The Forgotten Priests

by Ket Onwall

Looking out across the plains, the dwarf sighs and douses the fire. His time has come. He has been called. As his fathers before him had been called, and their fathers before them, and their fathers before that for time immemorial. Gathering his meagre belongings, he begins his descent from the Lortmils into the flat country called Ulek.

Always it is the same, this. A dream. Never failing to appear each night, never changing, never able to forget about it or pass it off as coincidence. Always it is the same. For the first few nights waking in a cold sweat; fearful that some unseen enemy hides within the safety of his walls in the undermountain, ready to take the life from within him. After a time, the dreams are as welcome to him as is the light of the day. He remembers.

He knows his time comes close, and most importantly, he knows his true name. He is Hilgo, son of Malgin Heartfinder, slayer of the Blue; son of Galdik Cloudrider singer of the warsong; son of Kurpitle Bladeforger, Honorman of the Lord, Bane of the Black; heir of Tifton Underking, known as Warrager before his service to the Lord; and so on for thousands of generations that are his heritage.

Never before this time has he traveled outside the boundaries or the familiar peaks of the lower Lortmils. Never before, yet the way is as clear and known as the tunnels beneath his home. Never before has he seen the valley, the river Kewl or the city Tringlee. But, for countless generations, he has traveled this very same path. Sure, some things have changed. The Silverwood is a bit smaller.

Where stands Tringlee and Jurnre used to be naught but trading posts. Before that, no towns at all. Before that, no Flan or Demi-human tribes. Before that, not even he can say with certainty, although deep within him he is sure the knowledge lies buried. He can feel the stirring call of Him who he calls Lord. He can feel the warsong as it was sung by his forefathers. He can feel the wind upon his face as he races through the sky on his way to his time.

For a sennight he travels. Always alone, never stopping save to sleep or eat; perchance to admire some natural beauty that only the eye of one who has known sorrow and suffering can admire: A butterfly, a flower, a doe and her calf. Things that only one who has seen a land without such marvels can enjoy.

His arrival is uneventful. This town will never know it was he who was here. They will never know the import they have played in this, for his passing is in the darkness of the night. Seeking the Temple of his Lord’s manifestation on this Oerth, he enters quietly. Doors are locked and bolted from within, but the centuries have taught him well. No mere lock shall stand between him and his goal.

Always it is the same, this. An idol to his Lord or a manifestation of him . Sometimes it is in a shrine, hidden deep somewhere unseen; sometimes it is in a wide open spot for all to unknowingly admire; once it was with a small idol in the home of a poor beggar. It does not matter. It does not belong to them. It is for he alone to hold and use as was properly meant. Others are mere watchers awaiting his arrival.

Removing the small item from its resting place, he examines it. A small dagger, ornate and intricate, used probably in the ritual rites of passage between boyhood and manhood. That was most always the case. Unsuspecting were they that held it, for it is unremarkable save for the carving. But that, in itself, was what makes it remarkable. Tucking the blade away, he slips quietly back into the shadows of the night to await his mount.

He does not need to wait long. The stars and Celene, bright in the clear sky, are blocked by the sudden appearance of a monstrous shadow. It was as always, this. The pact that had been forged in the dawn of Oerth. His steed, like him, had only this recent past been called. He, too, now knew his name: Azor’alq. Mountainwind to the dwarf.

Silent greetings accompany the reunion. No words are spoken. None are needed, as both know what is to follow. Always it is the same, this. For thousands of generations the two guardians have withstood the Opening. For thousands of generations, the Blood Pact between the dwarven Clan of Wyrmsbane and the winged ones of Azor’alq has stood. Unknown to all but the sole blood-heirs of the two nations. Only one would be chosen from each clan, by their Lord. Only one would pass, unseen, unheard, and unremembered. On the end, none would remember either of the two. None save those present at the Opening, that is.

Thus it has always been, this. Two dissimilar creatures, joined by an unasked-for fate. Accepting what is to be theirs without question, hesitation or reservation. If the call were ignored, well, that was unthinkable, so that is something they do not dwell upon. Still, the fear comes at the thought of failure. None before had failed. They are one with all of them, so there is no reason to believe that they are any different. Still, what if? Surely those at the Opening had learned from the past. Surely they would be prepared. Bile rises in the dwarf’s mouth, but he grits his teeth. His face remains a stone of non-emotion.

The two sail over the Flanaess, heading west, towards the mountains called Barrier Peaks, Crystalmist and Ulsprue. Aided by their Lord, they traverse in an hour what would normally take days. Their destination will be seen shortly.

Thus it has always been, this. Two against the horde. For the rules had been set before the blood of Oerth existed. Only two were to defend. Those that sought the Opening were bound by no such rule of measure. They assembled all that could muster. Their’s was a rule of desire. Should the desire to commit the Opening be stronger than the desire to keep it shut, the defenders must fall. Thus it had always been, this. The Lords of Good, confident in the champions they had chosen. Those that sought the Opening, sure that the desire of all would overmatch the desire of the few.

Voices from afar were raised in anger. Anger not at some unjust deed, but anger at the entrapment of the Mother. For all time eternal she had been bound to her home. Never had she been able to taste the fruits of the Oerth. She could only send her children. She could only sample the fruits of this plane though them, and that was tainted at best. Voices cried out in the fury of the calling, seeking the opening of the Tovag Baragu. The opening that would let the Mother free to roam Oerth as she did the first plane of what was called Hell.

Cresting the last peak of the Ulsprue, the two defenders, dwarf and Gold dragon, see what they had already heard and known would be there. A legion of evil Wyrms, hundreds strong, gathered on the Dry Steppes. Gathered to raise angry voices at the banishment of their Mother, Tiamat. At sight of the two, the anger turns to hunger. Hunger at the thought of victory. Hunger at succeeding where the countless generations had failed.

To the ground the defenders soar. Thus were the rules. Run the gauntlet and succeed. Or fail, if that be the case. The tulmutuous roar from the horde shatters eardrums, causing dwarf and dragon alike to go deaf. Breath weapons are unleashed. The two are caught in the crossfire of acid, lightning, gas, fire and ice. The first wave of attack causes the champions to crash into the earth. The cry of victory rises from those surrounding them. Voices rise in anger to continue the Opening.

The dwarf howls a warsong, reaching deep within his soul to call up the blood of ancients. The Gold is nearly spent. His hide shows naught but muscle and bone in places, blackened scales in others. But he hears the song and he answers. Staggering to his age old comrade, the dwarf clambers back onto the dragon’s back. The Gold, in a cry of rage and pain, vaults into the air.

Directly for the Tovag Baragu the two defenders aim.

Again the cry of rage and lust erupts from the horde. Almost as one, they turn their attentions to the two insignificant specks. This time shall be different. This time, Mother shall be allowed to come home. Fire and Ice, Gas and Lightning are again unleashed. Again, the defenders are engulfed in pain. Searing acid eats away flesh. Shards of ice rip away flesh and muscle, but the cry of the bloodsong drives them on.

Crashing through the horde, the defenders, battered, weakened and dying stumble to the Tovag. Such are the rules. Once within the confines of the Tovag, the horde cannot pursue. But Good’s time is nigh. They are unable to continue, and fall prone in front of the Opening.

Swirling mist, fire and rain are seen through the veil. A chorus of expectation rises within the horde, as they continue their cries of anger. They have won. Gold and dwarf lie before the gate, as offerings to the Mother on the cusp of her arrival.

The dwarf, alive still, sees the body of his comrade near. Eyes meet, and a single tear is seen in the eye of the Gold as He claims His child. They have failed. He is not strong enough without the Gold. The Mother is the mother of all evil Wyrms. How can one such as he stand before her? They have failed, as he had feared. None would remember. None would carry the torch. The saga ends here.

Slowly, first a slight tremble, then a quake. Stone splits asunder, exploding out as She gains first entrance to Oerth. For time immemorial she has waited for the day when she and her children would be reunited. To see Him finally fail was victory enough for her.

Looking to the gate, the dwarf knows fear. First one, then two, three, four and five Wyrm’s heads begin to pass through the gate. Mother is coming. Mother is here. The cries change from rage to excitement and jubilation. At last! Victory is here!

The dwarf knows fear. And rage. And despair. His comrade cannot pass in vain. Staggering weakly, he advances toward the Mother. She is crying out in exultation at victory, glancing wildly about at her children. The insignificant dwarf is of no consequence to her. She is home. She will not be denied!

But the horde fears otherwise. Cries go up to slay the dwarf, but the rules don’t allow. The dwarf stumbles and staggers, barely alive, bones and flesh dangling as he hobbles toward the Mother.

Looking down upon him, the Mother brings all heads to bear. The dwarf, eye missing, jaw twisted and broken, body bloodied, flesh fallen off in pieces and chunks, waits for his time. The Mother raises all of her heads high, howling in triumph at He who had denied her for so long. This time was now hers. Bringing her heads down, she snaps the body of the dwarf in half; only to snap at air. He is gone!

A searing pain runs through her heart, and the Mother staggers back, howling in agony and pain. In her moment of triumph, at the crux of success, she has failed. In her vain, she allowed the Dwarf access to her precious underbelly, and he has taken advantage. Driving the dagger to the hilt, it pierces her heart. More than that, the dagger has begun to change.

Such was the nature of the rules. Only two defenders against a horde. Theirs was the task to bear Him to battle. He who had denied Tiamat access for time immemorial. The blade shimmers and grows to a mighty tail, as Bahamut, Lord of all Good Wyrms, Bane of Evil, He Who Chooses The Defenders of the Gate, makes his presence known.

The Mother has failed again. Slain on this plane, she is again thrust into Hell. Her cries echo throughout Oerth as a wind whistling in the night. With her, her children are drawn to her bosom. She shall not suffer this fate alone. Her children have failed her, and so must pay. Such was the price as set forth by the rules eons ago.

Evil spreads its wings with rapidity upon the Oerth, while those of Good watch with a wary eye. Ever present, though not always seen, the masters of Azor’alq and the Clan of Wyrmsbane stand ready to defy the children of Tiamat from breeching the way into this plane. The Balance must stay even. Such are the rules as set forth from time immemorial. The Father and Mother of Oerth Dragons are on even ground, until the Mother again lays claim to the Opening.

Gathering up his children, Bahamut is gone. All is as it was. Lightning flashes across the sky, signaling the coming storm. Upon the ground a knife. Unremarkable, save the intricate runes carved along its length.