Chapter 1 - Adventure Calls

The town of Arnath anchored the northeast corner of the Kingdom of Andalath. In recent years it had grown to be the major trading center for both the surrounding towns and the dwarven stronghold in the mountains that bounded the town to the east. To the west was the Murian River, which provided a means for easy transportation of trade goods going south to the larger cities like Alganeer and Dilann. The large farms just beyond the river provided the fruit and foodstuffs that comprised the bulk of the trade. Adding the dwarven wrought goods and the highly-prized Jixian tabak, Arnath had become a town of many opportunities. Though not awash with gold, there was plenty available for those clever individuals who sought it.

The sun was about an hour from setting when Daegarun walked down the main street. Not a handsome man, he was once again sporting a fierce scowl. This made sure others on the street to give him a wide berth. His close-cropped mustache and beard were black, matching the color of his shoulder-length hair. His beard appeared patchy due to numerous small burn scars on his face. Years working a hot forge tended to do that. His eyes seemed to be the only thing about him that had not hardened well beyond his ears. They were watery blue with a slight twinkle if you were close enough to notice. He was not especially tall, barely half a head above five feet, but was very broadly built and well muscled, with thick arms and a barrel chest that were further testament to his years at the forge. His dark leathers were clean and obviously well maintained and he favored a short brown cloak and with tall boots. He had a small traveling pack on his back and openly carried twin falchions on his belt.

As he strode along he could catch glimpses of the river between the buildings. East of town towered the Copper Mountains. Though it was a half-day’s walk to get to them, they loomed over the town as if only a stone’s throw away. As his gaze fell upon those peaks he took on an even darker visage. He stopped for a moment and took a deep breath.

He looked around the town that had been his home for all of his seventeen years. Memories welled up unbidden as he spied the old blacksmith shop unchanged after all these years…
…”but Hagan, I can DO IT!” screamed little Daegarun.

“No, no, I know you are big for your age, but you are still only seven years old. You can help with anything except working the oil quencher. When your hands and feet are more sure of what they are doing you can quench in oil, but for now it’s just too dangerous. Besides, you are making horseshoes. Horseshoes don’t quench in oil…”

“You’ll see! This will be the best horseshoe ever!!” Daegarun, still holding the glowing horseshoe in his tongs, turned angrily and completely forgot about the water tank placed near his anvil. Tripping, he stumbled forward and crashed into the oil tub, knocking it over. The shoe went flying, landing on a bale of hay, setting it aflame. Rising, Daegarun saw the pool of oil running towards the burning hay.

“Hagan! The oil!”

Daegarun watched in horror as the oil caught fire and spread around the shop. Hagan grabbed the sand bucket and flung it at the burning oil, but it was too late. The oil had spread to the hay bales stacked at the back of the shop.

“Daegarun, get out boy!”

Staring at the burned out shop Daegarun still felt the pang of guilt. Hagan had not beaten him or even punished him in any way. He simply required Daegarun to find a new shop and move everything that survived the fire. With one final glance at the shop, he continued down the street.

Arnath was an excellent town as far as he was concerned. It had plenty of activity, with merchants moving goods down south and other merchants bringing goods up north, plenty of taverns, inns, shopkeepers, stables, and more. “Bustling” was probably the best word for it. There was plenty to do, and as a child he found many ways to get into trouble. The town had no lack of work for him should he desire it. He could speak no ill of his foster family, Hagan, one of the towns elder blacksmiths, and his wife Lindyl. He had learned much from Hagan, more than he realized oft times.

But Arnath was not his true home. His home was up there, in the mountains, with his father. The stone called to his blood. Even though it was a place he would never live, a place he would never be welcomed, he could not stop his yearning to be there. Daegarun had made the best of being torn between two worlds. His mother, Yulianna, had been a tavern maid in the Staggering Idiot. Once a traveler, she had lacked coins for her meal one evening and ended up working off her debt serving drinks in the main room. When her debt was satisfied, she simply stayed on. No one really knew much about her other than she was very tall, broad-shouldered and not particularly attractive in a traditional sense for a human female. His father, Agnathor Ironwill, had been in town heading up a trading mission from the Copper Mountain Clan dwarves. A drinking binge had introduced his father to his mother. Their entire courtship consisted of ordering pint after pint of ale. His father stayed a short time, then left town. Later on, his mother found out that she was pregnant with Daegarun. Each month his father would come to town bringing things for Yulianna at the Inn, and each month she grew larger, eventually growing too large. Humans and elves are very similar and as a result there are many half-elves in the world. But to Daegarun’s knowledge, he was the only half-dwarf. Dwarven babies are very large, too large for human females to bear safely. Human mothers and their half-blood babies are typically lost during birth. Even as large as she was, Yulianna had died bringing him into the world. And if not for old Balinara he would have died too.

Daegarun’s birth forced his father to face a difficult choice. Even though Daegarun was a source of shame to him among his clan, Agnathor could not abandon his only son. If he took him back to the clanhold the boy would be utterly shunned by the close-minded dwarves. His only other option was to give his son over to a foster family. Agnathor chose the latter. Hagan the blacksmith and his wife Lindyl, two of Agnathor’s few friends in town, had just lost their only child during childbirth. They seemed the perfect choice. Hagan and Lindyl, though grieving still, quickly agreed knowing what the boy would face in the clanhold. Thereafter, Agnathor came down with every trading mission to spend time with his son to teach him the ways of his dwarven heritage. Agnathor was a master craftsman and passed on many crafting techniques to Daegarun, and to Hagan also, perhaps as a way of compensating him for raising the boy.

Daegarun grew quickly, much faster than the human children around him. He reached his full height of four inches above five feet at the age of six. That’s when he began to grow sideways. His shoulders broadened and his arms thickened, becoming heavy with muscle. He had many difficulties with his growth and proved to be a very awkward youth. The other boys made fun of him, until he took to pounding them into the ground with every joke or perceived insult. He quickly developed quite the reputation for being irascible and prone to violence. The other boys eventually just left him alone.

That was until Orlen moved to town. Orlen had just lost his father to a Kintari raid on their family farm. Unable to maintain it with just little Orlen, his mother had sold the farm and moved into town to work as a seamstress for Larken, the tailor in the town square.

At nearly seven feet, Orlen was as tall and thin as Daegarun was short and wide, but Orlen had an easy-going way about him that seemed to temper Daegarun’s outbursts. His pale skin, lack of facial hair and the straw-colored mop that passed for hair put him in even more a curious opposition to Daegarun. Of a similar age, they became fast friends, soon becoming inseparable. Happy that his son had finally found a place in the human world, Agnathor decided to teach the both of them the use of arms. While Daegarun favored either the axe or his paired falchions, Orlen quickly proved superbly uncoordinated no matter what weapon he chose. His frail frame prevented him from even using heavier weapons like axes or pole arms. However, he had a quick eye and took to the crossbow, showing some natural talent. Soon he was never without it slung across his back.

Still, Daegarun longed to be with his father up in Copper Mountain. The peaks called to him and the stones sang to him in his sleep. But, as a half-blood, he knew he would never be welcomed into the clan.

Daegarun shook off his revelry and focused on his goal, the Inn of the Staggering Idiot. He had been living there for the past six months, working to keep the peace for Gurzin, the mousy little innkeeper. Arnath was the northern trading center and the Staggering Idiot was the largest inn available. Gurzin's place was the only inn in town that stocked the strong Buklehorn Ale and Mountain Red cheese, a substance so noxious it’s rumored that only a dwarven gullet can digest it. These two items made the Idiot immensely popular with the dwarven merchants from Copper Mountain. And where there are dwarves, there is drinking. Lots of it. And where there are dwarves drinking, there is brawling. And lots of that too. That was one unfortunate stereotype about dwarves that was all too true. Every evening Daegarun spent his time breaking up fights and carrying unconscious dwarves to their rooms. Every morning he and Orlen spent their time repairing tables and chairs as best they could to be ready for the next evening.

He couldn’t complain, though. The work was not really difficult and it left him the entire afternoon until dusk to do as he pleased. Plus, not only was the pay decent, he got free room and board. Not that he really needed it since he could always bed down at Hagan’s shop.

Daegarun walked through the front door of the inn. The numerous smells from the kitchen assaulted him immediately. One smell in particular caused his nose hairs to curl. As it escaped to the outside world through the open door it caused the horses outside to whinny in discomfort. He closed the door and walked over to Orlen who was finishing up repairing a broken chair leg. He had a cloth wrapped around his mouth and nose.

“Hmmm…roasted goat with melted Mountain Red. Must be a large dwarven caravan down from the mountains with big money if old Gurzin is willing to cook up a batch of red cheese sauce. The smell alone will keep the townsfolk out of the inn all evening and panic all the horses in the stable next door.”

“Yep, you got it. Your father is here with the clan’s War Master, Marnagan Rockfist. It’s more than just a trade deal I’m sure. The group’s taken every room in the inn, plus all those at the Wooden Horse across the street. We’ll just be for show tonight since the clan chief brought his own guards along. So we’ll listen in and see what opportunities might leap our way.”