HOW BURLMARR SAVED THE UNSEEN PROTECTOR
Uktar, the Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)
It would probably be the last caravan to Leilon before winter brought snow to the passes of the Sword Mountains. Burlmarr hovered over the circled wagons, listening to the gnomes as they sat around the campfire discussing the weather. Or, at least that's what he imagined they were discussing. He couldn't actually hear their voices, but he could see their lips move, and he knew what time of year it was, so that seemed like the logical thing they would be talking about.
The fire had nearly burned itself down to glowing coals when the traders finally turned in. A solitary gnome tossed another log on the embers and crouched down to stoke the flames back to life with a few long breaths. He stood up, stretched, and spent a moment gazing at the night sky before trundling over to a wagon and lifting a crossbow from the back. After loading it, the gnome began an inspection of the wagon circle, keeping one eye on the shadows that occupied the rocky terrain around them.
Burlmarr made his own rounds, tirelessly floating back and forth over the camp. The mountains were far from safe. Ore raiders or marauding monsters often made their way through the passes from the north, looking for anything that would provide enough sustenance to last them through the harsh conditions of the coming months. The caravan would be an irresistible target.
Movement in the shadows up the mountainside to the north of the campsite caught Burlmarr's attention. He swept the terrain with eyes that could see well beyond a thousand feet, and easily spotted the source of the disturbance a few hundred yards away. In black and white vision that ignored the lack of light, he saw a warband of ores making its way toward the sleeping gnomes. With a thought, Burlmarr glided up to meet them and get a better look.
He could count about fifty of them as he got closer, creeping from the boulders and outcroppings that dotted that side of the pass. They wore piecemeal armor of stiff hide and metal scales, some with crude helmets covering their porcine heads and others only unkempt masses of gray dreadlocks. Even so poorly armed, there were more than enough to overwhelm the caravan, but not a number that would give Burlmarr any trouble. It would probably be best if he confronted them away from the gnomes' campsite. The only thing left was to decide on the best tactics to use. That's when he noticed the hill giant bringing up the rear.
The brute stood about ten feet tall, but would probably have been at least six inches taller where it not stooped over enough that its thick, powerful arms hung past its knees. The giant wore a patchwork of hides, some with the fur still on it. As the brute strode down the mountain, it was picking up boulders with one hand and stacking them in the crook of its other arm.
As mighty as he was, Burlmarr could not be everywhere at once. The ores were spread too far apart for him to eliminate in one attack, and he had to stop the giant before it was close enough to hurl those rocks onto the unsuspecting caravan.
Burlmarr's foreclaws materialized first. Then he was looking down at the ores past his blunt snout covered in scales and whiskers of faded white and deep gold. He opened wide and shot a cone of flame into the midst of the warband. The fire swept through the rear ranks of the ores and raced over the hill giant, consuming them in its hunger. Burlmarr turned to face the remaining ores, only to see them running wildly down the mountain toward the camp. He cursed himself for a fool. Of course the survivors would panic and run when he appeared in their midst. He had to act fast. The ores would reach the gnomes in seconds.
Burlmarr stretched out his right foreclaw and spoke.
"Svent throden ghiks mirth krahkxiss!"
A thick bolt of electricity lanced out from a claw and struck the nearest ore then arced to the next, and the next, and the next, until the twenty or so remaining raiders all lay motionless on the mountainside, smoke wafting from charred holes in their torsos. The gnomes were safe.
Burlmarr wept as he melted back into the blackness of the night.
"Mother!"
Burlmarr barely got the word out before he retched again, though this time he was able to lean over the bed enough that the remaining contents of his stomach spilled onto the floor instead of the bed sheets. Dizzy and weak, he swooned and nearly toppled out of the bed, but his mother appeared just in time to lay him back against the pillows.
"Oh, my poor boy, just look at you."
"I'm sorry, Mother. I didn't mean to make a mess. My head just hurts so bad."
"Did you have another one of those dreams?"
Burlmarr nodded slightly, hoping to avoid making the throbbing worse. It was the third night in a row he'd had the dream, which was always a little different. Mostly a different location, though once he could hear instead of see. He knew they were all the same dream because in every one, he was a dragon. The same dragon, he was pretty sure.
And there were always gnomes. Gnomes from the village. Gnomes he knew.
"Well, we can't have you sleeping in soiled linens," his mother said.
She helped him out of bed and walked him over to the hearth, where she lowered him to the floor. After wrapping a blanket around him, she rolled up the bed sheets and used them to clean the mess. Burlmarr's eyelids began to droop, so he lay down before the glowing embers in the fireplace and drifted off to sleep before his mother could finish making the bed with fresh sheets.
The caravan arrived in Leilon just before supper time. After unloading the ore they brought and purchasing winter supplies for the village, the gnomes made their way to the Knight's Goblet to get a late meal. The tavern catered to travelers, and was known for its roast boar served with thick slices of nutty-flavored bread. It was quiet in the common room as the gnomes sat at their table eating. Trade was slow that time of year. Most merchant companies had stopped sending their caravans through the passes for fear of getting caught in a mountain storm.
"There was something going on up in the mountains last night, I tell you," one of the gnomes insisted through a mouthful of boar and bread. "Fire and lightning was flashing all over the place."
"Would you stop with this, already," another of the gnomes groaned. "It was nothing more than a storm."
"How could it have been a storm if there weren't no clouds in the sky," the first gnome protested. "Besides, I'm pretty sure I saw him."
"Who?"
"You know. The Unseen Protector."
The whole table went silent as everyone stopped eating to stare at the gnome. Then they broke out in raucous laughter.
"That's nothing but a fireside story told to children by the village elders."
"I did see him." The gnome's face was flushed and his voice was defensive. "A great gold dragon, just like the stories say."
"If it was the Unseen Protector," one of the others blurted out between guffaws, "then how did you see him?"
The gnomes slapped the table and held their bellies as laughter overtook them again. The lone gnome stood up, his face a mixture of fury and embarrassment, and left the table.
Daikon had heard enough as well. From his vantage at a nearby table, his back to the gnomes, he was just another human and had been able to eavesdrop on the entire conversation without drawing attention to himself. It was time to report back on his success.
His hooded cloak wrapped tightly around him, Daikon left the warmth and light of the inn's common room and walked out into the dark street, his breath a puff of white before him in the chill night air. It was a brisk walk to the camp in the hills outside of town where his men waited. Thoughts of power kept him warm. The Archmage Arcane had been vague in his promises, but Daikon had enough ambition to fill in the blanks himself.