The Dwarven Sorcerer

The Dwarven Sorcerer Ch 1

                                                                                   Chapter One

In dark caves deep in the heart of the Shield Mountains, dwarves waited to deal out death. The heavily armoured warriors carried no lanterns or torches relying on their innate ability to see in absolute blackness. The Thenges, dwarven militia, were a motley throng of warriors each one with his own unique armour and weapon: hammers, axes, and even a few swords hung loosely in calloused hands. They waited for an unseen enemy. Gorn spat on the ground and grunted in frustration, the old dwarf was growing impatient.

"It's the waitin' I hate," said Old Garn, breaking the thick silence. He was one of the oldest Thenges in the dwarven kingdom. "I just want the killin' to start."

Thrack Durimsson nodded in agreement. "Aye," he said, clenching his war hammer tight, the sensation of the leather gauntlet creaking on the handle and flowed through his arm; his scale-mail jingled as he shifted his broad shoulders. His thick, unbraided, black-beard hung nearly to his waist.

The old dwarf looked at Thrack. "Dunnot fear laddie, I reckon you'll live through this one yet — if you got the stones for it that is." He gestured towards the dark tunnels with his double-headed axe. "They ain't nothing but a bunch of bloody goblins; easy killin'."

Old Garn's chainmail was older than Thrack's granddad but it was still as strong as the day it was made — there ain't nothing like dwarven steel. Garn rested his axe casually over his shoulder; it was sharp enough to shave with and hard enough to split through the strongest armour yet it showed no damage even after hundreds of battles. In spite of his age, the old white-bearded dwarf had immense strength and skill in battle. He could fight as well as any dwarven soldier half his age. Thrack had fought beside him for over three years and learned to trust him with his life. He was an oddity in the Thenges; when dwarves were drafted into the militia, they had to serve for five years, many stayed on for a few more years before discharging or continuing their career with the Huskarls, professional full-time soldiers, but Garn had been in for nearly fifty years. The decades of battle was evident on his heavily scarred body and missing fingers. His long intricately braided beard ended with several gold warrior-rings, hard-earned badges of honour.

"Just eager to get started is all. I got a terrible thirst for some ale," said Thrack, adjusting his horned half-helm with his free hand, pushing it back on his head to improve his vision. "I'd rather be drinkin' than fightin'. And don't you be worrying about me stones, grandpa, they're plenty big enough."

"Bah," barked Old Garn. He smiled widely, displaying the few remaining brown stumps he claimed were teeth. "Laddie, this 'grandpa' can still learn you a bloody thing or two about fightin'"

"We'll see if you can keep up with me," said Thrack. "You're getting a little slow in your old age."

"You're bloody lucky, you know," said Garn.

"Aye? How do you reckon?"

"You lot ain't had to fight nothing really dangerous. Goblins these days ain't as big as they were when I was a wee lad like you."

"Aye? Is that a fact?" asked Thrack.

"Aye," he continued. "And bloody tall. We calls them trolls now. I don't know what these bloody things are." He gestured to the unseen horde. "They look like babbies to me."

"When you die, can I have your armour?" asked Thrack. "Some dwarves like to collect antiques. Might be worth a few half-pennies."

"Bah," laughed Garn.