Roakore thought of the coming journey he was to take with Abram and Whill. In his few dealings with surface folk he had never acquired much of a liking for them, but he didn’t mind the thought of traveling with the two humans. They had proven themselves great warriors in his eyes.
As he turned the last bend in the tunnel to his clan’s caverns, he could hear the telltale sounds of dwarves training with weapons. Every dwarf within the mountain was to live for one thing and one thing only: to aid in the will of the gods. If a dwarf dedicated his life fully, it was believed that he or she would upon death find a place among his or her kin within the Mountain of the Gods. Their cause was to mine the great mountains of the world and free once again the many beautiful creations of their gods, the very things the god of the dragons had hidden deep long ago.
This belief was set firmly in the minds of the dwarves from childhood. It was their religion. Therefore they spent their lives mining, crafting, and sending out into the world the gold, silver, diamonds, and all other precious gems. To kill a dragon was the greatest feat of all, one that would ensure not only a place within the Mountain of the Gods, but even a seat among them.
Shortly after Roakore’s clan arrived in Dy’Kore, however, it was deemed that they should not participate in the mining of the mountain. Rather, their salvation came in the reclaiming of the Ebony Mountains. Since that day they had trained for battle. More than five thousand women and children had escaped, along with fifty adult males. Over one thousand of the children were now considered men, and they, along with the elders, trained hard for the coming battle. The women were not expected to fight; their duty was instead to increase the numbers of the diminished clan, which had once numbered more than fifty thousand. Because each elder male had five to twenty wives, Roakore’s clan had seen over ten thousand births in twenty years. Roakore himself boasted the highest number with twenty-seven wives who in those long two decades had borne him two hundred children, one hundred and nine of them males. Even at 120 years old he was young in the reckoning of the dwarves, who could live to see seven hundred years. He had not previously given much thought to women, however, and had not sired a child before the attack. His love had been the mines, and though he was a prince of the Ebony Mountains, he worked side by side with the other dwarves, mining the precious metals and jewels. He was renowned throughout the clans of the dwarves for his craftsmanship, for it was said that he was indeed one of the best of his time. His forte was in weapon-crafting, and his masterful works were some of the most sought-after pieces every trading season.
Roakore came out of the tunnel and into the main chamber of his people; before him at the opposite end stood two more tunnels. The tunnel to the right led to the large living quarters, while the one to the left led to the training chambers. Roakore turned left toward the main training room, passing many doors that led to private training rooms and armories. Roakore stepped into the main room and pride welled in his heart, as it always did, at the sight of his loyal people.
The room was vast, nearly two thousand feet square, with a mirrored dome ceiling and stone walls, three of which boasted a number of huge fireplaces. A one-hundred-foot chandelier boasting hundreds of torches hung from the ceiling. The mirrors reflected the many torches and shed a great amount of light throughout the room.
Roakore watched from the shadows as his fighters, mostly young dwarves with only small beards, practiced as hard as ever. These long and grueling sessions had gone on for the last twenty years for fourteen hours a day, and he knew that these dwarves before him were the greatest warriors that dwarf history would ever know. Each had a horrible story to tell of the evil day their mountain was taken; each lived for one reason, one goal; each harbored within him a rage and hatred for the Draggard so great that it drove him to train well beyond his limits each and every day.
Roakore did not want to disturb their practice, but having been gone at his own request on sentry duty, he knew that his appearance now would inevitably bring training to an abrupt halt. Preparing himself, he walked slowly into the room. Before he had gone more than five steps into the well-lighted chamber, someone recognized him. The young dwarf stopped what he’d been doing-sparring with a fellow dwarf with large wooden replicas of their chosen weapons-and slammed his fist to his chest. His joy, and his proclamation of Roakore’s return, was short-lived, however, as his opponent’s wooden axe caught him in the side of the head, sending him crashing to the floor. Roakore laughed as he walked over to the dazed dwarf sprawled out on the floor. His opponent took up the cheer instead: “Roakore has returned!”
His words were taken up and echoed throughout the chamber until every dwarf had slammed his chest with his right hand and bowed low, silently awaiting Roakore’s words. The dazed dwarf made an utterly miserable sound as he tried to focus on Roakore, who was bent over him, slapping lightly his cheek. Roakore took him by the arm and helped him to stand. The young dwarf shook his head, and realizing whom he had seen, slammed his chest, almost knocking himself to the ground.
Knowing that he now had the attention of the entire chamber-more than a thousand young fighters-Roakore spoke loudly so all could hear. “What is yer name, boy?”
The young dwarf eyed him through heavy blinks and slightly crossed eyes. “Haldegoz,” he answered groggily.
“Well, young Haldegoz, can ye tell me why it be that ye lost this fight?”
Haldegoz scrunched up his thick eyebrows and scratched his short beard. “I saw ye, good King-that is, Roakore.” He cowered at his near mistake. Every dwarf knew that Roakore had prohibited anyone from calling him king, saying that he would not accept the title until he earned it, until he stood before his people within the chambers of the Ebony Mountains, upon the throne of his forefathers.
Roakore ignored the slip and instead scowled at the surrounding crowd. “In warfare there ain’t no time fer pleasantries, there ain’t no time fer formality! In warfare there ain’t no rules but one: if ye don’t kill yer opponent, he’ll kill ye! Haldigoz was defeated because he let his concentration slip, he let down his guard. In the midst o’ battle, to lose yer concentration be to lose yer life. Never let down yer guard, never relent, never take yer eyes from yer enemy!”
He patted the young dwarf on the back and raised his arms. “Now let us see what Haldigoz’s opponent has learned!” He took up Haldigoz’s wooden axe and eyed the dwarf the lad had been fighting. “What is yer name, lad?”
The slightly older boy puffed out his chest and proclaimed, “I be Ky’Drock, son o’ Ky’Kronn.”
Roakore slammed his chest and bowed slightly, purposefully, though he owed the young dwarf no such sign of respect. Ky’Drock beamed as he returned the gesture. It was just what Roakore had wanted. In a flash he was upon the bowing dwarf, striking hard with his wooden axe. Ky’Drock’s expression turned from sheer delight to horror as the rightful king of the Ebony Mountains attacked. The lad barely blocked the massive blows as he tried to stay on his feet. But Roakore did not relent. He swung low, then high, then straight down from above.
With Roakore’s last blow, though, Ky’Drock began an offensive attack. To Roakore’s delight, the young warrior met him blow for blow, never getting close to striking, but putting up a good defense. Roakore lessened his own defenses, acting as though he had barely blocked several blows, and stumbled back, staying on his heels, letting young Ky’Drock gain confidence with every strike. When the young warrior becaome too cocky Roakore stepped up the fight. Ky’Drock swung from left to right and Roakore stepped aside with ease. Then the young dwarf came overhead, and instead of blocking high, Roakoke stepped aside and let the wooden axe hit the stone floor as he brought his own axe down on top of Ky’Drock’s. Roakore pinned Ky’Drock’s axe with his own and with his left fist gave the bent lad a strong backhand. Ky’Drock took the blow but did not let go of his pinned axe. Roakore struck him again and swung his axe up, aiming at the kneeling lad’s face. Ky’Drock had only one choice and he took it: he fell back out of reach of the wooden axe, rolling as he fell.