| For longer than he cared to remember the First Officer of the Watch had greeted the dawn in the same way. Freezing in the cold bluster high above the fortress city of Maenum he would pull his heavy fur-lined cloak about him and begin a systematic search of the windswept terrain below. From the stone battlements of the high Watch Tower, he and his fellow Dwarvendim warriors would look out over the Sanhar Wastelands, ever vigilant for a sign of their enemies. Too many times their careful search had resulted in a warning call from the large, ornate battlehorn that had been permanently affixed to the side of the watch-tower. Its low urgent tone would raise the cityfolk below to arms and always the advancing enemy would be repelled. Survival depended on it. On this windy morning however, the air was different. The expected penetrating cold of the northerly wind, blown for countless miles across the vast tundra of the wastelands, was charged with a damp mustiness. It was a cold you would expect from a crypt, not from the wastelands. It was probably just his imagination. As he turned stiffly to the East the twin suns of morning lifted slightly above the horizon. In this light the massive silhouettes of the Rift Mountains became sharp, the myriad colours of the suns rising slowly changing the sky above from ink black to a deep but lightening blue. The plains below were still obscured by darkness but the first threads of sunlight were beginning to lighten the shadows. With a few moments to spare the First Officer lent forward against the damp coldness of the battlements and peered down into the gloom of the city below. It would be a few minutes yet before the plains would be exposed enough for a proper search. In looking down at the ramshackle order of the dwellings crammed into the narrow streets of the city it was hard to think of his people, the Dwarvendim, as anything other than badly paid border guards. Their poverty and reliance on the Kalboreans was evident to any who passed this close to the frontier. It left a knot in his stomach every time he contemplated such squalor. Once, he had heard, the Dwarvendim had been proud and powerful, their ancestral home lying far to the South in what was once known as the Great Stone Kingdoms. War had changed that. A century of violence and treachery had reaved them of their nationhood and dispersed them into the lands of their new masters. The Dwarvendim had become a dispossessed people and their eventual conquerors, the Kalboreans, had not been kind. Known for their abilities as artisans of stone and for their mastery of magic and lore, the Kalboreans had exploited the Dwarvendim and by degrees their mastery of such knowledge had disappeared. So, on this particular morning, as the First Officer and his watch cast keen eyes over the wastelands, the Dwarvendim could not look upon themselves as a sovereign people, proud and powerful. They were just low-paid border guards languishing in perpetual service to their conquerors, the Kalborean Union. For generations the unchanging vision of the wastes had been a reminder of the servitude they had endured. But in the isolation of this frontier post the Dwarvendim had begun to rebuild their strength, quietly regathering the remnants of their scattered people, and with great care beginning to re-learn the meaning of pride and the power of their ancient Lore. One day they would again be strong. A sharp blast of cold wind brought the First Officer of the Watch away from his idle musing and back to the responsibility of his command. On both sides of the fortress-city the dark masses of the Rift Mountains still cast heavy shadow over the citadel's grey stonework. The plains ahead however, were struggling into the light and something had changed. He could not be sure what it was but a few minutes more would expose the whole tundra below to the full light of day. Calling the remainder of the watch to their stations a dozen pairs of eyes peered out. Apart from the wind no other movement was apparent. Like disappearing phantoms the shadows retreated from the Sanhar and a deep hush settled on the guards. Exposed now to the bright light of the dawn the vast featureless wastes were gone. The ice-dunes and stunted vegetation were now covered by the seething encampment of a Horde Army. Black as a pool of tar, the multitudes of its Host spread from the far horizon across the plain and up against the foundations of the fortress itself. Tents as numerous as trees in a forest spread in organised lines to the rear. Beasts of burden and creatures of war moved between enormous engines of destruction. Cohort upon cohort of Horde fighting units fanned out quickly across the few empty spaces left within the seething chaos of the organising army. The First Officer stood aghast, momentarily unable to turn his eyes from the horror of the nightmare unfolding before him. The Horde had come again to make war on the fertile lands of Arborell to the south. The fortress city of Maenum would be their first victim. Half running, half lunging for the battlehorn, the First Officer tried unsuccessfully to wet his dry lips before blowing a long urgent greeting to the quickly rising suns of morning. Low and ominous the note trumpeted down into the waking streets of the city, and then rang out in a series of echoes that careered through the many canyons and valleys of the nearby mountains. From somewhere within the vast army before them a trumpet call sounded out in answer. It was a call that heralded the beginning of the end of the Dwarvendim fortress. As the lone trumpeting ended a great shout arose from the multitudes below and as one the Horde army began its attack. Imprisoned deep within the main dungeon complex of the fortress, Halokim Vesh knows little of the battle raging above. Marked for death upon the edge of a Kalborean scimitar he sits in his cell preparing for what he believes will be a certain end. The untimely severing of his head he knows depends largely on whether his jailers have the opportunity to transport him to the provincial capital of Das Frontiere for execution. Its one of those things the Kalboreans enjoy doing in public, and usually in front of an enthusiastic crowd. Settling down upon his rough straw bedding he ponders the vague hope that the capital is a great distance to the south, and anyway, who knows what possibilities may present themselves? The trouble with the Kalboreans, Halokim tells himself quietly, is that they take theft far too seriously out here on the frontier. The Kalborean merchant had been a ripe target and any Dwarvendim bandit should have the right to part a Kalborean from his ill-gotten gains. Only the gods could know how much the Kalboreans had taken from the Dwarvendim over the past century. Unable to settle Halokim raises himself from his bed and sits half crouched against the cold stone of his cell wall. From the many cells that line the dim passage of this very unwelcome prison he can hear snoring, coughing and the cursing of his fellow inmates. Somewhere from the depths of the corridor outside comes the low murmur of voices, but he cannot distinguish them clearly from the sounds of water leaking down the walls and dripping into fetid pools on the floor. With nothing to do and all his thinking done Halokim Vesh slowly but surely falls into sleep. Deep sleep is elusive. Before Halokim can submit to the heavy hand of rest he is rudely shaken awake by the rougher hands of the Jailer, Mattok. "This is the one Milord." The Jailer's torch sputters just a fingers length from Halokim's forehead. His face is thrust close and it stinks of salted fish and old potatoes. "A right piece of scum is Vesh. Are you sure this Dwarvendim thief is the prisoner you seek?" Turning away the Jailer falls back and a tall, richly attired man walks forward and bends down into Halokim's face. He is dressed as a Prefect of the Kalborean LoreMages' Guild. "My good Jailer," the man replies. His manner is almost amused. "This piece of scum will be perfect." Standing behind the Prefect the Jailer unfixes a short wooden baton from the leather belt at his waist and without warning strikes a heavy blow across the side of his prisoner's face. For Halokim Vesh all the lights go out. Through a swirling mist of half dreams and pain you struggle vainly for consciousness. A throbbing ache spreads like an infection from your temple and out across your jaw. It is hard to wake even though someone is shaking you violently. "Come on you lump of filth. Rise and shine. Its time for some more talk." Out of a deep well of pain you can feel yourself floating slowly towards consciousness. The pain in your head is terrible. "Give the thief some water." Out of the darkness and fog you hear the scraping sound of a heavy bucket and then a grunt. After a seconds pause a flood of ice cold water showers over your face and shoulders. Gagging and spluttering you try to clear your mouth of the foul liquid. It tastes like sewage. More awake you try to open your eyes. A bright light fills the room, there is the sounds and feel of a damp cold wind. Even through the pain you get the impression that you have been taken to a high place, either a tower or a dwelling in the mountains. From the open stone windows of the room a chill wind howls. On the rise of each bluster you are sure you can make out the tumult of a battle raging in the distance. It is frequently punctuated by the sounds of explosions and the screams of dying warriors. All about you stand Kalborean soldiers and a number of men dressed in the official robes of the LoreMages' Guild. As you attempt to turn your head to look further about the room you realise that you have had your arms and legs strapped to a large table at its centre. Behind the men that surround the table you can also see a well muscled man with a leather mask over his face. He hangs back in the shadows, ill defined even in the bright light. In his hands he is holding an efficient looking executioner's scimitar. From somewhere in the room comes the sound of a familiar voice. It is the Prefect of the LoreMages Guild. "You must forgive the rough treatment Vesh. Sometimes it is prudent to move a prisoner without fuss. I was given the impression by the Jailer that you would not have come with us any other way." He leans closer and stares directly into your eyes. "I have a proposition for you." The web of pain that has enclosed your head has receded slightly and you try to raise it. The effort sends hammer blows of agony drilling into your temple and the back of your skull cracks back down on the hard wood of the table. You begin to lapse back into semi-consciousness. Another curt command from the Prefect sends a further bucket of putrid water showering over your face. Again the Kalborean speaks. "Halokim Vesh. We are in need of your services and desire that, for a reasonable reward, you should undertake a journey on behalf of the Kalborean Union." Through the pain haze you can hear yourself laughing. The effort clears your head enough to speak. "Milord, I am gratified to learn that I may be of assistance to the mighty Kalborean Union, but I must remind you that I am soon to be executed. Theft is taken seriously here on the frontier." The Prefect stands even closer now. He has the confidence of someone who knows he will get what he wants. "It is true that you are a thief Vesh. It is also true that you are a mercenary, an enemy of the State and only the Gods know what else. It is your current predicament that gives me some confidence you will gladly take on the task that I am about to offer." Your head is now clearer and you can look straight at the Prefect. At the same time you test the strength of the bindings that hold you. They are unbreakable. "What is it you want Kalborean." "Ah, I am so glad you asked", the Prefect's tone changes to a more conspiratorial one. "What do you know of the Tellandra?" You shrug your shoulders. You know much of the ancient histories of the Dwarvendim. Once you even studied the Old Tongue with some of the best of your peoples remaining scholars, but you don't feel obliged to make the Kalboreans job any easier. "All right. If this is how it must be." The Prefect's tone becomes harsher. "Have you ever heard of the ancient fortress known to your people as Stoneholme." "Yes I have actually. Any Dwarvendim child can tell you something about the old Stone Kingdoms, but what in all Arborell has this got to do with me?" The Prefect pulls a small highly polished dagger from his robes and plays its mirrored blade through a shaft of light. He seems slightly amused as a thousand shards of brilliance dance out from its metal and spread about the room. Then he looks back at you. His voice carries all the menace of a pit of vipers. "Vesh. The LoreMages' Guild has need of your services. It appears the Pillar of Tellandra, a most potent talisman that you would be aware resides in the depths of Stoneholme, has been broken. We need you to go and fix it." The Prefects words are staggering. The smooth stone pillar of petrified wood known as the Tellandra was once the foundation of all magical power wielded by the Dwarvendim Loremasters. Using its power the Stone Kingdoms had grown and prospered in the harsh reaches of the southerly Krodestaag Ranges. It was the Tellandra, coupled with the native stone mastery of the Dwarvendim, that had made them a powerful people. For many Dwarvendim the pillar of stonewood was the soul and heart of their nation. It was supposed to be unbreakable. In waves of understanding the import of the Prefect's words sweep over you. It had been the Kalboreans who had corrupted the potency of the Tellandra and twisted it to their own petty uses. The Dwarvendim had never recovered from the loss. From the look on his face it was clear the Prefect knew you understood. Something was not right though. "Why should I help the Kalboreans fix something they should never have tampered with in the first place?" The Kalborean replies quickly. "There are two reasons really. The first is that magic extracted from the pillar supports and strengthens the high wall and battlements that surround the city of Maenum. As the potency of the pillar diminishes with each passing day the fortifications that protect the city will become weaker. Soon enough the Horde Army will break their way in and then all your precious Dwarvendim will die." "The second reason is more immediate. If you do not agree to attempt this journey I will have you beheaded now!" With that the executioner strides forward and raises his scimitar above his head. In the full light of the day the sword shines as if it is on fire. It hangs, poised above your neck. It is possible, you surmise, that they may be serious. "All right" you say rapidly, "Seeing you asked so nicely I'll do it." In the days that follow your agreement to attempt the quest life becomes much easier. Given food and a dry place to sleep your strength returns quickly, and by the second evening after your interrogation you feel fit to travel. That night, as you are settling down to sleep, the door of your room bursts open. Through the shattered opening strides the Prefect, another LoreMage and two rather unruly looking guards. Without indulging in pleasantries the Prefect orders the guards to grab your arms. They are immensely strong and you are no match for them. Easily they pin you to the opposite wall. "It seems wise Vesh that I ensure you keep your part of the bargain. Hence this collar is to be placed around your neck. Please don't struggle, it will only expose you to possible injury." With that the other LoreMage, a scrawny looking individual, produces a thick white ring of metal from his robes and quickly affixes it around your neck. You try to struggle but only succeed in almost crushing your throat as the metal ring tightens about your neck. "The collar is unbreakable. If you do not complete your mission and restore the Pillar of Tellandra to its wholeness before Maenum falls, then the collar will tighten and slowly remove your head from your shoulders. I have been told that it is both a time consuming and painful way to die." Turning away, the Prefect motions to the guards to release you and then orders the other LoreMage to stay. "Vesh, this is Tak Lovar, a historian of the Guild. Listen well to what he has to say. It may save your miserable life." Within moments the room is empty save yourself and the historian. Tak Lovar does not seem the least concerned at being alone with you. He carefully cleans the dust from a chair and sits, all the while regarding you as if you hold no mysteries for him. His voice is high and effeminate. "Be seated Halokim. I have been directed to provide you with information on the history of Stoneholme and of the last Stone King, Morgen Orncryst the Younger. A King most commonly known to your peoples as the keeper of the Dragon Windhammer." Intrigued by the notion of hearing a Kalborean version of an old Dwarvendim folktale you make yourself more comfortable. Sitting back in his chair Tak Lovar takes his time and arranges his robes. Only when he is finished does he begin his tale. "Some two centuries before your birth the Dwarvendim Stone Kings began the construction of a vast fortress deep within the ancient granite of Devkraager Tor, the highest peak of the Krodestaag Ranges. This fortress they named Stoneholme. For many years it served the needs of the Stone Kings as a safe haven from the violence and death of the Seventh Horde War which, as even you would be aware, was being fought between the then Four Nations of Man and the Armies of the Horde. Men all fought as one in those times trying to stem the onslaught of the Hordim as they slowly advanced from the Sanhar down into the warmer lands of Arborell." "As sometimes happens when Men fight with courage and purpose they prevailed and the Horde was forced back across the mountains and valleys of the Great Rift. In a rout they were expelled back into the tundra of the Sanhar Wastes. The combined power of the Four Nations secured a great victory and peace returned quickly to the land. The great armies, tired of battle, dispersed and returned home. Men and Women once again looked to the future with some hope and certainty. For all the nations peace had been won with blood and iron but it was a peace short-lived and bitter-sweet". "With the uniting force of a common enemy gone, the Four Nations quickly returned to their own natural borders and in time also returned to the petty bickering of diplomacy and the mutual greed of trade. Competition for wealth and power replaced the grim determination that had bound committed allies. And thus it remained for some years." Moving suddenly as if he had just been bitten by a flea the Kalborean thrusts his right hand inside his robes. When he withdraws it he is holding a small metal sphere. Using his thumb he flicks a lever on its upper surface and you cannot help but gasp aloud as a translucent map of Arborell fills the space between you. Trying not to look too surprised you study the wonder that shines before you. "From the battlefields of the Great Rift the Faeyen Nation returned to the high grass plateau's of North Western Arborell and to almost complete isolation; your people followed their Faeyen neighbours west to the comfortable mountain retreats of the Stone Kingdoms situated in the Krodestaag Ranges; seemingly happy to be self-reliant and unconcerned by the squabbling of others. My people, the Kalboreans of the Union, went back to what we have always done; trading, adventuring and farming the wide plains that cover the central lands of Arborell. The NomDruse simply disappeared to the South and they have been unheard of since. Not needed as a refuge, Stoneholme soon fell into disuse." For a moment the Historian sits silently pondering what he is to say next. You are surprised at how accurate his retelling has been but so far he has only given a small part of the story. Clearing his throat Tak Lovar deactivates the map and continues. "From all the available records it is certain that for the Dwarvendim these times of peace were good. The financial power of the Stone Kings grew with each passing year, but this increasing wealth and power did not go unnoticed by the surrounding Nations. In particular it was the bandit gangs that roamed the adjoining plains of Kalborea that posed the greatest danger. Wishing to ensure their wealth safe from any threat Stoneholme was expanded and refurbished into a treasure house of labyrinthine size. As Dwarvendim affluence grew so Stoneholme was cut ever deeper into the mountain. When their work was done the corridors and halls, vaults and treasure troves, had delved to the very heart of Devkraager Tor. With such a fortress to guard their wealth the Stone Kings rested, apparently well pleased with their efforts." "It was Morgen Orncryst the Younger, last of the Stone Kings, who extended Stoneholme to its deepest levels. It was Morgen who commissioned the cutting of the final chamber at the foundation of Devkraager Tor, a chamber to hold the greatest treasures of the Dwarvendim peoples. In this deep vault was to be laid the spoils of all the preceding Stone Kings, the most precious metals and rare stones of three hundred years of Dwarvendim adventure and commerce in the outside world. Most important of all, this vault was to hold the greatest artifact of the Dwarvendim nation; the pillar of stonewood, the Tellandra." "Legend has it that in the process of placing this wealth within the Deep Vault a large black jeweled egg was brought into Stoneholme; a souvenir taken from the Horde after the final decisive battle that forced the dark minions back into the expanses of the Sanhar Wastes. Unknown to the King or his subjects the egg brought with it a great evil; an evil residing unseen in the quiet form of a small winged serpent; a Dragon." "Thinking his treasure secure Morgen locked the thick metal doors of the treasure room behind him and returned to the pressing affairs of his Kingdom unaware of the evil lurking within. In the flickering shadows of the great cavern it would not have taken long for the closeness of Morgen's gold to entice the small, defenceless serpent from its jeweled egg. In that cold, dark place it would grow, drawing energy and comfort from the precious metals that surrounded it." "To those of us well versed in Dragonlore it is no secret that Dragons covet gold. It sustains and energises them, they will commit any atrocity to acquire it and will stop at nothing to keep it. A Dragon protecting its gold is an evil thing, a beast to be avoided." "For Morgen and his Kingdom all went well until the Dwarvendim of Arborell fell upon lean times. Conflict between the Kalborean Union and the Faeyen begun to severely restrict trade out of the cities of western Arborell. For the Dwarvendim this was an economic catastrophe. Unable to rely on taxes raised by the steady flow of commerce across his borders Morgen the Younger found it necessary to delve deeply into the wealth stored in the treasure rooms of Stoneholme. In his old age it must have grieved him greatly to see his peoples riches being so quickly depleted. The situation however got steadily worse. The conflict between Faeyen and Kalborean grew, small border skirmishes brought the other nations into confrontation and eventually this tension threatened to embroil all the Nations in a bloody war. In time it did." "With the whole land again consumed by war, Stoneholme returned to its primary role as a refuge for the Dwarvendim people. Within that first year the war raged all over the Stone Kingdoms and the cost of financing the conflict devoured most of the accumulated wealth of the Stone Kings. The very existence of the Dwarvendim as a separate people was under threat. Only the Deep Vault, locked and barred at the heart of Stoneholme for more than twenty years remained untouched. The day soon came, however, when it had to be opened." "You can imagine the gravity of that day. An aged and despondent Morgen would have descended the long corridors of Stoneholme, walked unnoticing through the magnificence of the Great Hall and unlocked the first set of doors leading to the Deep Vault. As these huge metal doors swung wide the Stone King would have stepped across a polished marble threshold and then walked the final 100 metres to the main doors of Stoneholme's most protected cavern. Understanding the import of opening this final trove the King and his retainers must have been silent. None would have expected what was to happen next." "Confronting them as the heavy doors of the Deep Vault swung open was an apparition that left Morgen Orncryst, most powerful of the Stone Kings, rigid with fear. Out of the semi-darkness of the unlit treasure room sprang the vast bulk of a full grown Rift Dragon. Raised upon its thick hind legs, its leathery wings extended to their fullest it was an awesome beast, standing 25 metres tall, its skin black and shining like molten glass, its head a nightmare of fang, scale and cruel burning red eyes." "The few retainers who had accompanied the King fled the room in a blind terror, slamming the great metal doors and locking them securely. It was only then that they realised the King had remained inside; unarmed, aged and vulnerable. For Morgen it was too late. Before he could turn to follow his terrified retainers he was bathed in Dragonfire and consumed." "With no heir to the throne, the reign of the Stone Kings soon ended. The war between the Nations hammered its way across Arborell, the Stone Kingdoms were subjugated by Kalborea but then in time hostilities ended as an even greater threat confronted the Nations." "In a state of battle weariness the Kalboreans and Faeyen were unprepared for a new assault from the Horde that struck deep into the Union. Unable to withstand the onslaught, the fortifications and armies of Arborell collapsed and the creatures of the Horde spread over Arborell like a plague. It was during this dark time of conflict that Stoneholme was evacuated by its conquerors, the last of the Dwarvendim were dispersed to work camps in the mountains of the Krodestaag. The Tellandra was forgotten." "In time the Horde was again defeated. A series of crushing battles threw them back into the wastelands and the fortress of Maenum was constructed to stop any further attempts at invasion. From that time to now only small raiding parties have remained to roam the isolated mountain ranges and frontiers, preying on unwary travelers or stealing from small communities. The pillar has remained deep in Stoneholme, its magic used by the Kalborean LoreMages but physically unreachable. And so it has remained until now." Tak Lovar looks up from his own thoughts and stares straight at you. "The pillar has been broken, Halokim Vesh. For more than a century it has been used by the Kalboreans as a tool for the common good. And now the Horde or, if it is still alive, that accursed Dragon have somehow succeeded in smashing it. Until it is restored there is no magic, there is no LoreMages Guild and there is no way of stopping the Horde from overrunning Maenum and infesting all of Arborell." The LoreMage stands suddenly and half turns as if he is about to leave. "I do not envy you Vesh. The quest you are about to undertake is perilous in the extreme and in truth I do not expect you to survive it. It is unknown if the Horde currently infest the ruins of Stoneholme. It is equally unknown as to whether the Dragon, who calls itself Windhammer, is still alive. Legends and myth have conspired to obscure the truth about the mountains in which you are about to travel and I would not go there for any price. Men braver than you have tried you know, and none have returned. The Guild has lost a number of powerful talismans in those attempts. Maybe you will be lucky enough to recover them as well." The historian stops and looks as if he is considering whether it would be appropriate to wish you luck. He doesn't. "Your horse and equipment have been gathered. The Horde already tests to the limit the ability of this citadel to defend itself. At first light tomorrow you must leave. Do not fail, Vesh. Remember that you wear the white collar." No further word comes from Tak Lovar as he leaves the room. After stepping over the threshold the door slams shut and you hear a bar slide into place on the other side. You are locked in. Tomorrow it seems you must begin a most perilous quest. You don't even know why they chose you.
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