Baldir BW XXXV

“My Prince, your father’s time is nearly at an end on this world,” a dwarf whispered in the half-light of a richly furnished bedroom, before stepping back into the darkness.

“Thank you, Padren,” answered a young dwarf, dressed in a fine blue tunic, trimmed with ermine. His white, silk shirt had sapphire buttons, and his grey, silk britches were held up by a black leather belt, joined with an ornate, gold buckle. His long beard and neatly cropped hair were both flame red, which caught the light in a strangely magical way. There was no humour in his stern, proud face. His eyes were red-rimmed and deep sunken, as someone that had spent too many hours awake at night. Their keen, sky-blue twinkle was diminished. “You have been of great comfort these past months, I know my father is very grateful.”

“My Prince, it is the least I could do.”

Turning to the bed as Praden left the room quietly, the young dwarf walked slowly across the marble floor to the bed-side table. He lifted the lantern’s hood a little, to see his father more clearly. In the bed was a very old dwarf, lined, wrinkled and careworn. His eyes were shut and Baldir could see the veins that criss-crossed his eyelids, like the waterways of a marsh. White hair grew from practically every follicle on his face and head, tumbling like miniature waterfalls onto his pillow or sprouting from his forehead and chin like undying fountains.

“Father…father, can you hear me?” asked the son, gently smoothing his father’s brow.

“Yes, my son,” the ancient dwarf replied, slowly opening his watery, blue eyes and taking a rasping breath, “thank you for being here; have you brought your family?”

“We are all here, my King,” nodded the son, lifting his eyes briefly to look back towards the door, where a young female dwarf and four children were huddled together in the gloaming.

“That’s good,” rasped the old King, “family means so much.”

“You are wise, my Lord.”

The old dwarf’s eyes stared at the domed, sky-blue ceiling briefly, as if he recalled a distant time, “I wish Marienne was here to see you now.”

“She watches over us, my King.”

The King lifted his left hand and reached for his son’s shoulder, “I will soon meet her again,” he cleared his throat, “in the halls of our fathers, though not in Asgard.”

Kneeling now, the Prince returned to the theme of many previous conversations, and knew what to say to ease his father’s troubled mind, “You chose a different path, a wiser path, which has meant the survival of your House my King. The Gods do not look unkindly on such good deeds.”

“No, but still, to have died swinging my axe at that cursed serpent,” he mused, the regret heavy on his brow, “…I would be in Valhalla…”

“Father, do not trouble yourself with such matters,” whispered the Prince, eager to shift the subject, “our time for revenge will come. Our house is strong now and word has come that the free folk rise up across the North.”

“Yes, yes, my son,” the King patted his son, before concern once again overshadowed his kindly physiognomy, “Do not be hasty. There is a task that you must complete first.”

This was new, “Father?” the Prince said, looking confused.

“Some of the old Kings hid things of power from the Prime,” his breathless voice skimmed rapidly from word to word as if time was pressing and the message was of extreme urgency, “Something extremely important, that I now need to pass to you.”

“Oh?” said the son slightly patronising, as though these were the words of a man close to losing his wits, “What could that be? The Crown was returned to Lastar on the death of your father...”

“It was,” agreed the King cutting short his son’s laborious thinking, “and so would this have been,” he continued, holding up his right hand, on which was a single black metal band, “if he had known of them.”

The Prince clasped his father’s arm to help him raise his fist, and studied the Ring closely, “I thought that it was nothing more than something sentimental – it certainly doesn’t look valuable; you told me that it was a wedding gift.”

“It was,” nodded the King dropping his right arm across his chest, “in a manner of speaking.” The King’s thin, stretched voice continued at pace, as if the story was well rehearsed and the Play needed to move on, “Father gave it to my brother for safe keeping when he left for the Battle of Malor, from which he never returned. When I was to marry Lliandor, my brother gave it to me. He thought, rightly as it happened, that our House would not survive the coming wars and that I should take it far away.” Scene complete, the King had time for an aside, “Neither of us bargained on that betrayal...” he whispered looking back to the ceiling.

“Do not trouble yourself, the House of Dor is all but bad memories…”

“Not really my son,” the King’s eyes returned to his son’s face, “you see, their House divided – those that went to the West, ultimately either following Mandur or Enrodire, and those that stayed in Endor.” The King paused and reached for a cup which stood on his bedside table. The Prince picked it up and cradled his father’s head to allow him to sup. Finished and nestled back into the plump white pillow the ancient dwarf continued, “The latter are either dead or imprisoned. Mandur is holed up in a dwarrowdelf trapped by Malor. But Enrodire’s folk are lost.”

“What is that to us, my Lord?” asked the Prince, increasingly concerned by his father’s behaviour.

“Wait, my son, don’t you see?” asked the King, holding up a finger to silence his child, “We have a common enemy, and it is time to bring the Houses back together to face it. Time is running out, Ragnarok approaches, and we need to be strong to face the coming struggles. We cannot do this alone.”

“I do not understand what that has to do with that Ring,” the Prince nodded towards his father’s chest on which his right hand rested.

Lifting it again to look at it, the old dwarf replied, “This Ring is…‘tied’ to the others of similar power - a tie that Lastar partially broke when he changed the others; so, it ‘feels’ the presence of its opposite.”

Shuffling to ease the pain in his knees and becoming slightly concerned that his father had finally gone mad, the Prince looked confused, “I still don’t follow, father.” Looking again at his troubled son, the King’s words were still quiet, but now firmer than they had been for a very long time, “Its opposite was hidden for a very long time, but recently it has come to Tiris.” {This sounds like Malask is with Rantor - her aligned Dragon}}

“What does that mean?” The Prnce was incredulous.

“It means that you must take this Ring far away from here!” becoming angry at his inability to make his son understand the gravity of the situation and wishing he had life left in him to do something about it himself, the King’s voice was strong, “As I know the other Ring is in Tiris, its wearer knows where this Ring is. We are in very great danger my son.” A long silence filled the room before one of the children began to cry; the Prince’s stern look at his family elicited the desired response, and they left quickly. “Who wears the other Ring?”

“You are not thinking!” the King’s voice remained firm, “What resides in Tiris?”

The Prince’s eyes widened and his confusion turned to concern, “Yes, father, I see – it can’t be good.”

“Right!”

“So you want me to follow the path that Dor took all those years ago?”

“Yes,” breathed the King, relaxing, happy in the knowledge that his message had finally hit home, “find Enrodire quickly; then send word to your family and get them safe passage. I have heard Milai still manages to keep Enrodire’s folk supplied – at least her ships take the iron we find to a secret port in North Amorsland.” {Note - we now know that this is not really Milai, the Drow are secretly supporting the dwarves in order to have them defeat a common enemy but the dwarves believe it is Milai}

“I will go with tomorrow’s cargo, my father, the caravan leaves for Malen at first light, on the hidden road.”

“Then take the Ring, and my armour and weapons, Odin knows I have no more use for them, though they served me well. Go now, my son, say farewell to your family. Know that you have always been in my heart.”

“I will wait with you, father; at least until you sleep.”

Baldir’s vision shifted to the high sea.

A galleon in full sail cut across calm, cold seas. The overcast sky looked threatening; clouds build and grew darker, mixing greys, browns, purples and blues in a maelstrom of colour. It seemed that the wind filling the ship’s canvass has little effect on the water beneath its hull. The wide upper deck of the galleon was packed with crates of cargo, around which the crew work tirelessly, adjusting the square rigged sails, to get the most from the wind. As Baldir watched the crew pull in unison on halyards as they hoisted another sail; others scrambled up rigging to help unfurl it.

As the final top-sail was in position, the ship leant slightly and the crew rushed to the bow to hoist the jib, which they hauled in for maximum speed, leaning the ship further to starboard. The sun slowly set in front of the ship, putting fire to the horizon.

“Wake up, master,” Baldir saw a short, stocky, bald human, holding a lantern before him to illuminate a small single cabin. In a hammock in the centre of the cabin lay the dwarf.

“We have a li’le surprise for ya,” continued the sailor shaking the dwarf roughly.

“Umm, err, what?” the dwarf was not used to being disturbed in this fashion.

“Wakey, wakey, young master dwarf,” the man said, slapping the dwarf’s face with his free hand, “you ’ave company.”

Sitting up, and nearly falling out of the hammock, the dwarf demanded, “What is it? Get off man!”

“We ’ave company for ya,” insisted the sailor, “’e waits on deck.”

“Is it light?” asked the Prince rubbing his eyes, “I don’t feel like I have slept long.”

“Oh no, master dwarf, it ain’t light for another three bells,” chuckled the human, switching his attention to the dwarf’s wardrobe, throwing tunic, britches and shirt at the bleary-eyed Prince. “Come, come, let’s be ‘avin’ ya.”

“Alright, alright, stop fussing,” said the young dwarf, fending off more slaps and hurled boots, “what’s the rush?”

“Oh, you’ll see,” the human chuckled as he swung open the door behind him, still holding the lantern up so the dwarf could use the light to get dressed. Finally pulling on his boots, the sailor grabbed his collar and pretended to smooth it into position, but Baldir noticed that he seemed to hold onto it far too long as the dwarf exited his cabin.

Out on deck the usual hubbub had diminished and a crowd had gathered in front of the stern castle, in which the dwarf had been cabined. Stood in the midst of a group of sailors was a tall, wiry elf dressed in blue, green, indigo and aquamarine. His long, wavy, blue-black hair flowed from his head and crashed against his shoulders, trickling down his back. He had a hawk-like appearance and deep-sunken, dark-blue eyes. His skin was a shade or two paler than a normal elf’s. He was armed with long and short swords, which were curved at the end. He wore Brigandine of deep blue and green, weaved in a fluid pattern and studded with emeralds, sapphires, tourmaline and diamonds. The only lamé (strip of metal) visible was his Gorget which extended to protect his sternum, his clavicle and the front and back of his neck. The Gorget was rolled and patterned to represent a wave just before it broke. He carried a Bassinet under his left arm, open at the face and bedecked with long flight feathers of rare sea birds. {This sounds like one of the 'false' Sea Elves - one of the Drow who are secretly supporting the Dwarves in the North - possibly Magreb}

“Is this the one?” the elf asked nodding at the dwarf.

“Yes, my Lord,” answered the sailor that had roused the dwarf, and was still holding his collar.

“For where are you bound, friend?”

“You are no Sea Elf,” the Prince said to himself, before demanding, “What is that to you?”

“I mean no harm, dwarf, I am a merchant and have business with this ship.”

“Then why am I of any concern?”

The elf paused briefly as if considering his options. Drawing a sword slowly, he said, “You are the business I am to discuss.”

“Oh,” stammered the Prince, only now realising the danger he was in, “how so?”

“You carry something of great value to us.”

The sailor pulled the dwarf close and held a knife to his throat, whilst others produced rope and began to tie his hands and feet.

“Let me go! I have nothing of value for this deluded elf,” The dwarf Prince pleaded, futilely; angry at his mistreatment and frustrated by the lack of obedience he continued to make demands, “Let me go, damn you.”

As the dwarf was led to the centre of the ship and into its bowels, a sailor asked of the elf, “Where to m’Lord?”

“Where can I put ashore in South Amarsland?”

“Findorsveldt is the safest harbour; I think it remains deserted since the war,” a sailor said rubbing his stubble.

“A couple of days, I guess?”

“Yes, if the wind ‘olds up”

“It will…”