Year 3632, the Sixth Age, the forty-sixth day of Winter

Bārdin was in a good mood as he gazed westwards from the battlements of the old fort on the western side of Woodlands. A light snow had fallen in the night and the landscape was covered in a sheet of white which turned a brilliant orange as Inüer crested the eastern horizon. Last night had been the Winter solstice and the locals of Woodlands had made a grand celebration for the Festival of Eternal Dark, which celebrated death.

Bārdin and most of his dwarven comrades had joined in the festivities as the relationship between them and the villages had considerably improved. The festival had also been a celebration of the completion of the temple the dwarves had been building. A slight grin came to Bārdin’s face for the new temple of Artāre was a work of art, magnificent dwarven art. With the wood and stone he and his clan had been provided with they had crafted a great structure with a large dome ceiling with many stain glass windows that bathed the inside of the sept with a cascades of light. At the centre of the temple stood a beautifully carved statue of Artāre, which even the locals observed with admiration. The knight Sverth had even proclaimed that the new temple was a crowning achievement and was an example to what the Elder Races and humans could do when they work together.

Bārdin leaned against the railing of the battlement, his elbow pushing some snow off the edge, and he nodded to himself in agreement with Sir Sverth’s words.

Even though the villages and the dwarves were on friendly terms now Bārdin had decided that it was best that he and his clan still camp in the ruins of this old fort.

Bārdin scratched his dirty blonde beard and looked about the ruins of the fort that was once known as Fort Darkard, and was used during the war with Gildon in the Third Age. Stone towers that once stood tall had now crumbled and much of the walls had fallen down along with the inside of the barracks, but the courtyard was large enough to house his hundred or so clan members comfortably.

“Warm ale, me King?” asked Drünarg, his first Captain, as he came up the steps and onto the walkway.

Bārdin nodded in thanks and took the mug as Drünarg lent on the railing beside him.

“Still smoke at Gun dürin,” Drünarg remarked as he looked to the west.

Again Bārdin nodded and looked across the flat land to the base of the Iron Mountains where a column of black smoke still drifted into the morning.

“How goes the work of carving them Runes into that armour for Lord Brank?” Bārdin asked after he took a long drink of the warm ale.

“Nearly finished,” Drünarg replied, “Another day perhaps. And the finishing touches are being put onto the temple. All going well we could be out of here by tomorrow’s morning.”

“Good,” Bārdin nodded.

“I was just starting to get used to these folk too,” Drünarg let out a gruff laugh.

Bārdin downed the rest of his ale and headed from the battlements, Drünarg right behind him.

“Get a pony saddled up,” Bārdin decided, “I am going to have a look and see if I can’t find what’s causing the smoke at Gun dürin.”

“Me King, I would not recommend you going alone,” Drünarg tried to argue, but Bārdin would not hear it.

“I didn’t ask for your recommendations,” Bārdin snapped, “I asked you to saddle me a pony.”

Drünarg looked as if he wanted to argue but he nodded his head and departed Bārdin’s company. After a few minutes of rummaging around in his tent Bārdin emerged with an eager grin on his face and quickly jumped atop the pony that Drünarg had brought.

“I’ll be fine,” Bārdin laughed as he took up the slack in the reins, “Probably a small group of Grenlocks is all. I’ll be back tomorrow morning and I expect you will have everyone ready to leave.”

“Of course me King,” Drünarg nodded, but a concerned look remained upon his face.

Bārdin ignored it and kicked his pony into a trot and out the gates of Fort Darkard. The snow covered Field of Fallden spread wide about him as his little pony kicked the white powder into the crisp morning air. To the south Bārdin could see the northern reaches of Kalladen and the Foglornt Forest, and to the north the clouds were heavy over the Broiling Moors.

Back in the Third Age when the united armies of humans and Elder Races destroyed Gildon these fields were the battlegrounds as the army marched on Gun dürin. Although all remnants of the war had vanished, Fallden still held an ominous air, and if the black smoke had been coming from anywhere other than Gun dürin, Bārdin would have likely ignored it.

The distance to Gun dürin was very deceptive considering how incredibly flat the Field of Fallden was, and it was past midday by the time the mountains were almost on top of him and an old road showed itself among the grass. By now the snow had melted but the day still held a chill and a shiver ran up Bārdin’s spine as ancient and tortured trees began to line the road. Pale white was the bark of the dead trees and what limbs remained were twisted and cruel.

As he rode slowly along the path curved around the base of the mountain and to the black city of Gun dürin appeared above the pale trees, the plume of black smoke still drifting up from within its walls.

Gun dürin was once a beautiful city of humans and rivalled Crydon for prosperity, so much so that before Gildon arrived and twisted it to his evil purpose, several of the past Kings of Krnōrel made Gun dürin the seat of their power.

Even before the Kings of the humans claimed it as theirs it belonged to the Valenthōr of the Foglornt and the dwarves of Grün Narād.

But that was a story Bārdin was always sceptical about and he never thought that Valenthōr and dwarves could live happily in a city together.

As Bārdin gazed on the black iron gates of Gun dürin he did not believe that it could have been built by his ancestors and the Valenthōr. Built around the base of the mountain the city was carved into the rocks as it climbed towards the heights. Every stone was black and burnt and held together by iron supports that were rusting and ugly. What houses there had been were now mostly piles of rubble covered by thorny and twisted vines. Even the road and steps that led up into the sloping tiers of the city were broken or cracked.

Bārdin kicked his pony onwards but the steed was skittish and she reared and back away from the gates. Cursing the beast Bārdin dropped from the saddle and led the pony away from the gates before tiring her loosely to a dead tree. The pony still seemed scared but Bārdin was hopeful that it would not bolt in fear, leaving him without a ride back to Woodlands.

With his axe in one hand Bārdin walked confidently into the tortured city of Gun dürin. His heavy boots echoed loudly off the stone and throughout the city as he made his way up the main road and towards the column of smoke that continued to billow at the peak of the city where the royal castle still stood. A cold wind picked up and moaned throughout the empty streets, its hollow sound sending a shiver up Bārdin’s spine. Bārdin’s breathing sounded overly loud in his ears and each echoing step made him glance about nervously. The city was so silent, the very air seeming to freeze his throat and lunges, and Bārdin was also having an annoying feeling that each step he was making was being watched.

The walk to the top of the city was slow but he made it to the castle with nothing attacking him from the shadows. But that did little to ease the tension in the air or dry the clamminess of his palms.

He moved up the last of the steps and onto the wide courtyard in front of the castles door, and in the middle of the courtyard was the remains of a great bonfire which was still sending smoke into the air.

Bārdin’s eyes became wide as half a dozen archers suddenly appeared in front of him with their bows loaded and aimed at him.

The whole of the courtyard was also suddenly occupied by hundreds of forms, and so shocked was Bārdin that it took him several minutes until he realised that they were Zirarien.

“Welcome, Bārdin son of Bain, to Gun dürin,” Came a calm greeting as a Blood Elf moved through the crowd, and the archers lowered their bows.

“Baelor?” Bārdin roared, “What in the Abyss is going on here?”

“Many things,” Baelor replied as he stopped in front of Bārdin, “But first I would like you to tell me how you even knew something was happening here.”

“Your smoke from your bon fire is going hundreds of feet into the air, you daft fool,” Bārdin snapped.

A concerned expression came of Baelor’s face and he glanced behind him to his assistant Fanriel.

“I gave no command to lower the field of illusion,” Baelor growled, “Find out who went against me orders.”

“I did it,” laughed someone in the crowd, “It ain’t no fun if no one knows we are here.”

The Zirariens parted as Baelor looked for the speaker and revealed a short bald headed man with bare feet and a chimera tattoo on the side of his head.

“I explicitly said that we need to wait for more to gather before taking such an action,” Baelor growled loudly, “You will not do it again. This field of illusion is to stay in place until I give the order for it to be otherwise.”

Baelor turned back to Bārdin and the bald man made a face at the Zirarien.

“What’s going on Baelor?” Bārdin asked seriously.

“Freedom, liberty and equality,” Baelor replied in a similar tone, “Humans will adhere to our demands or I will burn their cities to the ground.”

“You’re starting a war you cannot win,” Bārdin remarked and shook his head.

“We will win,” Baelor replied seriously, “Or we will die for our cause. Join with us Bārdin, end the oppression from the humans and stand tall without the fear of being struck down.”

“You don’t get it Baelor,” Bārdin shook his head, “You won’t get that through war, it can only be achieved through understanding each other.”

“Human lover,” someone cursed from the crowd.

Baelor studied Bārdin closely for a few minutes and nodded his head.

“That is your view and I will not try and change it,” Baelor said, “I know you will do the same and not reveal our plans to anyone.”

Bārdin hesitated, but he nodded stiffly in agreement.

“But I have to ask: do you really believe that if humans understand you they will accept you as an equal?” Baelor continued, his pale green eyes never leaving Bārdin’s gaze. “Do you think that they will not try and fight when they foolishly believe they have a greater claim to your lands than you do? Do you think they will simply sit back as if nothing has changed and accept it?”

“Yes,” Bārdin replied gruffly, “After what I have experienced in Woodlands I believe that.”

A maniacal laugh erupted from among the crowd of Zirariens and all heads turned to see the bald headed man holding his sides in amusement.

“What in the Abyss is wrong with you Elardōre?” Baelor asked with concern.

The world will burn,

It will start with Woodlands turn.

Fire, fire, blood and fire,

The world’s time becomes dire.

Run little dwarf back to where you came,

For your kin are dying and the humans just the same.

Elardōre finished his little rhyme and began laughing again, and everyone else looked to each other in confusion.

However the crazy man’s words struck terror into Bārdin’s heart and he spun around and looked to the direction of Woodlands.

“No,” Bārdin gasped as he saw black smoke rising from the trees of Woodlands.

Without saying a word of farewell Bārdin raced down the steps and through the city, the crazed laughter of Elardōre chasing him with each step.

Thankfully his little pony was waiting for him outside the city and Bārdin jumped on and galloped away from Gun dürin, across the Fields of Fallden and towards the burning Woodlands.

Terror gripped him as his pony tore across the grass. Bārdin did not even register the passing of time but it was becoming dark by the time the trees of Woodlands were around him. The smoke was thick about the trees and dells and the red glow filtered between the leaves.

The trees suddenly parted before him and red fire stung his eyes. Bārdin’s pony became suddenly frightened and reared, throwing him to the ground.

With a shrill whinny the pony ran back into the trees leaving Bārdin staggering to his feet and began moving through the burning town. Strewn about the roads were the blood and bodies of men and women and even children, most human, but many were dwarven.

Bārdin almost collapsed and began to weep when he saw the newly built temple with billowing smoke and flames pouring out of the windows and door. A loud crack suddenly sounded and the dome ceiling crumbled into the inferno.

All about the front of the temple were dozen of dwarven corpses lying atop even more dead humans. Bārdin wandered about the bodies his mouth agape and tears streaking his face.

The sound of crying came to Bārdin’s ears and he slowly followed the sound around the side of an overturned cart and to where the young knight Sverth was hunched over the corpse of his noble horse.

“Sverth,” Bārdin croaked loudly and the knight jumped to his feet, sword in hand.

“Master Bārdin, you are alive,” Sverth exclaimed as he wiped the tears from his eyes and sheathed his sword.

“What … How?” Bārdin managed to stammer and looked again to the many bodies around the place.

“I don’t really know,” the knight replied, “One minute Lord Brank was looking at his new armour at the town square. Then he refused to pay. . .next minute there were swords drawn. Someone attacked someone else. . .before I realised the whole town was rioting. The villagers. . .they were attacking non-humans, as well as any human that tried to defend them. I. . . I tried to stop it, but the mob. . . they pulled me from my horse, hating me for siding with the non-humans. They killed. . . they killed my horse who tried to defend me. There was so much death. . .so much blood.”

Bārdin let out a deep breath and looked back to his fallen clan members, he sniffed back a tear and just stood there not knowing what to do.

“Here’s another bastard dwarf,” came a shout down the road where a group of five villages were coming towards them, clubs and swords in their hands.

A sudden fire burned within Bārdin and he readied his axe.

“Wait,” yelled Sir Sverth and he moved in front of Bārdin and towards the mob. “Enough of this senseless slaughter.”

“Don’t be a fool boy, you can’t reason with this lot,” Bārdin snapped at the knight, but Sverth would not listen. “They got the taste for blood an’ are wantin’ more. Well I’ll give it to them. But it’ll be their blood this time.”

“Kill the dwarf and his human lover,” one from the mob shouted and they all charged.

Sverth backed away and behind the overturned cart as he drew his sword. But Bārdin waited for the group, his axe resting easily in his hands.

The leader of the mob swung his sword at Bārdin’s head, but he easily deflected it with a slap of his axe and responded by cutting back the other way and severing the man’s leg. Keeping his momentum going Bārdin twisted under another attackers swing and opened up his gut. The third villager ran at him, thinking to impale him with a pitch fork, but again Bārdin easily slapped it aside and lopped off the man’s head with one swing.

The other two villagers had broken off from the main group to kill Sverth, but as Bārdin went back around the overturned wagon he saw that Sverth had killed them both. Although, Bārdin’s shoulders slumped when he saw the valiant knight lying with his back against his fallen horse, his empty eyes staring into the trees and his hands clutching at the wound in his chest.

Bārdin turned to leave, but a strained cough caught his attention and he noticed that one of the villagers who attacked Sverth was still alive. Slowly Bārdin walked over the man who was slumped up against a tree holding his gut.

“Help. . .me,” the villager stammered as he drew near.

Bārdin recognised the villager, but his eyes were hard.

“Please. . .help me. . .” The villager croaked, his bloody hand reach towards Bārdin.

Bārdin nodded slowly and a slight smile came to the villagers face. But that smile soon vanished as Bārdin raised his axe slowly. The villager tried desperately to crawl away and raised a shaky arm to defend himself, but one swing of Bārdin’s axe severed the feeble defence and stopped the man from moving.  

Not even thinking to wipe his axe clean Bārdin turned from the burning temple and the rest of the town of Woodlands and walked slowly into the forest.

Three days later Bārdin found himself walking through the black gates of Gun dürin.