Drax: lost king
- Ralph Springett
- Mar 16, 2020
- 20 min read
Drax has known Karr since her birth. When Karr was born Drax was staying at the Church parish at Keeton’s Keep. Keeton’s Keep was, and is, the last hamlet with a garrison and stone keep before the wild and untamed North Plains. At the time Drax was following a legend that the ancient lords of the North Plains had partnered with dwarves to build their castles and strongholds.
40 years later Drax walked up Keeton’s Keep’s only road, marvelling at the new buildings and stone church that had been recently completed. The Duff’s Mug, Keeton Keep’s only tavern, had also grown; stables and a livery had been added, but the frontage with its mean windows and low lintel were as he remembered.
The Keep itself had not changed. It looked down on the town from its perch on a rocky hill that marked the start of a ridgeline that rose and rose until it disappeared into the folds of the forest covered Serden mountains. Drax stopped outside the Duff’s Mug. It had been a long march, nine days on foot with only one day of relief from a trader with a wagon willing to offer a seat. Many had passed him on the roads that cut across the North Vale. They looked at him and hurried on. Not surprising, thought Drax. After years of adventuring Drax looked hard. A heavy set dwarf carrying arms; chain mail, and a large helm and shield hung off his pack, a war hammer used as an alpenstock in his hand, a natural resting scowl accentuated by out-of-control eyebrows and a beard that had its own ecosystem.
Duff’s Mug, he would meet Karr here. The trader he got a lift from thought Karr still worked the bar when it was busy. By the look of the bustling street, that would be often. Two trappers brushed past him, ducking as they entered the low door of the Mug. Around him carts and horses moved goods, people laughed and shouted and Drax saw dwarves on the road. Dwarves seemed to be everywhere now that he looked.
This is new, thought Drax, so many dwarves in this little town. Clearly what Karr had spoken of was not some youthful fantasy. The message she had sent seemed unbelievable when he received it weeks ago.
Drax had been working out of a small town south of the Alyan river. A minor parish of the Church of War had commissioned him to seek relics from a battle in a mountain pass. It was
dull work. He spent days in the rocky low hills, unsure of the location of the ancient battle, wondering what he was doing traipsing around alone. Pointless, depressing.
Reporting back to the parish, thinking he would tell them not to bother, a courtesy really, he could have just left, he was surprised to find the parish priest excited to see him. They had word from the Cardinal, a Gathering has been called. A gathering of the dwarven denomination of the Church of War.
“Exciting times indeed”, the grubby priest said, leaning on his rake in the parish vegetable plot. He was a big man, warrior stock, but he rocked when he walked, bad hip. He fossicked under his cloak and pulled out a scrap vellum with a broken wax seal, holding it aloft as if some religious sign.
“This came here and it has your name on it Drax”, he cried out. A farmer and his son stopped on the rough track that led past the low hall that served as a church and home for the priest. Drax could see others coming out of the homes nearby.
A group had gathered by the time the priest had ceremonially presented the ‘sacred message’ to Drax. They watched expectantly as Drax read the note.
The message was from Karr. It simply said that Drax was required at the Gathering; Keeton’s Keep.
Drax scowled at the eager faces of the small crowd. “You will sing songs of praise for my great deeds,’ he grumped, and turned away, heading north.
Drax stomped down the cloister, ramming the heel of his war hammer into the stone as he went, sending stone chips skittering across the flagstones. “Dickheads,” he said. “Just do something you pissy bag shirts,” he said, louder this time. The hub-bub in the church was settling. No doubt they are shaking their heads and tut-tutting, Drax thought. It’s pointless trying to get the Church to do anything. And now he will have to run to get to the rendezvous on time.
Karr had warned him. “They are locked in half dwarven, half human thinking. They can’t see that they are losing their whakapapa,” Karr was distraught. Even for her it was difficult to think beyond a life in Keeton’s Keep.
A day earlier, sitting in the Duff Mug after service, Karr had told Drax about her adventures in Backgammon's Peak; her death and miraculous revival, and the characters she adventured with. Drax’s heart beat faster, he saw himself in a great hall, carved out of a mountain and looking out on an open plain. He felt the weight of leadership on him and soaked up the glory of it.
“Hey, snap out of it Drax,” Karr chuckled, “you’ve got a week to get to Backgammon’s Peak and meet them. This is my reputation you're screwing with,” she said, suddenly serious.
Drax realised that, regardless of what happened with Backgammon’s Peak, these adventurers, Patron, Rona Lona and Fixlla, mattered to Karr. They will be shocked to see him at the council meeting tomorrow. Karr had gone behind the Church leaders to get a message to Drax and she would likely be called to account. Listening to her recount her adventures he understood that she had not sent the message to save him, but to save her adventurer friends.
As they said goodbye, part of Drax hoped she had reached out because of a fondness for him. She was a beauty; tiger’s eyes and auburn hair in tight ringlets around her face that made it hard to tell where her hair ended and beard started. Short and strong, what a woman, thought Drax, a vision to keep close in the months ahead.
The seven day run to the meeting point, where the road to Backgammon’s Peak weaved from the plains through the foothills to the peak itself, was helped by the cool nights and clear days of late summer. The rough trail was deserted. There was no township north of Keeton’s Keep to trade with. Tales of roaming bands of orcs had kept even the trappers and scavengers from venturing north.
Further north the North Plains degraded; blackened by a blight said to have come from an ancient battle. Drax knew the legends that had re-named the area as the Stinking Plains; legends that spoke of the end of the Age of Dwarves in the region. The dwarves that lived in the Heathmar Hills in the east and those of Keeton’s Keep were the remnants of a displacement, an exodus from the Forge Mountains north of the Stinking Plains following great battles that saw elves, dwarves and men overcome by beasts from the underworld.
It was generations ago but the pain remained raw for Drax. It was in the exodus that Drax had lost his line, his whakapapa. He had no way of proving what he felt so deeply: that he was royal stock, a dwarven king-in-waiting - it ate at his spirit, pushing feelings of despair to the surface in lonely moments.
As dawn broke on the meeting day Drax looked out from the line of low foothills he had chosen to travel along. Looking north he could see a puce-yellow line on the horizon marking the Stinking Plains. In the foreground the paved road that led to the Peak emerged from a fold in the land and disappeared into the grass of the plains to the east. That was the meeting point. Drax headed down through the long grass, keeping low.
Drax bristled as the party came into sight. There was a beast with them. Two elves, a human and a beast. They had three horses with a mountain of gear piled onto them. Drax had arrived at the causeway entrance at dawn. Looking west the causeway flagstones were visible through the tall grass. In the distance he could see a single leaning obelisk marking the start of the causeway proper. Beyond that, the morning mist obscured the causeway that weaved back through the foothills to Backgammon’s Peak.
As the adventurers approached Drax recognised the beast as an ogre. They stopped a short distance from him and one of the elves hailed him.
“What is that?” said Drax, pointing at the ogre.
“Beef,” said the elf, and smiled. “You know Karr?”
“Cousin’” said Drax.
“Let’s walk, I don’t want to be on the causeway at dusk,” said the other elf, leading his mount past. “Fixlla,” he said. “And you?”
“Drax,” said Drax, watching the ogre pass. The beast looked down at him. His helmet covered his face but Drax felt a sense of goodwill emanating from the beast.
“Grom,” it said, and followed Fixlla.
The other elf, presumably Patron, walked on and Drax matched his stride. The human woman hung back. Drax could feel her eyes on him as they walked.
With the sun behind them Backgammon’s Peak seemed to float in the distance, cut from the earth by a thick fog that lay across the valley ahead. Past the obelisk the grey grass turned thick and matted, clumping into mounds that looked to be both growing and rotting. The causeway became clear as the grass ceased to grow over the flagstones. As they walked the grass clumps on each side of the causeway parted and seemed to move about in the oily water. Thick fog lay heavy on the ground and an inescapable deep funk of rot seeped through Drax’s senses. This was a dark place, thought Drax. Everyone was on edge. The group walked close together, black water stretched over the causeway in places. The sun was gone, replaced by a sickly shadow light.
Suddenly the ogre plunged deep into the water in the middle of the submerged causeway. He twisted, stopping himself on a flagstone edge before his head went under. A flagstone is missing under the slick water, thought Drax, and the ogre did not find the bottom. Drax hated deep water.
The ogre hauled himself out, but before he could stand a fat black tentacle snaked from the water and coiled around his leg. Then he was gone. Dragged under. Black bubbles belching smoke as they broke on the surface where the Grog had disappeared.
Patron had grabbed a rope and hook from his saddlebags, slinging it into the water and tying it off on the pommel of his monunt’s saddle. A minute passed, the water swirled and then settled. The elves looked at each other, shaking their heads.
Suddenly Grom broke the surface gasping and thrashing for the edge. He was holding his battle axe in one hand. The elves helped him out and as they pulled him from the water the black tentacle fell from his leg and flopped onto the causeway. It was as thick as a man’s torso where it had been cut from the leviathan.
A new respect dawned in Drax. Under the dark water Grom had chopped himself free and found the flagstone hole to escape. Legend. Definitely good beef. We should pole our way forward from here, thought Drax.
They spent the night in the beech forest that had replaced the swamp on either side of the causeway. Their progress through the swamp had been slow but uneventful. As daylight receded so did the water on the causway. The air cleared and Drax could see a few early evening stars through the forest canopy. The causeway flagstones flattened and tightened. Drax knelt and examined the stonework. The joins were so tight that plants could not find purchase. Other than leaves and a few branches from the overhanging trees the causeway was clear and clean. The low palisade along each edge had drainage channels and gaps, and the flagstones were set so that water would run off, cleaning the surface each time it rained heavily.
Drax was impressed. Dwarven work, he thought, his skin prickling with rare emotion.
They broke camp before dawn. Patron described to Grom and Drax the causeway bridge a mile or so before the first tower of Backgammon’s peak. It had been half a year since they were here last. The elves and Rona Lona were concerned that orcs may have overcome the Wolfen that lived around the main entrance to the peak. It was decided that they would circumnavigate the mountain through the forest and look for a way in on the east face.
Grom seemed more interested in the orcs, saying he preferred to know where his enemies lay. The party stopped 100 feet or so ahead of the sunlit bridge. As the bridge crossed the little valley, the forest canopy dropped, lighting the bridge and providing a clear view of Backgammon’s Peak. The Peak’s rocky slopes and sheer cliffs looked impossible to scale, but Drax could see windows and towers in places, suggesting a network of chambers and corridors within.
High above the mountain a magnificent bird hung in the air.
“That’s Jihm,” said Patron, pointing up. “The orcs are back, and there's more of them.”
“Do that invisible thing and I’ll go have a look,” said Grom, looking at Patron and starting to unbuckle his armour.
Rona Lona said “Priest, Drax. Can you silence Grom? Do some spell to make him silent?” She looked directly at Drax and held his eye. Not really a question.
“Sure,” said Drax. Immediately unsure why he acquiesced.
They led the horses down wide deep steps into the valley the bridge spanned. Each step was big enough for a horse to stand on comfortably. The steps twisted back, going under the bridge and ending on a paved area just above the valley floor. Patron pointed to a similar platform on the other side of the valley.
“That takes you up to the causeway.” he said to Grom, “Don’t get too close, we just want to know how many there might be.” Patron made some signs in the air between himself and Grom, snapped his fingers, chanted a few lines and then slowly lowered his hands. As his hands lowered Grom began to disappear from top to bottom. In a few seconds Grom was gone.
Drax stepped forward and prayed. On one knee, in front of where Grom had been standing, Drax brought forth a prayer of silence, cloaking Grom with a divine silence that would follow him for the next hour.
They sat about under the bridge, waiting for Grom.
The horses sensed Grom’s return. Drax washed the silence away, he preferred to know where the ogre was. Patron waved his hand and Grom appeared. They stood close and listened to Grom’s report.
Grom described emerging from the forest and approaching a tower that looked over the causeway. To one side of the tower was a courtyard. “Behind that,” he said, the mountain is all you can see. The causeway goes on to the big arched entrance, perhaps half a mile away.”
“I didn’t go past the first tower,” he said. “Wargs, at least three in the courtyard. One of those sniffer orcs too. Can’t be that many unless they are down at the main entrance.”
They agreed to circumnavigate Backgammon’s Peak and look for a way in through the East Face, an open hall that looks out from one of the sheer cliffs on the Peak’s lower slopes. Patron said it was about a day’s march west.
They travelled quickly to begin with, along the valley floor. What Drax had thought a dry river bed was, in fact, a paved road. The forest had broken the stones apart and soon all sign of paving disappeared. Drax felt eyes on him. When he looked into the forest, he saw nothing.
The valley flattened and through the trees Drax could see the Peak on his right. The barely visible road they followed met a sparkling river. The party stopped and drank from the river. Patron told Grom and Drax about a pride of jungle cats, panthers they had seen in the forest. Then he spoke of a pack of wolfen, half man, half dog that roamed the forest too. Drax was not sure if it was made up or real. Ronal Lona and Fixlla listened but said nothing.
“If you see them, don’t be a dick,” said Patron, tying his waterskin back on to his horse’s saddle. They marched on, still heading west, and left the broken road and river, winding their way along an overgrown single track.
As the sun left the tree tops they emerged to a clearing. In the centre, a ring of standing stones caught the last of the sunlight. Behind the ring of stones Backgammon’s peak stood massive and looming, all black shadows and bright rock in the late sun. Just above the treeline sheer cliffs extended hundreds of feet upwards, and in the middle of those cliffs Drax could see an open hall, lit golden to the rear wall by the late sun. East Face.
Rona Lona walked to the centre of the ring of standing stones. The rough black stones were massive, standing at least 20 feet tall. There were seven of them. In the centre a low rounded stone rose a few feet from the ground. Rona Lona knelt in front of the low stone and lay her hands on it. They rested and tended the horses. The moon set in the west. It would be a dark night. Drax needed rest. It had been hard going through the forest and 8 days of forced march before that.
Before midnight Rona Lona nudged him with her boot. “Orcs are coming, we’re moving,” she said. The others were rousing. Soon they were all busy, readying the horses, eating dry rations. “How good are you at running?” Rona Lona said with a sly smile to Drax.
They jogged north back into the dense forest. Distant orcish howls and war cries became clearer. Orc and wargs, moving fast. Drax could not see how they could outrun them.
They crossed a river and the ground began to slope up, the trees thinned and underbrush cleared. The war cries of the orcs became more urgent, they knew they were close.
Patron stopped and spoke gently to his horse, forehead to forehead. He dropped some of the bags from its back and gave it a slap on its rump, sending it charging over the ridge. The other two horses bolted after it and they disappeared north.
Drax dropped his pack behind a rock that sat at the top of a short rise. The forest was open here, with conifers rising around them in a hollow that sloped up to where Drax, Patron and Rona Lona had dropped their gear. The first light of dawn was starting to cut the darkness and the cries of the orcs and guttural sounds of the wargs filled the air. Rona Lona, crouched behind a jutting rock, was setting her crossbow; Grom stood solid in the basin below, crossbow in one hand, great axe in the other; Fixlla has climbed one of the trees overlooking the area; Patron stood overlooking the space with a short thin staff in his hands.
Looking at the scene it was clear to Drax that this was a do or die stand. The others seemed okay with that, there was no exit strategy, just some high ground they were hoping to leverage - fucking crazy shit, Drax thought.
The wargs burst into sight, three of them with light riders. They barrelled into the hollow as three armoured Uruk-hai appeared out of the gloom further down the slope. Orcish cries and whoops filled the air. More were coming that Drax could not yet see.
A line of fire erupted from Patron’s staff, searing past Drax and smacking the lead warg in the face. The entire scene erupted in a blue-red fireball centred on the three wargs. The blinding fire light obscured Drax’s sight for a moment. He heard Rona Lona’s crossbow release. Grom was shouting.
“Well that was fucked,” cursed Rona Lona.
Drax could see two of the Wargs burning, one rolling, blinded. One of the Uruk-hai had fallen with a crossbow bolt deep in its gut. Two more, seeing Grom, charged on. Grom was looking back at Rona Lona, questioning, a crossbow bolt clean through his upper arm.
A second searing jet of fire erupted from Patron’s staff striking the downed Uruk-hai. The fireball that followed engulfed the two wargs and one of the Urik-hai charging towards Grom. Drax leaped from the rocks and charged the Uruk-hai, relishing the opportunity to call the Dwarven gods of war to the frey.
Grom was good, even left handed. His two handed battle axe swung easily in one hand. The two Uruk-hai were hardened scrappers and Drax found himself backing up. He realised this could still go either way. He heard arrows whistling by, the remaining warg crying out, a gurgling, sick sound. Down the valley the orcish cries had changed tone. There was another sound rising. The growl and roar of big cats.
He concentrated on the Uruk-hai in front of him, and took a bone shaking strike to his right leg. The beast towered over him - he was struggling to get past the fury of its attack. Blow after blow rained on him. Over his head a crossbow bolt struck the beast in the shoulder, slipping past the armour, its feathers protruding a few inches. Grom dropped his shield and swung his hammer two handed in a flat arc, striking the orc on the side of its knee and buckling its leg.
He pressed his attack, exhausting his strength with blow after blow landing on the crippled beast. Drax emerged from his savage assault sucking breath and covered in orcish blood. Grom looked at him, and then the bolt through his arm. He shook his head. There was no sign of the Uruk-hai that had been facing Grom. Rona Lona was pulling her spear from the ground near Grom.
The forest was quiet. Three burned wargs lay about, bristling with long elven arrows. Further down the valley Drax could see some shadowy movement. But no orcs.
“What happened to the orcs?” asked Drax to no one in particular. Pointing a shaky hand down the valley.
“The cats got ‘em,” said Patron, “Lucky really. I’m still not sure if they are friends. But, it looks like they hate us less than they hate orcs.”
They sat among the rocks at the top of the rise and washed up. Below, one of the wargs cried pitifully. Grom came to Drax and held out his skewered arm. Taking a closer look Drax realised it was not an orcish bolt; it looked like one of Lona Rona’s. Drax looked up and caught Rona Lona’s eye. She shrugged and pulled a face. Whatever.
It took some time to extract the bolt and channel the Lord’s power to heal the wound. Drax needed some time to heal his own cuts and bruises. It was late morning before they were well enough to travel. Through the trees Drax could see Backgammon’s Peak and the sheer cliff they were heading for with its open chamber at the top.
It took most of the afternoon to get to the base of the cliff. With his back to the cliff Drax could see the forested valley they had just traversed. Patron pointed to a cut in the ridge on the far side of the valley, explaining it was another way of reaching Keeton’s Keep from the south. The sun had lowered to the top of the mountains in the west and was casting their shadows against the cliff. The cliff was at least a hundred feet high. Cracks and fissures covered its surface, with trees and bushes growing in unlikely places across the dark rocky face. Patron pulled some rope from his pack and Drax did the same. Could be enough, he thought, looking for the best way up.
Patron tied the two ropes together, grabbed one end and tied it around his waist. Muttering a few words, he made a sign with his hands and looked up. He started to rise, levitating. Using rocks and plants to stay close to the cliff face, he ascended the cliff, reaching the open cavern before the rope ran out. So, just under 100 feet.
It was well dark by the time they gathered at the top. Fixlla had an uncanny climbing ability, scaling the rougher areas without using the rope. Grom came last, taking care not to put his whole weight on the rope. The room that opened to the cliff smelt putrid. Something had died here. The room was large with a vaulted ceiling and what looked to be a stage against the back wall. To the left Drax could see a small door near the back, to the right, a wide corridor with something partially blocking the entrance. Nothing moved. Patron was keen to climb to the top of Backgammon’s peak through the internal network of tunnels. He said he wanted to meet Jihm, the giant eagle they had seen circling the peak from the causeway the day before. Patron led them past the mound in the wide exit: a desiccating carcass, described as a geriatric Manticore by Patron.
“Nasty enough though,” said Fixlla, putting his hand on his arm as if checking it was there.
Rona Lona pulled a pendant from her neckline and the scene was bathed in a low light that emanated from a crystal on a rough cord around her neck. The bones of the Manticore blushed white where they jutted from the leathery carcass. Drax held his breath as he passed, the stench so thick he could taste it.
The corridor turned to wide curving stairs heading down. But Patron pushed through a rotten wooden door just before the stairs started, taking them back behind the hall. The room beyond was small with a solid square table in the centre taking most of the space. Patron was working to open a stone door in the far corner. As Drax passed through he noted the mason’s skill. Stone veneer on a hardwood door. A secret passage behind the stage. Very nice, but not dwarven work.
The corridor branched to the left. Patron continued. The ceiling arched and the walls lost their cut stone finish, widening and then twisting and rising. Steps leading up appeared. They continued on and up, resting periodically. After several hours of trudging up stairs, switching direction, and even going down at times, Drax saw flagstones on the floor and the corridor spilled out to a small room finished with dressed stone. The only exit led to a flight of circular stairs going up. The cut stone was not worn from use. Nothing but a lick of slime coated the steps.
Ten minutes of climbing stairs and Drax could smell the difference in the air. Something thick was catching in the back of his throat. But it came and went, alongside a cleaner scent, fresh air, accompanied by the sound of wind.
The stairs ended in a small chamber with a rotting wooden door. Patron pushed through and the smell of decay back-filled the space. The grand room beyond was open to the night sky at the far end. Here the wooden roof had collapsed along with a section of the stone wall. Small creatures scuttled over a low mound of carrion in the centre of the room. Patron skirted around to the right and entered a dark doorway. The others followed. Drax could tell the others had been here before; they took no notice of the putrefying corpse and ducked thrugh the doorway without a thought.
The doorway led to a slim vaulted hall. One wall was dominated by a wooden bookcase, its uppermost shelves some 20 feet from the ground. A ladder on a rail ran the length of the shelves. The books looked old and beyond repair. One section, near the top, had several larger books that had straps and chains preventing them from being removed. Patron and Fixlla lounged in some old leather seats set around a low table in the centre of the space. Shuttered windows on the far wall made the room feel like a chapple. They must be high up in Backgammon’s Peak.
They rested until light began to show through the shutters. Patron stood, announced he was going to speak with Jihm the eagle and left. Grom followed a few minutes later. Rona Lona looked at Fixlla and raised her eyebrows. They stood and headed for the door, looking back to Drax and motioning him to join them.
Early daylight lit the room beyond. Much of the far wall and part of the ceiling had collapsed. In the centre spread the rotting carcass of a 30 foot long worm. Sunk across its middle lay a giant black beetle, it's armoured head and mandibles shattered and broken.
“Swallowed Karr whole'', said Fixlla, pointing to the worm, “Had to cut him out”. He went around the carcass and through a small door. Drax followed him into a round room ringed with high thin windows. In the centre an ornate staircase disappeared into the floor. Through tall double doors opposite the stairs Drax could see a bright paved area that looked to be outside. Fixlla and Rona Lona had stopped just inside the doors and were looking out.
As he neared the stairs Drax could see a low mound of coins and jumbled objects on the far side of the room. Beyond that, up against the wall, lay the corpse of a long lizard. From the head of the stairs Drax could see out of the double doors. In the distance lay a flat horizon, the low sun fusing land and sky. Closer, he could see the giant eagle, Jihm. Grom and Patron were nowhere in sight.
It was clear to Drax that the party had been here before. The slain creatures and the lack of fear of the giant eagle confirmed their familiarity. Sunlight was streaming through the doors and the high slit windows, forming strips of bright stone on the far wall.The high windows showed sky in all directions. This must be the very top of Backgammon’s Peak thought Drax. This place was built by Dwarves and ruled by men. Men who failed to protect, failed to hold.
Incredible that I am here. A sense of right, of correctness, flooded over Drax. This is my place, my purpose - and I will take what is rightfully mine. I can, and I should be, Lord of this place. These feelings, and just being here as these momentous events unfold confirms my disputed lineage; this is my destiny. A hardness settled on Drax. Years of bitter dispute; years of wandering, searching, not knowing, formed a tight knot in his heart. There is no going back. I am from the stock of kings and they will know that and be shamed.
Drax barked a sarcastic laugh; an ugly sound laced with pain and hard determination. Rona Lona turned to look at him and Drax saw her face change. He turned away, muttering something about the sun being in his eyes. These people are not his friends he told himself. They take what is his. They will help him and then hurt him - that is their way. That is the way of the world and it is worse with the Dwarves. All of them, except for Karr. Karr was different. Karr understood. With Karr by his side he could command them all.
Comments