As he begins to study the colorful maps that line the walls and carefully avoids the traps planted to keep him from finding out the truth, Salagar has no idea that he has already begun to unearth a path that will bring the powers of an ancient secret to light.

Salagar finds a mysterious journal written by a druid and learns that all that stands between war and peace is a magical artifact created by a wicked goddess. Aided only by his courage, his grandsires instructions, and a few stout companions, Salagar embarks on a perilous quest to find the relic and restore hope to the beleaguered people of Lorathan. As the intrepid adventurers combat malicious forces determined to possess the artifact first, a dangerous race begins where everyone is prepared to do whatever it takes to win.

Salagar and his band of companions must forge ahead to find a sacred object that they hope will forever change their world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781475978964

Michael Egley

Michael Egley is an author and historian who has studied ancient civilizations for over thirty years. His focus is ancient Greece and Rome. His favorite authors are Jules Verne, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Robert E. Howard. He is a graduate of the University of Wisconsin and currently lives in Europe.

Book preview

SALAGAR

THE GRIM

The Dagor’s Axe

MICHAEL EGLEY

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

SALAGAR THE GRIM

The Dagor’s Axe

Copyright © 2013 MICHAEL EGLEY.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

iUniverse

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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.

ISBN: 978-1-4759-7895-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-7897-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-7896-4 (ebook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013903729

iUniverse rev. date: 3/6/2013

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Epilogue

A Note From the Author

Lorathan Lore

DEDICATION:

To my loving and most patient wife Nina, whose dedication through my ever present ideas and questions, made this book much better than it might have been.

To my three children, Kelson, Rubye, and Zoe, who read and advised me on certain aspects of the book and also gave me time to enjoy my new passion, writing.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT:

To Illustrator, Thomas Rohrer, whose creative artwork helped bring Salagar’s world to life.

INFORMATION

If you seek more information concerning the tales of Salagar the Grim, the lore of Lorathan, or upcoming books featuring our intrepid hero, please go to www.salagarthegrim.com.

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Chapter One

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The Slyfoot Mansion

Year 4050 in the Era of Dagnir

Month of Loth (The Time of Renewal)

By Lalaith’s frost-bearded mug, what in the blazes are you doing? I exclaimed. Slowly I backed away from the three pronged pitchfork that my slack mouthed cousin, Balfor Slyfoot, was using to menace me. I never dallied with your woman, I continued, and I never would! You must understand that she is just not my type.

At this avowal, Balfor seemed to become even more enraged So, she isn’t good enough for you, he cried, but you had a roll in the hay with her anyway! By Lalaith’s sly daggers, I will have your heart for your betrayal!

Pondering the fact that the girl in question was short for a Halfling and extremely overweight, with greasy hair that clung to her misshapen head and eyes the color of mud that looked out crosswise at the world, I could not but chuckle at the irony of the entire situation. I had tussled with many a lass in my time, but never would I consider ever touching Balfor’s girlfriend. Thus, I could see that this encounter was only going to end badly for one of us. Primarily me, I thought, especially since my cousin was becoming angrier with each breath, and held a dangerously pointy weapon in his clammy clutch. Hence, I began in earnest to look for a likely place of escape before my befuddled cousin took it upon himself to skewer me.

Look here Balfor, I said, I did not come near your precious Matilda, and I wouldn’t, since you are kin. Such an action would be a travesty. Can you just release that nasty pitchfork and place it on the ground so that we can talk about this like adults? Come man, think clearly here. Do not commit some hasty folly!

Balfor merely looked intently for a matter of five heartbeats or so, and then with a scream of rage, rushed straight for me, brandishing the pitchfork in both sweaty hands. "That does it," I thought. I quickly dived to my left, barely passing inches from the threatening tines. With a roll and a breathy exhalation, I jumped up and turned in one fluid motion, poised to move right or left depending on which way my slack-witted cousin attacked.

As I turned and assumed a defensive stance, I observed that my bumbling cousin had pierced the door with his improvised weapon and was struggling to extricate it from the hardened wood. Well then, I thought, this may be my chance to disarm the dangerous fellow. I moved up behind my laboring kin and chopped down on his left arm in an attempt to separate the damn fool from his makeshift weapon. Balfour, still enraged, at the perceived insult to his manhood and to the intransigent pitchfork that would not leave the wooden door, whirled around, lost his balance, and stumbled past me. Seeing my chance to end this charade, I put my left foot out and tripped the blundering oaf, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Now see here, you great buffoon, I yelled, I never had congress with your girlfriend and never will! Get up, shake the dust off your already soiled clothing, and let us talk this out like rational Halflings.

I waited a few heartbeats to catch my breath and see what reply my cousin would provide. But, after almost two minutes, he remained mute, merely lying on the dusty ground. Although I was concerned that it might be a trap, I didn’t think my cousin was smart enough to attempt such a ruse. Carefully I moved to his side. Attempting to discern his true state, I looked down at my kin’s head and eyes. Well, I will be damned! I exclaimed. Quickly, I knelt by my stricken cousin, all thoughts of bombast and fool girls washed away in panic. For when I knelt, I could discern the source for my cousin’s inert position - his head was cloaked in blood.

I swiftly pulled a kerchief from my back pocket, thanking my luck that I had remembered to place one inside my wardrobe for that day, and placed it upon the leaking wound atop Balfor’s head. Yet, I soon discerned that the task was fruitless, for the blood quickly soaked through my cloth, quickly coating the hardwood floor. Furthermore, no trace of breath escaped Balfour’s colorless lips and his fixed eyes hinted no sign of life. Now, this is inconvenient, I thought. I pulled myself up to a standing position and thought upon my next step. I knew full well that this may well be the final straw that broke the proverbial bull oxen’s back, since I have been in trouble almost my entire life and my families sympathy had been wearing thin of late. I could not count the numerous times I had been punished for this infraction or that violation; therefore, I knew that any story I would likely prepare for the family court would swiftly backfire. This recent affair would undoubtedly land me in the most serious trouble of my short twenty three years of life. Holding my head in my hands and furiously thinking, I quickly realized that I required a safe haven while sorting through this sorry mess, for Balfor was quite dead and I would pay a pretty price for the death of a kinsman.

As I stood there pondering my fate, an idea came to mind; I could hide in the lower basement! In fact, it was a jolly idea, for I was the only person that ever visited the lower basement, as that area of the Grand Slyfoot house had been abandoned for many years, well before I was born. Of course, the original reason it was thus sequestered had to do with some nonsense about an ancestor’s ghost roaming the lower basement, which was pure poppycock.

I had never seen such a visage in all my time traipsing about the dusty place. That is why I continued to visit the lower domain, for I was always seeking new challenges and loved tweaking the noses of my Slyfoot elders. I delved the deep second basement frequently, seeking adventure, treasure, well for me, treasure, and solitude. Without another thought, I swiftly ran to the large pantry at the back of the mansion. Gratified that not a soul was present, I grabbed a mug of ale that was sitting on the kitchen table and then stuffed a bag that was hanging on the back of a kitchen chair with bread, cheese, and some dried fruit. With provisions in hand, I made my way to the old back stairs and then down into the first basement.

As I descended the stairs to the first level of the basements, I detected a slight noise and a certain odor that could only be my Aunt Merry, who always seemed to smell of dust and onions all at the same time. So, I moved to my left and swiftly slid in behind some old crates that were piled haphazardly along the back wall. No more than two eye blinks later, Aunt Merry shuffled past, carrying a large sack of onions that had been stored in the back room since the last spring. When she was past me and up the stairs, I stealthily moved towards the back of the first basement, passing all manner of goods. Some of the many provisions were fresh, while some had been prepared for long storage. A number of items had been laying in the basement ever so long, that the dusty shapes could represent anything. As I passed the smoked, hanging meats, I plucked a few, for I did not know how long I would be in the lower basement and would surely need more than bread and ale to sustain my strength. Finally, I made my way to the old, moist warped heavy oak door that led to the second and lower basement.

Unbeknownst to all that resided in the stately old mansion on Sly Hill, the warped heavy oak door was actually not warped at all and did not make a sound as I effortlessly pulled the door open and peaked downstairs. For I had maintained that fiction concerning the old door so that not a soul would know that someone, especially me, was flaunting the mansion rules and visiting the lower levels of the house.

I picked up a well supplied small lantern that I had placed upon a hook at the top of the rickety stairs and using flint and paper, lit the lantern, moving down into the retreating darkness. As I slowly descended the steps, looking all about me through the glowing orb of light that surrounded the lamp, I could feel the all too familiar lure of wanderlust that had pervaded my being since I had turned fifteen years of age. If it had not been for the small adventures in which I typically embarked upon in the basement and the fringes of the Pale Forest, the wanderlust would have enslaved me, catapulting me out into the immense world before I was fully ready. Thus, it was with the old excitement that I traversed the lower level threshold, walking to my favorite area.

Two years ago, while foraging throughout the basement for hidden items of interest or value, I came upon a large, ornately carved chair made of cedar. The chair was well made, intricately carved with scenes of the hunt, and definitely not made for a Halfling. However, with enough cushions, which I had borrowed and brought down to my hidden abode over several days, the chair was quite comfortable. Added to the chair was a moth eaten footstool and a small bookshelf, in which I had placed my favorite books. To finish the ensemble, I had a small but sturdy table in which I had placed a number of candles and my favorite ale mug, standing to the left of the chair. With a sigh of relief and pleasure, I dropped the sundry items I had pilfered to the floor. Sinking into the soft cushions, I let my mind wonder the seemingly infinite items that were stored throughout the dusty tunnels that made up my private domain, the lower basement.

Head leaning back amidst the perfumed cushions, for I had borrowed these cushions from a favorite girl of mine, I thought about my predicament and what led me to this sorry fate. This indeed was not the first incident that had brought me trouble and most likely would not be the last. For I had always been a bit of trouble to my parents and all elders of the village, what with my rather acerbic wit and madcap adventures, it was a wonder I had not thus been banished years ago. So, with eyes closed, the scent of my favorite area running through my nose, my mind started to wander, back and back, through my short life and all that had happened to this go-lucky Halfling with the unruly red curly locks, deep green eyes, and mischievous grin.

I had always been a precocious child, although some would call me a smart mouth instead. Yet, for all my detractors, I had always been able to enlist others to follow me on my many adventures and chicanery. Halfling lasses seemed to stare into my gray green eyes and melt. Perhaps it was because of my size, for I am rather tall for a Halfling, topping almost five spans in height. Maybe it is my voice, which is deep and melodic. Or mayhap, it is my talent for escaping danger, for it seemed that I was gifted with some sort of sixth sense that can perceive peril in just about any form, well before a menace appears and has the chance to do harm. When the back of my neck begins to itch and the short hairs begin to rise, I know from experience that something is amiss and can possibly cause injury. It could also have been my ever present jolly attitude, as I always seemed to smile, chuckle, and even laugh, even at times of extreme peril. In fact, my equanimity is so famous, that most who know me or know of me no longer call me Salagar Slyfoot, but give me the nickname of Salagar the Grim. This, of course, is in contrast to the other nicknames that have been and will be bestowed on the likes of rotund individuals called slim, or tall people named Shorty, and so on and so forth.

With a sigh of regret, I thought back to the altercation with my cousin and wondered how it could have gotten to the point of violence, for Balfor was a simpleton, but surely not a murderer. Something must have triggered his anger, which had perhaps lain dormant for years? Mayhap, it was some game that his girlfriend was playing, for I knew for a fact that I had never and would never touch her.

So why, after all these years, did the gentle Halfling turn violent and accost me in such a mean way? Just remembering the blood dripping from his crushed skull sent shivers down my spine and my regret redoubled, for not only was my cousin dead, but I was soon to be in the greatest trouble of my life. I knew no one in the family would believe my side of the story. I attempted to close my eyes and relax, but Balfor’s blood, slowly spreading about the wooden floor came flooding back and my heart leapt inside my breast, quickening my pulse and widening my eyes. By Lalaith’s Golden Chalice, why had my cousin so attacked and thus caused no end to grief!

I thought on the tragedy, knowing full well that I would miss the lovable oaf, but then my roaming eyes spied my favorite book laying upon the table. Placing my almost finished mug of ale down amidst the detritus strewn board, I picked up the polished leather tome and began to read of the many adventures of Elric Gallow, the first king of man and legendary hero of the Shadow War, that momentous conflict that had changed so much of the old world. Thinking on the war, I tried to remember how long ago it had happened. Mayhap over one thousand years by my reckoning, did the conflagration inflame all the peoples of Lorathan.

As I picked up the tale after the Shadow War, I again felt the tug, the sometimes unbearable desire to just pick up and move out into the wide world, seeking any and all pleasures that must abound amongst the many cities of Lorathan. Snuggling deeper into the fragrant pillows, a loud crack brought me instantly alert. I shifted my weight slightly, attempting to peer behind the chair, when my favorite throne teetered, first forward, then backward, and finally with another loud crack, tipped back, slamming into the back wall. Surprisingly, the chair did not stop at the wall, but crashed through the crumbling block, finally coming to rest in a cloud of dust and debris. When I regained my composure, a low chuckle escaped my lips and I wondered where my vaunted danger sense had been just then. Mayhap it only occurred when real danger was ahead, not merely accidents such as this?

Well, I thought, as the dust settled around me, I can do one of two things, I can continue to lay here amidst the soft pillows and go to sleep, or I can revive my flagging interest and see what this chair has done to the wall. Deciding on investigation, I gingerly rose up from the now battered chair and stood, looking down with a bit of sadness at my now splintered refuge. I had spent many an hour in the warm embrace of wood and worn leather, escaping the mundane life that most Halflings live in the Abundant Hills. Instead I chose to participate in the many exciting adventures shared through the many books in which I had avariciously partook.

With one last look, I moved from the scattered mess and looked around at my new surroundings with astonishment. What have I found, I thought, as I gawked at the small room that had just appeared as if from nowhere, a room that looked to have been hidden well, since nobody in the old mansion had ever mentioned it and the dust that clung to every surface was thick with age.

The room was about ten spans by ten spans, a small square area filled with dusty items, difficult to discern with only my dim candlelight. Along the left wall stood a large ornate oak desk with multiple shelves that towered up towards the ceiling, also containing five drawers on either side. The desk took up the entire wall and was completely covered with parchment, empty ink pots, what looked to be maps, and a few scrolls. Along the shelves were a number of ancient tomes, Yet, I couldn’t tell what the titles were due to the dust covering their bindings. Holding down one pile of parchment was a tarnished dagger that looked to have an ornate gold inscribed pommel.

Along the far wall directly opposite the new doorway that my oaken throne had created, stood a wall that was entirely covered with maps, some large and elaborately colored, others smaller and inked in black, with crude sketches amongst the margins. There seemed to also be small metal pins in the large map, possibly denoting special areas of interest. Yet again, many of the fine details elaborated on the spectacular pieces were obscured from years of tarnish. The maps indeed caught my interest, for maps had always been an ardent hobby of mine. I had scoured many mansion libraries, seeking their gilt and color. A great find, I thought, these maps looked to be ancient and possibly a new source of knowledge!

The wall across from the large oaken desk contained nothing along its surface; however, there was a large chest pushed up against the wall. Although it was covered in a layer of grime, I could detect the glint of silver and gold, shining through the thin dusty veneer, providing a glimpse as to its true worth. There also seemed to be some black and red lettering or mayhap glyphs along one of the metal bindings that ran along the uppermost part of the chest. Dead center of the front panel was a large lock, securing the contents from prying eyes and thieving hands.

The wall that I was now standing within was bereft of decoration, ornament, or furniture, which was a good thing, because the tumbling bricks may have damaged or outright destroyed anything that had been near the torn barrier. This would have been shameful, for many a dolt had unknowingly destroyed once coveted relics due to ignorance or malice. I for one relished the act of securing and then learning about ancient artifacts. If I had caused undue harm to some piece of legend, it would have brought me lower even more than I had already sunk.

Rubbing my hands together in delight, I swiftly strode into the room, aiming directly for the large elaborately colored map hanging in the center of the opposite wall. Just as I was two spans within the space, I sensed something amiss, my neck itching, the short hairs rising. Alarmed, I quickly came to a stop, but not before a small sound escaped from around my feet, a sound like the thrumming of a thin cord or piece of string. Before I could react further, something came swiftly out of the wall behind me. Dodging to the right, it crashed into my left shoulder, throwing me violently to the ground. The last thought entering my pain ravaged mind before I blanked out was that I would never be able to decipher the secrets of the room and sift through the many artifacts it contained.

Chapter Two

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I was having such a delicious dream about the barmaid at the Frothing Mug, when I became aware of a burning ache in my left shoulder. With a grunt of pain, I was

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able to lever myself up to my knees and turn around to see what in the name of Lalaith had bludgeoned me so thoroughly. What I spied was a thin line of silken cord that had broken in twain, either end laying supine on the floor. When the line split, it triggered a fulcrum, causing a large wooden mallet to swing forth from the ceiling nearest the broken wall. It was the hammer that had struck me with enough force to knock me onto the floor. As I looked more closely, I could see that the damage to the wall had moved the mallet a few inches to the left, thus saving my life. I was certain that if the mallet had struck me on the back of the head, it would have instantly killed me. Then another thought careened through my skull, who would have crafted such a devious trap and what treasures was my unknown assailant attempting to thus protect? This was becoming a rather interesting puzzle.

Groaning a bit, I attempted to move my shoulder and found that I could move the damaged limb, yet the movement caused a moderate amount of pain. Luckily, I found that there did not seem to be anything broken and as I moved it up and down, the pain began to recede to a tolerable level. Well now, I thought, an honest to goodness trap, down here in this secret room! I never thought I would ever encounter a trap, especially within the walls of the mansion. There must be something very valuable in this little room, something that the original owner did not want found, or at least, not found by just any random bloke poking about. Therefore, I became ever so careful as I once again moved into the room, looking warily about for any hidden wires or loose stones, things I had read about that could undoubtedly indicate a possible trap was about.

To probe the area more effectively, I dropped to my hands and knees, cautiously scanning, inch by inch, moving ever so slowly, carefully brushing away accumulated dust and dirt, searching for anything that could be the trigger for some new diabolical contraption. However, after about an hour of fruitless searching, I came to realize that if there was such a trap still within the confines of this room, I was not skilled enough to detect it.

Emboldened, I rose to my feet and again made my way towards the far wall, aiming for the large colorful map. One section in particular caught my eye, for the map did not seem to be quite right. The forests were much larger and the numerous human cities were missing. As my curiosity increased, I moved closer, intent on deciphering this unusual chart and figuring out why it was so different than the current maps of Lorathan. Something on the edge of the map, some curious runes, caught my eye; and I focused on them, reading them over in my mind, attempting to decipher their meaning. The words seemed similar to Elfish, in which I had a solid grasp. But alas, they were foreign to my untrained eyes and I could not make heads nor tails of their import.

Yet, the map was familiar, for I had gazed upon just such a one in one of the books concerning the Shadow War. It then dawned on my frazzled mind that this map provided a glimpse of Lorathan as it had been from the beginning of time, before the forces of Dae had burned and destroyed much of the Elven forests.

Shifting my attention, I studied the other colorful maps and found them to be schematics of a vast tunnel system, with runic inscriptions at certain points of the causeway. Again, I could not decipher the script. Yet, I thought I recognized the language, for I had seen it before within trade documents that occasionally passed across the desk of my father. These papers captured business deals, most of which were for kegs of ale, made for the Dwarves living within the Golden City. So the language must be Dwarfish, a language in which I had not been properly trained. My expertise, as a young student, had been the Elfish tongue and its predecessor, the ancient language, the language of power and magic, which had always held my fascination. Thus, my amateur attempt to translate the scrawled notes only resulted in a few details, something concerning the ancient Dwarven causeways. Apparently, some sort of catastrophe had sealed them, forever keeping the Dwarves from ever using them again as roadways, as once their ancestors had. Then a memory surfaced, again concerning the Shadow War. Was not the causeways destroyed during that time, I thought?

I had, however, more luck with the second map that detailed the destruction of the causeways and the resultant creation of the Deepening, a very large section of the tunnel system that had become the habitat of creatures of nightmare proportion. This second map had notations in Dwarfish and also in Elfish. Hence, the legends of evil beasts abounding the once great tunnels created by the Dwarves must be true, for this map clearly spelled out the many pitfalls that awaited the unwary if they were to find their way into the dark tunnels.

Some of the names penned in dark blue ink were a bit frightening, such as the Deepening, or Dead Alive, an area that the runes purported to be filled with undead flesh eating creatures. Such creatures are said to be the magically risen dead Dwarves, Dagor, and Mith that had once fought in the Shadow War. As legend and tale began, these creatures forever roam the black halls and tunnels that had been constructed by the Dwarves, endlessly seeking the warm flesh of those that are still much alive. Then I spied Dagor Hold, a mighty underground fortress that had been commissioned by King Gromlin Bullaxe himself, before he set out with his host to crush the Elven forces and finish the destruction of their sacred groves. Also scribed were the infamous Mith Barrows, where rumor asserts that the Mith Gray Ones hold sway, constantly vying for power with the purportedly weak Mith Kings, spreading their evil incantations throughout the Dagor Haven’s and the Deepening.

Tiring of the strain that deciphering the spidery script was taking on my already battered senses, I backed away from the profusion of maps and made my careful way to the large oaken desk. My first question upon approaching the desk was how this immense piece of wood was brought into this room, for I could not discern a doorway or door within the confines of the square room. The desk was fully eight spans in length and sized for a Halfling; it was about six to eight fingers shorter than a human sized desk in height, the elaborate tiered shelving stretching all the way up to the ceiling. As I was about to pull out the ornately carved desk chair, the back of my neck began to itch, a clear indication that something was amiss.

I studied the dusty seat, examining the design from every approachable angle. What I saw was a very ancient looking chair that looked as if it had been carved from a single piece of wood, perfectly crafted for a Halfling. And, as I looked more closely, I could see Elfish writing running up and down the arms and legs. I studied the words for a few heartbeats, but their meaning was mundane and did not import further knowledge as to the current mystery.

It wasn’t until I lowered to my hands and knees that I was able to detect what my itching neck had been warning me about, for there was a concealed lever attached to a fine leather cord running from the left front leg of the chair back into the rear of the desk. It was another bloody snare! Who was this dastardly Halfling, I thought, that he would protect his ancient possessions with traps, and better yet, how many traps were there? I was by no means an expert on their manufacture or disarming and my luck would only hold for so long.

I crouched for at least ten minutes, trying to figure a way to either disarm the trap or trigger the blasted thing without taking grievous damage. Tired, grimy, and frustrated, I decided to do probably the most dim-witted act of stupidity I had ever attempted in my short life. As I stood and braced myself, I quickly pulled the chair back, all at once diving swiftly to my right. As soon as the chair moved, the lever shifted with an audible click. I felt an imperceptible pressure on my left calf as I dived, rolled, and came up on my hands and knees, barely missing crashing into the large chest arranged along the opposite wall. Fearing the worst, I felt my left calf, half expecting a wet patch of blood, but found only that my trousers had been cleanly cut, my skin remaining intact.

Wiping my sweating forehead as I got to my feet, I turned around to see what diabolical machination had appeared when the trap had sprung. As I drew near, I could perceive a long, thin blade protruding from beneath the desk and through the space the chair had once occupied. Involuntarily, I placed my right hand down and over my family jewels, as they are sometimes called, swearing in three different languages. I cursed the evil fellow that had thought of such a heartless way to keep his secrets intact, for if that trap had caught me unawares, I would now be talking and singing at a much higher octave, my attraction to women coming to an abrupt halt.

I again approached the desk, searching intently for other wicked contraptions, yet there did not appear to be anything else out of the ordinary and I began to relax. Pushing the chair back towards the desk and slumping into its surprising comfort, I began to shuffle through the many pieces of parchment that lay atop. On first glance, many of the documents seemed to be drafts of some book or journal that the occupant must have been writing. There were also some black inked smaller versions of the maps that hung on the far wall. I stopped riffling through the dispirit pieces of parchment and looked up at the book shelves. They were almost overburdened with leather bound books, some large, some small, but all ancient or so it seemed, for many of the titles I had never before beheld.

There were books that were titled in Elfish, Dwarfish, and the Common Tongue, all arranged haphazardly, with no seeming rhythm or reason. A number of the books intrigued me, for they were topics that had never failed to fascinate me. A couple Elfish tomes concerned magic and the Ancient Tongue, another fat, squat book held the secrets of Dwarven Rune crafting, or so the book promised. Still more, also in Elfish, contained recipes for all manner of vegetable soups and a guide to growing the best grapes for the most superb wines. However, of all the books arranged on the sturdy shelves, not one of them seemed important enough to impale any curious busybodies. So, there must be something else that warranted protection, something that I did not perceive or possibly had not yet found. Undaunted, I continued my search of the desk.

I started with the middle drawer, which was unlocked and pulled out with a bit of resistance. To my surprise, there was nothing within this wooden cavity except a single ornate black iron key, about three fingers in length and two fingers in width, lying in the exact center of the drawer. Instantly suspicious, I began to run my hand gently about the circumference of the drawer in an attempt to discern if there was indeed something nefarious about the single key, or if it was safe to extract. After about five minutes of bumbling about, I convinced myself that all was as it should be and slowly extended my trembling fingers to snatch up the key.

With a sigh of relief, I saw that I was still whole, my body had not been pierced by many sharp spikes, and my hand was still intact, not burned by acid or bloated by poison or fang. I slowly turned the key around in my hand and found that there were words in the Common Tongue inscribed on the top rounded portion of the key. The inscription read, The way to your destiny - wanderlust. Well now, I thought, this was indeed developing into a very interesting adventure in my favorite manse hideaway. Perhaps the key had belonged to one of my ancestors. But which one had left the Abundant Hills in the past hundred or so years, wanderlust driving him out into the wide world of Lorathan, seeking something to quell the desire that grew every year, until it overwhelmed him and drove him forth?

I put the key in my doublet pocket and opened the first of the five drawers to my left, finding nothing. I also found four more empty drawers and began to wonder if someone had been here before me, cleaning out the most precious artifacts that were perhaps stored within these drawers. For it was curious that the desk was piled high with parchment and assorted items, yet the drawers were empty. I then moved to my right and opened each of the five drawers, again finding nothing. Puzzled, I sat back, rested my chin on steepled fingers, and thought on this seeming conundrum. As my gaze slowly looked from left to right, evaluating the empty drawers as I had left them, my mind began to pick up on something that did not add up. So, what did my eyes detect that my brain had not yet processed, what was it about the desk that made my brow furrow in thought?

Looking at the drawers on the right side, it suddenly appeared out of the recesses of my muddled brain. Look at the drawers on the left side and use hand to roughly measure the length of each, I thought. Alright, I discovered, each drawer is roughly two and a half hands in length. Now, go to the drawers on the right side and again, I instructed myself. Each drawer is roughly about two and a half hands in length, all except the bottom one, which is actually about two hands in length. I pushed back the chair and look at the entire desk and saw that it was very well made, probably by a master craftsman. Therefore, there was a very low probability that the wood crafter would have made one drawer shorter than the other nine. It occurred to me that there must be a false panel at the back of the drawer and possibly a hidden alcove behind. With fingers trembling in anticipation, I felt about the drawer, sensing for hidden latches or catches, anything that I could use to open the panel I was sure existed.

After about ten minutes, my excitement began to fade as my questing fingers found nothing but dust and a few splinters. Perplexed, I again pushed back from the desk, mulling over the situation, attempting to glean any sense from the shortened drawer. Perhaps the crafter had shorted the drawer or mayhap it was his apprentice that botched the job and did not tell his patron? There could be many explanations, I surmised, but not one of them held water, for the desk was too well made for a simple mistake such as this to be overlooked.

I chanced to glance down again at the center drawer and saw something at the back that I had not before noticed, since my gaze had been entirely focused on the large ornate key. There appeared to be a small notch at the rear of the drawer, dead center of the back panel and as my questing fingers touched the notch, it was not in fact a notch, but a small lever. Without thinking, I pulled the small lever, instantly discerning a small clicking sound.

I quickly looked down into the drawer in question and found that a hidden panel had been released, revealing a small two finger by two finger alcove at the back of the bottom most drawer. Within, there appeared to be a small, cloth wrapped bundle. I pulled the bundle out from the alcove, placing it upon the desk. The cloth seemed to be of the finest woven silk and was the color of buttermilk, with small yellow flowers bordering the cloth. There were no runes or words on the cloth nor was it tied, but merely folded around the object. Carefully, I took the corner of the silken cloth and pulled it up, over, and around, revealing the hidden object within.

It was a leather bound journal, with gold leaf stenciling on the binding? As I studied the words, I found that they were Elfish and in fact, a dialect not commonly used today. As I became more curious as to this ancient script, the words, once translated, gave me a jolt, for this was no ordinary tome, but a book of significance, or so legend would claim. For the book was a treatise written by Mor Nell, Druid of Glawar and Chronicler. I stared, with open mouth and gaping eyes at this apparent treasure that had so fortuitously fallen into my hands. For I had read many of the passed down and most often watered down tomes that Mor Nell had purportedly penned, yet I had never found anything directly linked to the Druid. Mayhap this was an original and would contain the true tales of Lorathan. For everyone knew the legend of the ancient historian, the Druid and Sage who was always seen at the most critical events throughout history, reed pen in hand, scribbling away for posterity.

With indrawn breath, I picked up the book and again read the spine, moving my fingers over the gold leaf to help with the translation, for the gold leaf was a bit faded, probably from much use over the years. Well, this is interesting, I pondered, this book is a firsthand account of the great Shadow War. Let’s see, I thought, over one thousand years ago, if the histories that I have read are accurate; that must have been in the Era of Lalaith then. I put the book down upon the desk and wondered out into the main part of the basement, for my lantern was starting to burn low and my stomach was grumbling. I re-filled my lantern, snatched some cured ham and my still half full mug of ale, and moved back into the strange room. I sat at the desk and began to eat, all the while thinking about the fantastical discovery that I had just made.

When I was finished with my small meal and had emptied the mug of ale, I fastidiously cleaned any dirt, crumb, or other detritus from my hands and then reached again for the book. With trembling fingers, I opened the first page. There was an inscription on the front inside cover of the book, written in the same ancient Elfish script, that read, My dear Mariode, I hope that you find this book to your liking and that it gives you many comforts as you grow old and your memory of these glorious days fade. Mor Nell.

Well now, I thought, could this be true, could this book had been penned by Mor Nell and given as a gift to my distant ancestor Mariode Slyfoot, for there were no other Mariodes in the Slyfoot family. The clan had decided to strike that name from the Slyfoot heritage because Mariode had been a peculiar character, giving into his wanderlust, bringing back fantastic tales and habits foreign to most Halflings. Mariode had also lived much longer than the typical two hundred and fifty years that most Halflings aspire. Some say that he lived for over four hundred years, dying mysteriously, leaving instructions to place his body in a small, thick, stone mausoleum with a bricked up entrance.

After pondering the import of the inscription for a couple minutes, I then moved to the first page, which was inscribed with a title and a signature, that of Mor Nell. It was titled, The Complete Chronicles of the Great Shadow War, penned in the year 3060 in the Era of Lalaith.

If my knowledge of Lorathan history was intact, then the date seemed correct for the period and the signature seemed authentic, for I had seen a few tomes with his signature from the occasional book that made its way into our library from Elven traders out of the Pale Forest. Although the Slyfoot clan did not like the outside world and maintained their isolation like most Halflings, one thing all Slyfoots had in common was their intense desire to read. Treatises, histories, gardening, ale making, cook books, and other sundry topics enthralled our clan. In fact, most Slyfoots could read in several languages, so that they could widen their book reading opportunities.

Curiously, the next three pages were not in Elfish, but were penned in the Common Tongue. Moreover, the script was definitely not from the hand of Mor Nell, but was prepared with a more cramped style than that of the great Sage. As I began to read the spidery script, I was astonished to find that it was indeed from the hand of my great kin, Mariode. Fascinated, I continued to hurriedly read on.

Hopefully some intelligent Slyfoot has found my special room, made it past the many traps, and found this secret journal, for I would shudder in my grave if some idiot Tallmanny or Brookadler were to come across this book and burn it because it was not from the Abundant Hills. So, if you are one of those fools and decide to take all my possessions and put them on the dung heap, then may Lalaith curdle your milk, piss in your ale, and spoil any stew you care to cook and serve!

I could not help but tilt my chair back and let out a long, low laugh, for this ancestor of mine seemed like the right sort, the type of Halfling I wish I had met and dealt with, instead of the stiff necked elders that skulked the dark halls of Slyfoot Mansion. In fact, my eyes began to water as my chuckles turned to laughter and then to guffaws, as I pictured the Tallmanys and the Brookadlers wondering why their milk always spoiled or their stews came out tasting like bitter root! After about twenty minutes, I was able to slowly take control of my senses and my laughter subsided. I then wiped my tears away with the back of my sleeve and continued reading.

I have assembled many books during my long years on Lorathan, in the event a relative of mine had the fortitude to undertake a most perilous quest. This quest will take you from one end of Lorathan to the other, and frankly, will scare the ale loving sense out of you. But, I do get ahead of myself and need to start from the beginning, or at least, the beginning of my tale, for it is long. Let me caution you now, you MUST read this book, from front to back, in order to not only survive this ordeal, but finish the quest without giving the enemy the advantage they have been waiting for all these many years. You will find that it is a rather easy read, although my friend Mor Nell can be a bit bombastic. The real gems are in the margins, where I have scribbled my first hand knowledge of events. So, again, you must read the book in its entirety and only then will you be able to endure what will come.

So, the beginning, well, that goes a long way back and I do not think you need to know that part of my life. Needless to say, there was a task that me and my friend, Perrywinkle Alemaster, thought that we could fill for the allies. It was sure a time of death and destruction and Elf, Dwarf, or Halfling did not know what the future held or even if any would survive to tell their children or grandchildren of the dire times. At this point, the Great Living Forest, which had stood for thousands of years, was burning and it seemed the Elves could do nothing to stave off this disaster. We in the Abundant Hills could see the smoke, but most attributed it to normal happenings. By Lalaith’s Chubby Paunch, the folk merely turned their backs and continued as if nothing was happening!

For years, on and off, I had been friends with an Alemaster who lived down south, near the Jumbled Mountains. I was determined to do something, so I packed a bag, strapped my favorite dagger around my waist, and set off to see if Perrywinkle felt the same way. I tell you, my wanderlust at this point was a mighty annoyance, and I knew that sooner or later I would leave the Hills anyway. So, off I went, with nary a penny, but with hopes and a bit of skill with dagger and traps. Needless to say, Perry, as only I called him, was in for the duration, and we quickly set off for the Elven lands, making for Toloth, since it was the closest to our home lands.

Sitting back and stretching, I took a short break, nibbling on some left over bread, scanning the document laden desk. I carefully brushed away some of the dust that had accumulated atop the piles of scrolls and books, but did not detect anything else of significance. I then arose and stretched my aching back, which still smarted from the collision with that Lalaith blasted mallet. I then wondered why my ancestor had secured this place. It seemed to contain much sought after material, for one such as I or mayhap a sage or historian. Yet, there were very few of that ilk within my current family, mayhap the reason then? Sitting back down with all intentions of picking up where I had just recently left off, I instead closed my eyes, but for an instant.

Chapter Three

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I awoke with a snort and a shock to my heart, for I had been dreaming of my now deceased cousin, who had somehow become an undead apparition, stalking me through the lower basement. Shaking my head to drive away the vestiges of the dreadful nightmare, I again sat back and began to ponder the last paragraph of which I had read, before my unfortunate nap. I must tell you that I did indeed know of an Alemaster clan that lived in a small hamlet at the southern reaches of the Abundant Hills. Although all I knew of them was through rumor, since the clan seemed to have an abundance of members who had been hit hard by the Halfling wanderlust. Therefore, due to their perceived strange behavior, most families seemed to shy away from the family. This was doubly strange, since from what I had heard about the clan from friends and neighbors, they were well off, owning and maintaining a number of prosperous fruit groves and wheat fields. This whole business was becoming extremely interesting, I thought. Moving about the chair until comfort was realized, I again began reading the words of my ancestor.

That was the beginning, and I will not bore you with the details of the actual fighting and such, for Mor Nell does a much more credible turn at describing the many twists and turns of the war. He even has some parts in there about the Gods and where he got that information and how, I do not want to know. But, I am getting long winded and have not even arrived at the most important chapter of this whole episode, the death of that bastard Gromlin and what transpired afterward.

After a week of battle, Perry and I were bloodied a bit, but not as bad as many of the allies. Most had been at least wounded and countless were either dead or would die within a fortnight. The enemy host was in full retreat, the Dwarves yelling and carrying on, since they couldn’t find the body of Gromlin or his wicked black axe. They were beside themselves in rage and despair, for they thought that if they could not find a body, then perhaps a pretender could take up the axe and continue the war. It wasn’t a half-arsed idea, since an enterprising Dagor could possibly pull it off and then we might be back where we began, with more dead and dying. So, the allies came to us for assistance, Elves, Dwarves, and Humans. Given that we had provided services that most others could not, such as sneaking around and finding information or items that nobody seemed to be able to sniff out, it was not surprising they would want to use our services.

Perry and I thought about it for maybe a minute and then we both grinned like fools, agreeing to their request. We were instructed to follow the retreating Dagor and Mith forces, locate the dead king, verify he was dead, and perhaps seize the axe and bring it back to the allies. Since they thought that without that damn artifact, no Dagor would be able to again gather the Dagor and Mith clans to threaten Dwarf, Elf, Human, or Halfling. It wasn’t a bad idea, because the axe is an outright artifact, with Dae’s own power within. Also, without the weapon, the dastardly creatures have not poured forth in great numbers since the last battle at the Malgarin Bridge. They have been content, as much as we know, to stew in their stinking tunnels below the Treasure Mountains.

We equipped ourselves with all the items we had gained through the many months of the war and grabbed some grub from the Dwarves, since they had by far the best food suited for a Halfling. The departure was swift, and we were soon on our way, following the detritus always left behind when an army is routed and fleeing for its life. Unexpectedly, as we were nearing the edge of the Living Forest and coming to what was being called the burnt lands, we saw a small party of Mith skulking amongst the trees. We decided to investigate and see why they had not run like the rest of their kin. Our skill within shadow and silence had increased during the many scouting missions we had completed for the allies. Hence, it was easy to stealthily tiptoe forward; discovering five of the runty buggers, all hunkered down beside a large oak tree, eating chunky grey gruel while they sniveled about their plight.

At a prearranged call that Perry and I had used many times, we attacked the sorry creatures in unison. Before Lalaith could drain his golden mug, most of the buggers were dead, all except for one lucky Dagor who received a non lethal bullet from Perry’s magic sling. I have to admit, Perry was damn good with that sling, he could hit a speeding bird at a hundred paces with that golden cloth. For the life of me, I can’t remember where he first came across that magical weapon, but it did come in handy.

Well, I am getting off track. We moved in on the camp, carrying the stinking carcasses away from the poorly burning fire. This was a necessity, especially since they stunk in life and their stench was even worse in death! Anyway, we tied the little bugger to a tree and then threw a bit of water on his face, bringing him instantly awake. And boy did the creature babble, all the while tears were streaming down his cheeks and snot was pouring from his nose, it was right disgusting. Well, with a little prodding, we were able to pry some pretty interesting information out of the runt and when we were finished, we cut him loose, giving him a head start, telling him that if we caught him, he would surely be dead. When he was about forty spans from us, Perry twirled his sling, then let fly, taking the bugger in the back of the head, instantly killing him. Now, don’t you dare judge our actions, for this was war and the damn creature had probably killed as many women and children in the Dwarven causeways as his skinny arms could. It had been a terrible conflict and the forces arrayed against us had not pity nor compassion, even for their own kind.

The interesting thing was, the creature knew about the dead King and his special axe, since the little fiend had been assigned to a battle group that had been guarding a cluster of Dagor Shamans. These Shamans were making their way quickly to the Jumbled Mountains and the entrance to Kheluz Karit, which the enemy still held. If his information was genuine, the group had been about five hundred strong, with about two hundred Dagor and some three hundred Mith. Interestingly, this impressive force had been ambushed by Elven archers and a few Druids, causing the force, after a mere five minutes of fighting, to scatter into smaller contingents, one containing the dead Dagor King, the other, splitting off and running Pell Mel for the burnt lands. Of course, our little bugger had been with the smaller force that stumbled deeper into the Living Forest. The pathetic group we had come across had been the last remnants of that force.

With a direction and approximate distance, we set off in pursuit of the Dagor force, hoping that they had not been destroyed by the Elven forces before we could contribute some fun to the action. We tracked that band for at least five days before we were able to come within sling distance. Once we did detect the enemy, they were a sorry lot; there were only about fifty Dagor warriors left to guard a scrawny looking shaman and a body wrapped tightly in spider silk, presumably, the King. We also saw one Dagor, larger than the rest, who had a cloth wrapped bundle strapped to his back that looked like it could be a greataxe. When we arrived and had stealthily made our way to the edge of the camp, a confrontation was taking place. The Shaman had his hands raised to the sky and the large Dagor, looking exceedingly angry, was attempting to quickly unwrap the axe. Before the Dagor warrior could bring the weapon into play, the Shaman uttered a harsh, guttural word and lightning immediately struck the upraised axe, instantly killing the beast. After his display of power, all the Dagor warriors cowered before the Shaman, never again questioning his authority; the axe again wrapped and strapped to the back of the next largest warrior.

We followed those stinking savages for seven days, all the way across the burnt lands and into the dark maw of the once glorious Dwarven Kingdom of Kheluz Karit. By then, we were footsore, grimy, and low on water and food, but we did not hesitate to enter the tunnels, since we could not let the dead king and his entourage out of our sight. Motivated by both hunger and fatigue, we silently stalked a Dagor outpost that had been positioned about two hundred spans from the entrance to the cave and, one by one, slew them all. We then took all their food and water, and although it wasn’t the type of fare that we of the Abundant Hills were used to, it was at least enough to keep two tired Halflings going for a couple days more. Ah, this tale is beginning to draw too long and thus I will try and speed up, giving you the information necessary to complete the quest I lay at your feet.

We were able to follow the filthy creatures throughout their newly won stone tunnels. It was an easy task, especially since we had slain some runt Mith guards and taken their armor, weapons, and their oddly plumed helms, giving us some manner of costume. It also helped that we kept clear of most parties traipsing through the passageways, keeping mostly to the shadows and using stealth where we could. We followed the group, which had attracted a few more Shamans, for at least three days along the old Dwarven causeway. When we finally came