Nothing further of him appears in the histories.

I have enclosed this legendary note, Your Grace, for your enjoyment as much as anything else; I cannot swear to its veracity. Yet I FEEL - and I hope you do as well - that there is a least of hint of real destiny in the tale.

As to the rest of my a.s.signment, I can report little progress. Many have heard tales of a brave courier of the Khalkists - one who carried historical texts of the dwarves into the mountains on the eve of the Cataclysm, there to conceal them for some future age. But no one can give me even a hint of the whereabouts of such a cache.

As always, I shall continue my labors to bring to light more of this obscure phase in the history of our world!

Your Most Humble Servant, FORYTH TEEL, Scribe of Astinus *****

O Exalted Historian!

Please forgive my inexcusable delay in the filing of this report. I beg your indulgence, only to hear the tale of my recent discovery - and of the light it sheds upon our earlier image of history! I write to you by faint candlelight, from a windswept vale in the high Khalkists. My reasons for coming here, and my news, I shall endeavor to communicate while blood still flows through my cold- numbed fingers.

I have not sent word, Excellency, for I have been on the pathways of history for many months. I journeyed into the mountains to investigate a report that had filtered down to me from the most convoluted of sources - a young stable hand, who has a cousin who visits the high country, and there hears tales of the shepherds, and so forth.

The gist of the tale that reached my ears was the story of a cheesemaker who kept a herd of milk cows in the highest valleys of the Khalkists. In search of shelter one day, this humble dairyman stumbled upon a cave that had lain hidden since the time of the Cataclysm and had been only recently revealed by avalanche.

Within the cave he found a skeleton and a bundle of tightly wrapped scrolls. A shred of the wrapping was brought to me. Your Grace can no doubt imagine my excitement when the pattern of dye marked the sc.r.a.p as dwarven - PRE-CATACLYSMIC dwarven!

Could this be the lost messenger? The one who carried the records of the dwarves into safety, even as the Cataclysm showered death across the lands of Istar? I hoped, but could not believe for certain. Yet the piece of evidence could not have come at a better time. Due to my ceaseless and uncomplaining diligence, I had exhausted every other bit of doc.u.mentation in my local sources. It had begun to seem that the tale of the Khalkist dwarves would vanish into legend a full century before the Cataclysm, but now - now I had HOPE! Indeed, the proof was profound enough to draw me from the comfort of my study, uncomplainingly, to make the strenuous pursuit ofknowledge for the library.

My journey into the heights has been arduous in the extreme. I wish you could see, Excellency, the slopes that yawned below me, the dizzying spires of rock poised above, as if waiting for the moment to cast a crushing javelin of stone onto my poor and unprotected head!

Always I kept in mind my duty, to be borne without complaint, as you command.

But I digress. I finally reached the small, remote village of Saas Grund, still some miles below the cheese-maker's farm. Here, however, that worthy dairyman met me and provided me with one of the scrolls he discovered. That volume piqued my hunger for more, and so it is with resolute and uncomplaining vigor that tomorrow I accompany the man even higher into the mountains, to his lofty abode. No matter the precipitous slopes before me, nor how deep the depths of snow! Not even the icy bite of the killing wind shall deter me, nor make me long for this comfortable fire ... the fire that even now sends its warmth to my bones and soothes my weary muscles and promises to restore life to my poor, benumbed fingers. The fire, and a little spiced wine ...

Forgive me - once again I lose my path.

In short, I pen this note to you tonight, Most Esteemed Historian, in the hopes that you soon shall receive the remainder of my tale. But even in the one scroll I have perused I have discovered a story of relevance to my earlier work. I admit, however, that I present it to you with some embarra.s.sment, since it seems to contradict an incident I had earlier reported.

The scroll I read is the family journal of Horgan Oxthrall - the young warrior I told you about who miraculously drew away the oxen at the Battle of Thoradin Bridge. It was written later in his life, in 92 PC, to be precise, as he worked in the service of his thane.

Horgan recalls, in this journal, the story of that day of battle, when the human invasion had been broken. He described that st.u.r.dy wooden river-crossing that he had only later learned was called Thoradin Bridge. The battle of twenty-five years ago was a memory that had been etched, vividly, against the canvas of his brain. In his mind he could still hear the white water frothing below him. He saw, as if it had been this morning, the snorting oxen lumbering toward him, steaming breath bursting from the monstrous creatures' black nostrils.

And, as always with the memories, came the guilt, the lingering sense of shame that would never quite give him the room to breathe.

He knew the tale that legend had created, of course: the power of Reorx had blessed him at the moment of battle-truth, and he had cast a thrall over the ma.s.sive oxen leading the human train, luring them away from the charge that certainly would have opened the escape route across the bridge. Horgan even remembered the looks of awe upon the faces of his comrades as they witnessed the "miracle."

Yet, in his own mind, he recalled the stark terror that had seized him like the coils of a constricting serpent, threatening to crush his chest and squeeze his bowels into water. All he could think of was escape, but shock prevented his legs from responding even to this, the mostbasic of emotions. Even as his comrades streamed away from him, panicked by the oncoming beasts, Horgan stumbled numbly until he stood, alone, before the lumbering charge.

We see proof of one thing in his words, Excellency: oxen did indeed inspire a panicked terror in the dwarven troops - a terror that seems peculiar to their race. Of course, most of the Istar War had been fought in terrain too rough for the beasts to play any major role, but on flat ground the huge, buffalolike creatures loomed over the dwarves and were truly intimidating.

Horgan's mind reeled, and here - in his own words - we learn of another source of his shame. It seems that the young hero was stinking drunk! Before the battle - quite against orders - he and several in his platoon had snitched a bottle of potent rum. Horgan claims to have guzzled far more than his share. Indeed, he states that his hands shook so much that he spilled the stuff all over himself.

Now he stood there, dumb with shock, gesticulating wildly - to some mysteriously. Finally, his brain's frantic messages to flee reached his legs, and Horgan turned toward the ditch. The bridge stood open to the human wagons.

But the oxen ignored their drivers' commands and veered sharply from the road. Bellowing loudly, pawing the earth with their great hooves, and snorting in agitation, the beasts lumbered after Horgan, following the dwarf determinedly into the ditch. To the other dwarves, it had seemed a miracle. The wagons were immediately mired, blocking the road and the bridge, and the entire human army was crushed. Only Horgan Oxthrall knew the real explanation.

The oxen stared at him stonily, their eyes glazed, their breath putrid ... and rank with rum. You will remember that the poor creatures had been fed a goodly dose of spirits themselves. Now, in the midst of battle (probably starting to sober up), they sniffed out this equally intoxicated dwarf and followed him in eager antic.i.p.ation of more rum!

Of course, none of the other dwarves figured out what was going on. Horgan was a hero. After the battle - when presumably, EVERY dwarf stunk of rum - the thane appointed Horgan to the elite order of Thane's Scouts.

As one of the scouts sworn to High Thane Rankil, Horgan's job was to routinely patrol the rugged Khalkist heights, which formed the border of a dwarven nation surrounded by enemies. The scouts were drawn from the finest, proven veterans of the Istar War. It is in the service of his thane that Horgan Oxthrall labored for twenty-five years, a full quarter century after the victorious war. Lonely patrols through the heights, battles with groups of human brigands and trespa.s.sers - it was a solitary and adventurous life that seemed to suit Horgan well.

Incidentally, My Lord Historian, it appears that Horgan performed well among the scouts. He mentions that he held the rank of captain and was a.s.signed to patrol the most remote areas of the realm. He was one of the few dwarves who worked alone.

His words tell us of the way his service changed in the years preceding 92 PC. He patrolled the mountains as always, alert for human incursion. But lately there hadcome another foe, one that presented a grave threat to the lonely scouts, isolated in their posts on the frontier.

Ogres. For long years the dull humanoids had avoided the mountains, since the inherent hatred between ogre and dwarf ran deep and universal among both races. The dwarves, with greater organization and led by heroic fighters, had banished the ogres in earlier centuries, but now they came again, fleeing from the even greater menace of the Kingpriest's bounty hunters. Those ruthless killers sought them out, together with hobgoblins, minotaurs, and other creatures that had been branded as "evil" by the ruler of Istar. The scalps and skulls of these unfortunate beings - including females and young - were taken to Istar, where a handsome bounty would be paid in the name of the G.o.ds.

Horgan Oxthrall began his journal while he was on the trail of one of these ogres. Apparently many thoughts had been churning in his mind for some time, no doubt agitated by his long periods of solitary marching. His writing shows a need to communicate, for he shares the tale of these days in some considerable detail.

He first spotted the ogre from a distance of many miles, across the expanse of a high basin. To the best of Horgan's knowledge, the ogre had not seen the dwarf. Only through the most diligent efforts did Horgan locate the creature's trail.

For three days, Horgan tracked his quarry along the valleys and slopes of the Khalkists. The ogre worked his way through a series of low, brushy vales, moving slowly and cautiously. The dwarven scout gradually shortened the gap between them, though during the pursuit he did not spot the ogre again. Horgan wondered if the creature knew he was being followed. If so, he might be leading the dwarf into a trap. But then the dwarf shrugged, accepting the threat implicit in that possibility but undeterred from his single-minded pursuit.

In any event, Horgan ALWAYS eyed his surroundings as if he expected an ambush at any moment. The dwarf's keen eyes examined each patch of rough ground, each shallow stream bank or nearby ridge, considering them for lines of fire, potential cover, and routes of retreat - all the while steadily pumping his stocky legs.

The trail wound downward from the lofty crests. The ogre and, some miles behind, the dwarf, skirted the foothills of the Khalkist Mountains near the borderlands, where the outposts of Istar a.s.serted the Kingpriest's arrogance at the very feet of the dwarven realms. Alert for humans, Horgan nevertheless maintained his pursuit, steadily closing the gap.

On the fourth morning, Horgan reached the ogre's most recent campfire to find the ashes still warm. His quarry, he deduced, was less than four hours ahead of him. The monster's trail led along a crude pathway that followed the floor of a narrow, winding valley. A deep stream alternately meandered and thundered beside Horgan, in the same direction as the ogre's trail.

The mountainsides to the right and left loomed so close, at times, that the place became more like a gorge than a valley. The view before Horgan was often restricted, though sometimes the dwarf would come around a bend tosee several hundred yards of the path before him. Every once in a while the route crossed the stream on a crude but st.u.r.dy log bridge.

It was as he approached another of these bridges, where the stream had dropped through a deep chute some fifty feet below, that his long pursuit reached its climax. A trio of tall, straight pine logs had been lashed together to form a crossing. Horgan's instincts tingled, his senses heightened.

The dwarf saw footsteps leading to one side of the path, before the bridge. Turning to investigate, he peered between a pair of sharp boulders. The trail of the ogre led to the mouth of a narrow cave, less than a hundred feet away, and disappeared within.

Shrewd, thought Horgan Oxthrall, studying the shadowed niche. The vertical slash in the rock stood perhaps nine or ten feet high, but only half that in width.

The ogre might lurk anywhere inside, perhaps armed with a crossbow or spear. Either weapon, hurled at the dwarf, could end the fight before it began.

Then, to his surprise, Horgan saw movement within the cave. A dark form loomed in the entrance. Tension surged through Horgan's body. His right hand clenched the smooth shaft of his axe, while his left reached behind to pull his shield from his back.

The hulking shape moved forward, abandoning its sheltering darkness. Horgan saw it, felt the ancient racial hatred that lay so deeply within the dwarven character. An urge to attack the ogre swept through the dwarf with frightening intensity. The monster's great mouth dropped open; the thick gray lips moved grotesquely. Horgan noticed that the creature had three great teeth jutting from its lower jaw - an extra tusk near the center of its lower lip.

"Gobasch fight."

The words - crude Common spoken in a deep, guttural voice - shocked Horgan. He had pictured his opponent as a dull beast, incapable of communication or articulation. The dwarf stared at the ogre, too surprised to reply.

The creature loomed over Horgan. The ogre's barrel torso rested upon legs as thick as gnarled oak roots. The face, despite its trio of sharp tusks, did not look b.e.s.t.i.a.l. Arms, bulging with straps of sinew, rippled downward to hamlike fists that swung nearly to the ogre's knees. He wore a jerkin of stiff, dirty leather and, in his right hand, held a battered long sword. The ogre's eyes were small but surprisingly bright, and they glittered at the dwarf with frank appraisal.

Horgan claims that he felt no fear of his opponent's size. (Indeed, Excellency, nimble dwarves with their diminutive stature had historically outmatched much larger ogres in hand-to-hand combat. Too, there is no reason to suspect that he would be less than candid in his private journal.) Then the dwarf astonished himself by feeling a grudging awareness of respect. The ogre had emerged from concealment - where he could have lurked in ambush - to confront his enemy in a fair fight.

"Unless you want to surrender to the rightful authority of Rankil, High Thane of the Khalkists," the dwarf told the ogre, after a few moments of mutual a.s.sessment, "you don't have any choice except fight me."

The ogre snorted scornfully. "Gobasch not quit -Gobasch KILL!"

Despite his bl.u.s.ter, the ogre did not advance. Gobasch raised his sword and Horgan saw that the weapon was longer by several feet than the dwarf's entire body. The blade was mere bronze, marked with many nicks and grooves. The ogre held the weapon across his body, ready to parry but not to attack.

Horgan hesitated. He recalled feeling pity for the homeless creature before him, driven here by the same humans who had hara.s.sed the dwarves. At the time, Horgan felt ashamed of the impulse.

For several seconds the two creatures, mortal adversaries by race and heritage, remained frozen. Horgan sensed that the ogre desired escape more than battle.

Horgan himself was oddly reluctant to fight. He couldn't understand why.

Then, in a flash, he recalled the bitter memory of his cowardice at Thoradin Bridge. His face flushed with shame and anger. Clenching his axe, he raised it and took a step forward, his shield couched carefully at his chest.

Gobasch raised his great sword.

Suddenly, by mutual consent, both combatants halted.

Another sound intruded into their tightly focused concentration.

"Horses!" grunted Horgan, as he heard the unmistakable clattering of hooves upon rock.

"Men!" Gobasch snarled, his voice louder than Horgan's but still hushed.

With a flash of irritation, Horgan realized that the ogre's observation was more acute - it was the humans, not their poor, dumb mounts, who mattered.

Carefully the dwarf backed away from the ogre, determined to investigate the new intrusion without giving this monster a fatal opening. But Gobasch sought the shelter of his dark cave again, vanishing into the shadowy entrance. Horgan imagined that he could see those two tiny, bright eyes glittering outward at him and the valley.

Instantly the dwarf whirled, crouched low, and scanned the trail below him. In another moment he saw them: three humans on horses, moving up the valley at a walk. They wore silver helmets and breastplates, and the one in the lead wore a bright red cloak. A matching plume trailed from his helm. The pair who rode behind were clad in billowing capes of green and bore no badge of rank upon their heads.

Horgan cast another glance at the cave. All was still within. Boldly, he raised his axe and shield and stepped onto the pathway. He had advanced to the beginning of the crude log bridge before the riders, on the other side of the stream, saw him.

"Hold," cried the human in the crimson cloak, raising his hand. His two comrades reined in and regarded Horgan suspiciously. His tunic, emblazoned with the hammer sign of the high thane, clearly marked him as an official, and this apparently did not please the humans.

But it was the tall man, the one who had commanded the halt, who spoke first. Horgan identified him by the gold-hilted short sword resting, for now, in the man's scabbard, as a centurion of Istar.

"Greetings, dwarf," the centurion said, making theword sound like an insult - to Horgan's ears, at least. The man shouted to be heard over the sound of the stream surging through the gorge fifty feet below and between them.

Horgan studied the human silently. He rode a huge horse, a bay that pranced and pawed the earth in apparent agitation at the delay.

"You have crossed the borders of our realm," Horgan Oxthrall shouted back, curtly. "This is the land of High Thane Rankil of Khalkist, and you are trespa.s.sers. In his name, I bid you depart!" He fingered the axe easily, just to show them that he was not afraid to back up his words with action.

"We cannot depart," replied the human loudly, his tone still firm. Horgan figured the fellow was having a hard time trying to sound persuasive when he had to shout in order to be heard. "Our mission is a holy one!" the centurion concluded.

Horgan blinked, momentarily nonplussed by the reply.

Then his anger took over. "Nothing of Istar can be holy!"

He sneered.

"It's worth gold!" added the officer, though his face flushed angrily. The two other riders dismounted casually, stood next to their horses, and talked quietly to each other.

Horgan concentrated on the centurion.

"Istarian arrogance!" Horgan snapped bitterly, his voice ripe with scorn.

"Watch your tone, dwarf!" ordered the officer in warning. "The power of Ultimate Goodness shall not be mocked!"

"Get yourself back down the valley, and you'll hear no words to offend your ears - or the ears of your precious priestking!"

"The KINGPRIEST has offered a bounty for the slaying of the evil races. Earlier today, we spotted an ogre moving along this trail. We are G.o.d-bound to kill him and carry his skull to the high throne of Istar!"

Horgan's mind churned. Istar! How well he remembered the legions marching into the heart of the Khalkists a quarter century earlier - and on just such a spurious quest! Then it had been the dwarven insistence on the worship of Reorx, their traditional G.o.d all across the race of Ansalon, that had pitted Istar against their race.

In the arrogant eyes of the Kingpriest, Reorx, as a neutral G.o.d, was no better than a deity of evil. How many humans had perished as a result of that arrogance? Horgan didn't know. (We do, however, Your Grace; the figure was somewhere around thirty-two to thirty-four thousand men.) Horgan's dwarven blood rose to his face as he considered the scope of the Kingpriest's newest arrogance.

The would-be emperor of all the world dared to send bands of his agents into dwarven lands to pursue his edicts!

"Any enemy found here is the rightful prey of High Thane Rankil - be it human, ogre, or any other trespa.s.sers!"

Horgan shouted.

"Your impudence will cost you, runt!" growled the human officer. His hand flexed and, in a fluid motion, he drew a long sword of gleaming steel from beneath his crimson cloak. The great bay reared eagerly.

Horgan immediately looked for the other two humans,who had been chatting idly beside their horses. This instinctive alertness saved his life for, with astonishing quickness, one of the standing humans twisted free from his green cloak and raised a weapon - a crossbow!

The scout stepped backward, setting his cleated boot firmly against the slippery surface of the log bridge.

Horgan ducked, raising his shield to cover his face. The bolt from the small crossbow punched into the circle of protective metal with such force that it knocked the dwarf onto his back. He struck the logs of the bridge heavily, barely retaining his balance on the edge of the span.

Horgan's heart leaped into his throat as he teetered over the brink of a fall. Below him he saw icy water through a barricade of sharp-edged granite boulders. In another instant, he recovered to crouch low on the bridge.

Feverishly, the crossbowman placed another bolt in the groove of his weapon and began to crank back the heavy spring. The centurion, still mounted, stared at Horgan with eyes that bulged white, over lips twisted by fanaticism. Yet he had enough discipline to hold his horse in check.

For a dizzying second, Horgan writes, he was frozen with fear. He recalled another bridge, a quarter century earlier. There, too, he had looked into the snorting nostrils of a great beast that had been lashed into the service of humans. The beast was different now, as was the bridge, but the humans, he saw with sudden and crystalline clarity, were the same. (This point,. Excellency, seems to have dawned on Horgan with the brightness of a clear sunrise.

Indeed, he goes on and on about it. I have summarized pages in the above paragraph.) Perhaps it was this new recognition, or perhaps simply the additional experience of his years in the thane's service, that imbued him with the will to act.

"For Reorx and Thoradin!" he bellowed, his legs pumping as he rushed across the bridge - straight at the humans! The steel cleats of his boots chipped into the logs, propelling him with a quickness that obviously stunned the trio of Istarians.

"Stop him!" cried the centurion, his voice a mixture of alarm and surprise. "Shoot him!"

The crossbowman lowered his weapon, sighting with difficulty on Horgan's chest. Fortunately for him, the target grew larger with each pa.s.sing second. Unfortunately - again, from the bowman's perspective - the target did not behave predictably.

At the end of the bridge Horgan dove forward, tucked his body into a ball, and executed a forward roll. He heard the CLUNK of the crossbow and the curse of the shooter as his missile sped over the compact bundle of the dwarf's body.

Completing one somersault, the dwarf bounced to his feet, shield and axe poised and ready for battle. "Hah!" he shouted, looking up at the snorting bay. The quivering horse reared away from the strange figure.

"Heathen! Paladine will curse your impudence!"

bellowed the centurion, struggling to control his horse as the steed danced in agitation.

"Flee! Run back to Istar!" bellowed Horgan. He darted past the centurion and lunged at the two horses held by the second footman. The poor beasts stared in terror at thebounding, sputtering dwarf. In another instant, they broke and turned to gallop down the trail. The two footmen hesitated, then ran after them, not wanting to be left to walk through hostile territory.