Borian's Story - Prelude

[jdeschen]

Borian Stonebow of the Ironstars sits by a fountain beside the Temple of Lathander. It is a quiet place, and one to which he is drawn when he needs time with his thoughts. The evening sky colors the water with crimson and azure, and the smells and sounds from the marketplace are carried northward to him on the breeze. Borian peers into the placid pool, and marvels at the grey that is creeping into the hair upon his temples, and at the lines of care that are already forming near his eyes. The folks of the Dale never notice, though; they only see the scars upon his cheeks, which is just as well. He dips his fingers into the water, and watches his ripple-warped reflection dance in the light of a land far from his home. In the mirror of the uneasy water, he is young again, the child that he was five years ago, and five and five and five, for it takes longer to take a man’s age than the instant it takes to make him old. Borian looks into his young face, and remembers.

The wind that parted the autumn air smelled of ripening apples, and where it touched the fallen leaves, there grew a multicolored maelstrom of seasonal rebirth. Sunlight danced upon the morning dewdrops, and they looked to young Borian like a million scattered diamonds, with the Morninglord himself playing the world’s philanthropist. His father’s eyes held the light as well, and Borian saw his face soften for a moment before the clouds shrouded Daggerdale once again.

Though still a child (and one inclined to action rather than deep thought) Borian knew that his father felt responsible for the goblin spear that took the tongue of his only son. It was foolish, of course; Yurien Stonebow was but a miner, and still he fought bravely against the foes that stalked the edges of the Desertsmouth Range. Mostly, it was that his father remembered the days when miners sang to Dumathoin in the Mines of Tethyamar. Those days were glorious, perhaps, but those days were gone, and Borian knew little of them; Tethyamar had fallen years before Borian’s birth. His father called the life they lived now barbarous, and lawless. Desert ore was good ore, though, and Borian hoped that his father would come around, knowing that he would not.

“Borian,” said his father, “come here, lad.”

“Yaah, faah?” asked Borian, and regretted his attempt at speech as he always did when he saw the pain in Yurien’s face, and listened to the rattle of breath in the old miner’s lungs.

“The night spawn who took the Mines mean to have us dead, son, but you know that. You’ve even seen the dragons that circle in the sky, and the…fallen…who attack those of us who remain.”

Borian sighed, for his father spoke true. Many and many times had goblins—and worse—comes out of the Mines to lay waste to what remained of his people. Devils and demons he had seen, and yes, vampires as well, some bearing the faces of dwarves he knew in life. The number of the Stonebow Clan dwindled each fortnight. What, though, did his father hope to accomplish by stating the obvious?

Yurien pulled a ring of iron from his hand, and rolled the band between his fingers to examine it in the soft, grey glow of the day. Rolling the ring was his habit when in thought, and Borian knew the ring as well as he knew the man; it was the ring of his family and his clan. The symbol upon the ring—a maul and a hammer crossed, both formed from the gray stone of the Mines, each studded with rubies like fire—stood above the words that his father had taught him since birth: “From Dumathoin’s earth do we make war; For Dumathoin’s earth do we make war; To Dumathoin’s earth shall we return”. It was the sigil of his family, and in the legends of his father, had been displayed among the ranks of those who mined the fallen mountain. At last, the old dwarf spoke, shaking Borian from his reverie.

“There is no kind way to speak, Borian, and it is not our way to coat the truth with sweetness. The next strike against our clan departed from Tethyamar in the night, and against that assault, all will be lost.” Borian nodded slightly, stroked his lengthening beard in consideration, and shrugged, laying his hand on his hammer. It was simple, then; young and old would die in the fight, but that was the way of war. His father spoke on, though.

“I have spoken to the greybeards and your mother. The evil in the Mines – devils, demons, and the vampiric trash – knows each of us who remain alive by name.” A pause, and a tired sigh. “Each of us save you, Borian, for you were left for dead by fleeing goblins, a child pinned to a wall with a spear through his face. You will not be missed when they count bodies. You will leave now, and be spared.”

Borian spit upon the earth in indignation, and wrote furiously in the dirt with his finger. A sharp backhand from his father halted his protest, though, and when he looked up at Yurien for the last time, it was through tears. He was still schooling his face to stillness when his father pushed the Ring of Clan Stonebow into his hand and bellowed at him:

“Borian!” his father thundered. “You may die in battle if it will save you Clan. You may die to defend the weak. You may die for your god, for your glory, or in pursuit of gold. But you will NOT die for nothing!

“Now....as your father, as your elder, and as your...” Yurien trailed off. “As your father, then, who loves you, I say this: Go now. Go into the world away from this doomed place. Learn to be a warrior. Learn to fight, to think, and to live from all who would teach you. Then, when you are ready, and only then...

“Return to this place, return to the Mines of Tethyamar, and cleanse it in the name of Dumathoin and in the name of yourself.

“Go now, with only what you can carry, for the rest of us bear arms to protect your flight.”

The waters of the pool clear, and Borian is old again. The grey is back in his hair, and the lines have lengthened upon his eyes. The sun has set long since, and the constellations dance their eerie ballet across the sky. The morrow holds more for the dwarf; perhaps his death, perhaps another day down the path to his goal. Tieflings and goblins near Dagger Falls are a bad omen, and Myrilis, who lives as one who cannot have known death, stays his bow to parley. The road ahead is long indeed.

Myrilis will be back soon, and perhaps the two of them can hunt more ants. It is laborious work, and dull, but Borian knows that he needs the armor. Perhaps someday Arien, the teacher who he holds dear and balks with each fall of his hammer, can be made to see that he does not need the hunt for the armor, but rather, that he needs the armor for the hunt.