The+Champion

//"It offends me that I have to speak up for these sellswords, particularly the Orcs, Keeper take them. But they are of the Holds, and even the Jhorash'tar are my responsibility. If you hadn't taken that accursed axe off their champion outside Sterngate, would either of us be here today?"// **~ Ambassador Brunhild Mroranon,** to Golandar Kolkarun, 6 Eyre 998 YK

Golandar, 6 Eyre 998 YK:
The parley had not gone well, as planned.

New Cyre -- a town of low, brightly-painted buildings at the edge of the Seawall Mountain foothills -- was in sight. One of the Orc scouts had come so close to the walls that she "could smell the wet mortar and fresh-cut wood." The Swords of Liberty forces had feasted on Vadalis-bred livestock last night, and roared approval when their leader, the Red Owl, reminded them of Cyran atrocities from the Last War and told them these few thousand Cyran refugees were stealing their Brelish farms and bedding their sturdy Brelish women. Many of the gathered troops waved parchment broadsheets as they cheered. After that she had adjourned to her tent with her "consort," the traitor Dover d'Vadalis.

To their credit, the Mror mercenaries -- even the Clan Jhorash'tar Orcs -- paid little heed to the rousing speech, focusing instead on the battle ahead.

That the Cyrans would want to talk peace now was a joke. Rock Silverbreath -- birth name Rokar Droranath -- knew the Red Owl had no reason to want peace, and every reason to slaughter "Governor" Oargev's lackeys, as they included dangerous and powerful individuals who would lead New Cyre's defense in just a few hours' time.

The morning sun had crested the mountain tops to the east. There were wisps of ground fog all around, obscuring both Rock's entourage of axe-bearing Dwarf berserkers and the Cyrans who had come to talk terms. Oddly, it was still dark overhead, with most all of Eberron's moons looking exactly as they had the night before.

Thirty feet away stood one of Oargev's lackeys: Golandar Kolkarun, who wielded the //Khazad-Spike//, an Urgrosh and one of the legendary items crafted by the Dwarf clans centuries ago. No, the parley had failed, and now there'd be a fight. Rock grinned as he drew forth //Beardcutter//, Clan Droranath's legacy weapon. In his right hand the brutal-looking Greataxe pulsed with power, and he could hear its whispered words.

//Of all those who have wielded me -- barbarians, thugs, kinslayers -- you are the smartest. You are great. I am great. I have beaten the// //Kolkaruns and their// Khazad-Spike //before...keep your wits about you, and we will beat this fool.//

"Och, Golandar, I am sorry that we've come ta this," Rock said, gesturing with his free hand, copper rings glittering in the light of sun and moons. Golandar glared, and started to twirl his weapon in the classic Urgrosh defense posture as Rock continued. "Ye could still join me, lad. No need fer ye ta die defendin' Cyrans. Ye'll ride beside me as we finish tha job tha Mourning started. Join yer weapon ta mine, Droranath an' Kolkarun, an' we will be mighty among the Clans-"

//He comes! Guard yourself!!//

Golandar's charge nearly caught Rock unaware. The silvered Urgrosh axeblade swung low, leaving a long crease across the armor plating protecting Rock's left thigh. Rock stepped back, gripping his axe with both hands and raising it quickly; //Beardcutter// caught the //Khazad-Spike's// cold iron spike end between blade and haft, and Rock levered the other weapon down, almost twisting it out of Golandar's hands. For a moment the two Dwarves were face-to-face. At the edge of his vision Rock could see the copper rings on Golandar's right hand.

"Ye're Aurum, lad, jus' like me," Rock said as the two disengaged and started circling. "We both work fer tha same woman, ye know. Killing ye now will no make 'er happy."

Golandar snarled and attacked -- axe low, spike high...a feint! Golandar stepped left and slammed the axe into Rock's breastplate, denting it inward. The Droranath champion grunted from the impact, then spun and brought //Beardcutter// down in a vicious overhead chop that the Kolkarun champion barely avoided by leaping backwards.

Somewhere nearby, other battles were underway -- hazy, indistinct glimpses under the harsh moonslight, brighter than the weak sun: A Goblin on a Dire Wolf; a Half-Orc fading into a stand of trees; a Traitor riding a Gryphon and an Excoriate rising to meet him, hands flashing with arcane power. None of that mattered. Rock drew upon his true power, and settled into a defensive stance, blocking Golandar's next series of strikes, until the spike punched a small hole in the plating over Rock's right shoulder, drawing first blood. The sharp pain was nothing compared to the winter chill rising from the center of his being; the blood welling up under his armor froze on his skin, closing the wound. Rock laughed, then took in a huge breath....

Some instinct must have warned Golandar -- he rolled to his left just as Rock opened his mouth WIDE and blasted out a cone of winter cold worse than a Frostfell blizzard. Even though he missed the worst of his Dragon Disciple gift, rime and ice caked Golandar's armor and the //Khazad-Spike//. As he fell to one knee, his scream of anguish was music to Rock's ears.

"Did ye never...wonder why I'm called...Silverbreath, fool?" Rock taunted as he closed the distance, working his jaw back and forth with audible clicks. "Me mentor was someone else ye've met...Wunsingrygge, from Argonessen."

Rock charged, swinging the Greataxe in a brutal arc. Golandar struggled to raise his weapon, to stand, //something//...but was too slow. Rock felt //Beardcutter// pulse with power as it sliced across Golandar's arm and upper chest, cutting through mithral, boiled leather, skin, fat and muscle. As Golandar's blood flowed, several tufts of his beard, braided through a copper ring, fell to the muddy ground.

//Dwarfbane!// crowed the Greataxe, this time loud enough for both to hear. Rock moved in with confidence. "Fer tha Aurum, fer tha Chamber, fer Clan Droranath -- time ta die, lad."

Rock raised //Beardcutter// high with both hands...but somehow Golandar was up. A glint of silver, a shriek of metal on metal, then shock. Rock still clutched //Beardcutter// with his right hand, its power still pulsing into him, but he could feel his arm dropping. His left arm he couldn't feel at all. Rock looked down, saw the cold-iron spike end of Golandar's weapon. His eyes traced along the //Khazad-Spike's// shaft, past Golandar's copper-ringed fingers, until he could no longer move his eyes or turn his head to see the silvery axe blade embedded deep in his own chest. "Oh," Rock said softly as a sudden cold descended on him -- colder than his icy breath. Colder than anything. So cold --

"AAAUUUGGGHHH!"

Golandar's eyes shot open, and his entire body convulsed in the bed. Head aching and heart pounding, he tossed aside the blanket and looked desperately around. A room with wooden walls and ceiling, filled with Cyran furniture...//recovered from the Mournland//, someone had told him. A closed door to his right, gray daylight streaming from a wide window to his left...and next to the window, standing in front of a tall armoire with the doors open but now looking at him with alarm, was a middle-aged Dwarf woman, naked except for the silver rings on the fingers of both hands.

He glanced down. The blanket had been covering his own nakedness. "Oh," he said softly as sudden heat touched his cheeks and he blushed, grabbing the blanket to cover himself.

A few weeks back, Golandar had awakened at an inn with a terrible hangover, naked and lying next to a dead Half-Orc prostitute, apparently stabbed with the spike end of his own weapon. This was worse.

"Golie, my sweet, did you have a bad dream?" asked the Dwarf woman. Golandar blinked and remembered. Brunhild Mroranon...Ambassador to Breland. Wealthy. Powerful. Silver.

Behind her in the armoire, he could see //Beardcutter//, casually leaning against the side as if it were a walking stick and not a brutal weapon forged by Dwarves to kill other Dwarves. Instinctively Golandar reached for his own weapon, but the //Khazad-Spike// lay in the opposite corner of the small suite, atop the pile he'd made of his clothes and armor.

He laid back down. "Yeah, dream," he grumbled. Something had happened at the very end of the dream. Golandar tried to remember, even as Brunhild kept talking.

"Do you know how much House Orien charged to teleport me here? Outrageous. And all because Oargev renounced his claim and bent a knee to Regent Kor. 'Governor.' We didn't know a deal was being made until it was done! The Aurum is not used to not knowing. Naturally, as soon as the Prince-in-Waiting was no longer Prince, all of Khorvaire pulled their ambassadors."

"Not all," Golandar said, catching only the last part. "The Hobgoblin--"

"Don't get me started on him," she replied, turning to face him, hands on hips. She still had not reached for any clothes from the armoire; to be sure, Brunhild did not look like a woman three times his age, and Golandar blushed again as he felt himself stirring.

She quirked one eyebrow as she continued, "I have to pay my respects to Ambassador Ka'vanau this morning. I'll need you with me. He likes to share war stories. If not for this secret arrangement between Oargev, Boranel and Haruuc, I'm sure he'd be back in Darguun, tending his crops. He was the go-between; and our Ambassador here, Dolfo Soldorak, should've known. He was Copper Concord, like Norrin, like Rokar...like you. All recruited by me. Now you're all that's left."

"Never met this...Dolfo. Is he dead?"

"You never met. Just one of Dolfo's many failures. When you were last in New Cyre -- a stalwart of Clan Kolkarun, bound for Sharn to join my personal guard -- Dolfo should have sought you out, invited you into his home. Instead, he was in the hills with a work crew looking at the ruins those Goblin outlaws had used as their base and way into Breland. 'It was a Soldorak outpost,' he told me. As if that mattered. He represented the Iron Council here, not Clan Soldorak."

"A Dwarf ruin this far south is an important find, right?" Golandar had managed to sit up and collect the bedclothes around his waist and hips. His chin itched near where Rock had cut part of his beard. He'd rebraided it but it still felt uneven.

"It was never lost, just abandoned -- by the Soldoraks, centuries ago. Dolfo knew this, and I suspect he sold its location and layout to whoever was behind these so-called Dark Hands, since we learned that ruin connects to other tunnels and caverns, through the mountains to Darguun. Now that we're talking about it...bet Dolfo first sold the hold's location to Goblin smugglers...the so-called 'Worgs' who sometimes bring Cyran slaves through the mountains." Her voice rose. "Meaning that fat orange bastard probably knows all of this!"

Brunhild held out both hands, clenching her fists until the knuckles cracked, then relaxed. "Making money is one thing. The Aurum likes those who see profit where others see ruins. But Dolfo didn't tell anyone, nor did I get my cut."

"Was that his crime, then?"

"That's not enough? But no, there's more. When Oargev was named Governor, the Council would have been able to recall Dolfo without drawing attention to his role in Goblin raids that caused Cyran deaths. Except he abandoned his post first. Just showed up at Soldorakhold last month as if nothing had happened. Dolfo was always upset that he'd been assigned to New Cyre alone. But...once the full extent of his involvement is known, The Aurum will disown him. If he's lucky he'll spend the rest of his days in Dreadhold prison." She paused to take a deep breath, heavy breasts rising and falling. "My point is, he should have been here to deal with these Host-forsaken sellswords you brought in yesterday."

Golandar grunted at that. As soon as the fighting in and around New Cyre had ended, and the floating fortress Dejarn had dropped anchor outside town, the search had begun for escapees and fugitives from the Swords of Liberty and the mercenaries that had joined them. Many were caught fleeing along the three Orien trade routes leading out of town. Others had gone to ground in abandoned or looted farmhouses, or run to the foothills. But with Dejarn able to deploy flying craft made of soarwood, most were spotted quickly, captured and moved to makeshift camps in the nearby salt mines. The largest group had been roughly fifty strong, a mix of Jhorash'tar Orcs and Droranath Dwarves who'd been under Rock's command. When they disappeared into a narrow, deep box canyon, a reinforced Cyran-Brelish patrol had been deployed, led by Golandar, Thomas the Aundairian Wizard, the Dark Lantern Ariel, a House Deneith officer, and the Goblin, Choraan. The fugitives' camp was well-defended, but the patrol kept them from leaving as Golandar and the Deneith, called Nomad, had negotiated their surrender. Fortunately, all Golandar had to do was brandish //Beardcutter// and bellow that he'd killed both Rock Silverbreath and the Orc champion who had wielded it back in Marguul Pass two months before. The rest was Nomad, assuring them that even their forged and expired Blademarks charters would be honored by House Deneith, so they would receive all the rights given captured mercenary soldiers in time of war.

In the end, there had been no combat; sixteen Dwarves and nineteen Orcs had surrendered, including the Droranath commander before Rock had assumed control, and the Orc Druid Orpik. Another eleven bodies had been found in the camp; at some point the natural enmity between Droranath and Jhorash'tar must have boiled over. //Odd that Choraan hadn't mentioned hearing fighting when he came back from scouting, his Dire Wolf limping from a poisoned crossbow bolt//. Still, it was an important win, and the sight of the captives marching through New Cyre to Dejarn under guard had been one of the first things Brunhild had seen after teleporting in from Wroat.

Brunhild interrupted his thoughts. "So tell me something I don't know. I'm down to one Copper asset -- prove that you're worth Norrin's rings." She still hadn't taken anything from the armoire, but faced him, arms akimbo. "What about the Vadalis enclave, PrairieHearth?"

"I was in the group that investigated the grounds and manor house. We rescued several people left behind by the Swords of Liberty, from drugged sleep. A Dark Lantern, and...um, some others."

"Go on."

Golandar could feel himself blush. This was not a story he wanted to share. "The traitor, Dover d'Vadalis, let the attackers steal all the horses and livestock, but left dangerous animals behind as living traps. Drakes infested the upper levels, easy enough. But when we searched the basement, there were...um, shocker lizards. I saw one, went to attack it...but, um, there were others hiding. Their lightning...killed two of the ones we'd just rescued. They were still weak from their time in captivity, I guess."

"The nephew of the traitor, and a Tharashk bounty hunter hired by Oargev. Both 'marked."

"Yes."

Brunild sighed. "You can't blame yourself for their deaths. You weren't alone in that house. But House Tharashk sent me a note demanding a full account of how one of my people helped cause the death of one of theirs. I expect they'll settle for a modest compensation. Bounty hunting is dangerous work, and they are angrier with Vadalis for abducting him in the first place. As for House Vadalis, they of course already have investigators combing PrairieHearth for evidence. I'll have to make you available to answer questions about what you saw there."

"Of...of course. It was terrible. So many crows feasting on dead animals. And the smell...." Golandar shuddered at the memory.

"Despite the treachery of one scion, Vadalis is going to blame Breland for the damage to their enclave and the loss of so many irreplaceable creatures. There will be a claim made to the Thronehold Court."

"But Breland didn't control the Swords of Liberty. They hate the Brelish crown, and were declared outlaws well before the battle."

"Doesn't matter. Brelish citizens stole House assets worth..." Golandar saw her eyes nearly close and her lips move. It was a look she'd had when they were together earlier, and a renewed arousal swept aside lingering memories of death as she reopened her eyes and finished, "...at least three hundred thousand galifars. Regent Kor may be able to settle for less, but it's another mark against him, just when his nephew Bortan is about to make his move." She looked at him, smiled and covered her breasts with her hands. Later, Golie. I have appointments, and you've yet to tell me something I don't know."

Golandar opened his mouth, then closed it. He blinked, grasped his beard with his left hand, and finally locked eyes with her. "Professor Wunsin from Morgrave University? He's a Dragon from Argonessen. Silver."

"What makes you say that? What evidence have you?"

"There's a tavern in Wroat that caters to the Morgrave crowd. Inside is this wall of dusty paintings, small portraits of old professors, deans and such. There was one that looked just like the professor we met -- a Human expert on the Dhakaani Empire -- but it had to've been 80 years old. In fact, I know it was because Thomas recognized the artist as some Elf who died during the War back in the '20s."

"That's interesting. But why a Dragon? Plenty of other creatures can appear Human yet live far longer."

"The Professor was also at the Brokenblade Council. It was odd how, among all those nobles and dignitaries, he seemed so...confident. Then of course...Rock may have said something."

Brunhild brought her hands up to the face and massaged her forehead for a moment. "Of course he did. He never grasped the //secret// part of being Wunsingrygge's secret protege."

"So you knew?"

"Oh yes. But good try, Golie. Next time I see him I'll tell him of the portrait, curry some favor. Now here's the part that'll rock your world: Your Professor Wunsin isn't the only Dragon pretending to be a humble academic. By the Six, he's not even the only //Silver// Dragon at Morgrave. I'm telling you this because I want you to trust that I know things. Things you don't think I could know. Such as the Half-Orc whore you were accused of killing."

"Wha...what?" That took care of his condition, sure enough. He shifted to sit on the side of the bed.

"How do you think you escaped prosecution in that tiny Brelish village? The honeyed words of your adventurer pals?" Brunhild scoffed. "All it took was a little coin -- surprisingly little considering she had a young child. I don't even mind that you fucked a Half-Orc whore. Gave you character, proved you weren't just about the fighting and the drinking." She reached into the armoire and finally pulled out an outfit of gray leather and blue silks on a wooden hanger. When she stepped to her right to a chest of drawers, Golandar had a better view of the Droranath Greataxe.

"What will you do about...//that//?" he asked. Brunhild glanced at the clothes, then at Golandar, then at the armoire and the weapon inside, and nodded.

"Clan Droranath kept your Clan's weapon in their vaults for nearly two centuries. Would serve them right if the Kolkaruns kept theirs for a while. But until then, I plan to carry it when I go speak to the captives on Dejarn. Seeing //Beardcutter// has already worked twice to weaken their resolve. I can use that edge. I'd bring you, but the Citadel insisted I come alone." She took some white linen smallclothes from the chest, closed the drawer, hung the outfit on the drawer knob and started dressing as Golandar watched.

When she noticed him looking, Brunhild scowled and said, "It offends me that I have to speak up for these sellswords, particularly the Orcs, Keeper take them. But they are of the Holds, and even the Jhorash'tar are my responsibility. If you hadn't taken that accursed axe off their champion outside Sterngate, would either of us be here today?"

All at once, the end of the dream flashed in Golandar's mind. As he'd taken //Beardcutter// from Rock's dead fingers, he felt its final thoughts: //Of all those who have wielded me -- barbarians, thugs, kinslayers -- Rokar Droranath was the most arrogant. A prideful fool. YOU, though...your// Khazad-Spike //is but wood, metal and weak magic. Only I can make you great, the mightiest warrior the Holds have ever known....//

//Back to **Season Four Preview**//