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| Iron Tiger |
| Khundrukar, Deepingdale
5 Eleasis to 20 Marpenoth, the Year of Rogue Dragons (1373 DR) The first death came on a summer evening. The sun plated the mountains in gold, and drew great bloody gashes across the sky. The air was warm and still wet from last night's rain. My tribe foraged through the narrow valleys, gathering nuts and berries and small game when it could be found. I moved across the knife-sharp peaks alone; King Geode wished to discuss preparations for the coming winter. My people did not fully understand how the seasons changed here in their new home. In Chult, winter is a time when the heat grows less oppressive and rain falls less frequently. Many of them still laugh when I tell them of snow, hooting at the stories I tell of my trek through a blizzard as I sought the portal to return to them. But Geode�s people understand; I understand. I have seen the killing winters in these mountains, I have felt the cold on my hot flesh, I have seen the wonder and devastation of a mountain blanketed in snow. We will not be able to gather food as we did in the jungle, and game will grow scarce. As the air grows chill and the animals begin to sleep, they will see that I have not been telling them stories. We must decide if we are to move to lower lands, perhaps to the forests of Cormanthor, or if we will stay with our brothers in the depths of Khundrukar. Geode will welcome us; his kin have grown prosperous in this last year. But many among my tribe may not enjoy the cramped, smoky tunnels under the mountains; they love the free air. I do not know what my people will decide. I came to Khundrukar as the sun�s great eye began to close, traveling to the far side of the world for his rest. Long shadows grew out of the strong stone buildings the Black Ones have built in the Valley of the Stone Tooth. The black granite of Moradin�s Spike still caught the dying light. Many Black Ones strode heavily through the shadowed valley, finishing tasks and packing up their tools. I leapt from rock to rock, silently thanking the spirit tiger that guided my steps. Delmuth Kuskin, her face a mask of sweat-streaked dust, glittered with white teeth as she smiled and greeted me. Her mouth moved; she said something. I heard a cat�s killing roar. Before I realized what I was doing I found my hands filled with cold metal claws, my little Banshee Claw thrumming in anticipation of blood. For a moment I wondered why the White Tiger had decided to speak through Delmuth, and what it might be saying. But the snap of her neck and the look of sudden alertness on her ashen face told me that it was not the guardian spirit that had spoken. Voices called out, weapons leapt from their sheaths. Within seconds the Black Ones were armed and searching for the source of the roar. I dipped within myself to find the feline balance that would stretch my senses beyond the limits of dwarven perception. I stalked the alleys in a battle crouch, leaping from roof to roof, sniffing the air. Nothing but stone dust and the tang of iron. A voice called out. Bentar found the body. It was Feltan, one of the apprentice blacksmiths. Blade shattered, throat ripped out, the mark of a claw that rent his armored chest, tracks of a great cat in the pooling blood that swifty disappeared. A shiver ran down my spine. A tiger? I did not want to disrespect Feltan�s death by worrying Geode about unimportant matters. But he insisted. So much like us, our brothers in the north; like my father, Geode will never allow pain or grief to get in the way of his work, whether the work is forging, fighting, or leading his people. We understood each other, I think, despite our vast differences�we were both new chiefs among our people, struggling to choose the right path for so many others. It drew us together in the same way that combat had. We watched eath other's backs.. I stayed for two days before heading back to my tribe, satisfied with the knowledge that there would be enough food, water, and room for us in the Glitterhame. But Feltan was not the last one to die. My heart sank when I heard about Roark. The Darkhammer was one of my greatest friends among the Black Ones; he reminded me of my friend Sage. Wizards are not common among the Black Ones, just as they are rare among my people, but Roark was an ancient master of dwarven magics. He was the only other, besides Geode, to remember Durgeddin. He had been the Black Smith�s teacher in the days before Khundrukar had been built. He did not die by fang or claw, but by the hand of fate. The rope of his life, woven in the dawn of time by the gods, finally ran out; he died at his forge, his heart too weak to continue beating, still infusing an axe with the magic to cleave through its enemies. It was not a death I envied�like my people, I still believe that the only honorable death is in battle�but I understood enough of the Black Ones� ways to understand that they measure honor differently. Roark died working, spending his life's last breath on a weapon that would defend his people. I clutched my wife to me as Sonlinnor Grimlorn spoke the Rite of Passing. The gathered tribes of the Black Smith and the White Tiger stood before Moradin�s Spike in silence. Soon it would be over, and Roark would be entombed beneath the temple along with the other heroes of Khundrukar. Along with Tossel, my brother, my friend. Kuitu�s hand squeezed mine in return. I looked at her, knowing that I would find strength in her loving eyes. She stood, strong and proud and unafraid before the specter of death. Maybe it was easy for her, with the new life of our child growing in her belly. My children, I should say, for Dwergal had said that her womb had been visited by the Thunder Blessing, and she would bear twins. The rite drew to a close, Dwergal finishing with a spell that would allow him to speak with the soul of Roark in order to tell him that he was dead, but not to fear, for he angels of Moradin would come soon to bear him away to Dwarfhome. The spell sputtered and died on his lips. Dwergal lowered his head in confusion, shame, or fear. Perhaps all three. Geode strode forward to clap the sonlinnor on the back. �What�s wrong, Dwergal? Can�t ye complete the rite?� Dwergal looked up, his face ashen. �N-n-no,� he sputtered. �Roark�s spirit is...� Is what? �It�s gone,� he finished. A gasp shuddered through the assembled dwarves. Geode narrowed his eyes. �What do ye mean, gone? Where�d it bloody go?� Dwergal shook his head. �Just gone, me king. Gone somewhere where I cannot reach. Lost.� Lost. The tomb shuddered and closed. They kept dying. One smith after another. Telyruin in his own smithy, the body burning over the forge. Marnwin as he stood within earshot of a patrol, relieving himself against a boulder. Jorga as she went down to the river for water. Dular as he chased down the creature that ripped Jorga�s head off. Delph, Arorn, Olan, Dorn, Claggin, Gard, Erum... even Ojibindi of my tribe, who used to boil leather and chip flint for the warriors until the Black Ones began to teach him the secrets of steel. They kept dying until only the Black Smith was left. He was not of the Black Ones� clan, it was said; he was a gold dwarf from Hillsfar. But he was the greatest smith within a thousand miles; he had taught the great Shooma of Brindinford. He had heeded Geode�s call, and he was one of them now. They called him the Black Smith because he was always covered in soot, foul-smelling and so dirty that one couldn�t tell the color of his skin or his hair. He was a god among the Black Ones; he knew iron the way Anacard knew herbs, they way Tossel knew gold, the way Centas knew art. He was a master. He was the last smith left. Geode became a king at war, leading patrols in his battered armor, setting traps for the mysterious predator, using every tactic he could think of to stop the slaughter of his people. But the patrols found nothing and the traps caught only the corpses of blacksmiths. He roared with fury, filling his people with hope by the sheer ferocity of his anger. But I saw more of him than the Great King he wanted his people to see; I held him as he wept for his murdered kin. �Geode,� I said, �Do not give up.� �There ain�t nothing I can do, Rog. Fucking nothing.� His whole body shook with the rage in his voice. �The beast just keeps on killing. What else can I do?� I thought for a moment. �Let me set a trap.� He laughed grimly �A trap? We set half a dozen ambushes already, ye damned baby elf! No one still alive�s ever even seen the thing! It sniffs out every trap, just avoids it." I smiled. �Not my traps, Geode.� The deception had to be perfect. For all the fighting prowess of the Black Ones, they know nothing of the art of the ambush. They prefer brute force when finesse is required, relying on their great skill and indomitable will to win the battle. I respect them, and I would fear to fight against them�I saw the Host fight against the worg riders in the Deeping War. But even the mightiest strength will not prevail against a predator stalking its prey. My people have a saying: you cannot wrestle a tiger. You must defeat it with stealth and with surprise. Geode shut the Door into the Mountain, calling everyone inside. The iron gates were locked, the arrow slits manned by grim-eyed soldiers day and night. Khundrukar became a fortress, the buildings in the valley below lay abandoned in bright summer sun. The next day, the gates cracked open and the Black Smith tumbled out, half-naked and running. A small host of the Black Ones followed him, jeering and throwing stones. �Traitor!� �You brought the Beast upon us!� �Its you he wants!� They chased him into the valley, then quickly retreated. The Glitterhame plugged itself again, leaving the Black Smith exposed. Bloody with small scratches, his chest still heaving with exertion, he crawled to one of the stone houses, desperately seeking a weapon. Finding a miner�s pick, he stumbled fearfully past the massive statue of Durgeddin. I saw it. It was not a tiger. It was a creature of unmistakably feline grace, stalking the Black Smith through the alleys of low stone houses. A tail like a sword swished silently behind it, musles glinted in the light like steel plates, fins like iron bones splayed along its spine. The head was long and smooth and it had no eyes. An iron tiger. Lord of the Jungle, what manner of evil spirit is this? I watched it from above, smeared with mud to block body heat, my scent obliterated by the herbs I had prepared. The Banshee Claw was silent. But the Tiger rose within me, wanting blood for all my dead friends. I welcomed the spirit into me, welcomed its strength and power, allowed myself to dissolve into a state empty of tension or expectation, my mind crystallized into perfect clarity of purpose. The steel cat leapt. So did I. I pounced from my perch, bowling into the iron tiger. The Banshee Claw screamed into life as it tore through the beast�s flank. Its skin may have been metal, but it bled hot red blood like everything else. It was fast. The cat rolled with me, shrugging off the killing blow as if it were an inconvenience. When we stopped rolling it landed with one paw pinning my arm, my claw useless beneath its iron fangs. It twisted the paw almost casually, crushing my elbow. It bit down and shattered the claw like it was glass. I felt nothing but animal fury, posessed by the tiger. The salvo of quarrels saved my life. They bounced uselessly off the hunter�s skin, but the cat twisted its sightless head towards the approaching host of armored dwarves. With a low growl that rattled my bones it looked briefly to the Black Smith, frustrated that it had to abandon the hunt, then bounded off. Weaponless, my right arm flopping uselessly at my side, I ran after the creature, so consumed with feline bloodlust that I intended to bite the steel demon's throat out if I had to. But even I couldn�t hope to match its speed. The iron tiger disappeared among the crags. Molten pain in my shattered arm filled me as the tiger�s spirit left. The beast was gone, but at least now we knew what we were fighting. And no one had died today. We have not seen the iron tiger since that day. It has learned to distrust any ruse like the one that I used to draw it out. There is nothing more that we can do. I sit huddled in the halls of the Glitterhame, the soft light of a hundred torches glinting off the crystalline walls. Kuitu tends to my arm, singing prayers to ease the pain and insuring that the elbow heals properly. The people of Khundrukar huddle around me sullenly. The forges are cold, these days. There is no one left to work them but the Black Smith, and he has seen no need to do so. Geode sent out messengers a tenday ago, hoping that one of them could reach Highmoon. Though I do not know what Ulath can do to help. I sent Mukuru Onguruve to find the Hand of Valor. I would have gone myself, but with a wound like this I would not stand a chance against the iron tiger. I fear I have only sent him to his death. We sit here and wait. Prisoners in our own home, unable to leave the halls of Khundrukar for fear of the steel demon. We have enough food to last through the winter, but if this siege lasts much longer than that we will begin to starve. Kuitu unwrapped the sling around my arm, asked me to flex it. Slowly. The muscles felt sore, and beyond a point the pain was intense. I grunted as stoicly as I could, locking down the pain with the tiger�s help. She smiled and kissed me on the forehead. The tiger receded under the flush of affection I felt, reaching out to feel her swelling belly. The tiny life pulsing within, even amidst all this death. I told Geode that the Hand would come. The days stretch out, though, and we hear nothing. Did the scouts reach their destinations? Did Ulath reach help? Was Mukuru among the lost, now, like Roark and all the rest? I growl and try to trust in our guardian spirits, but the questions well up from within as I watch the increasing desperation of the dwarves of Khundrukar. My friends; my tribe. What will we do when the food runs out? Can I hope to defeat the iron tiger that so easily took me down? I do not wish to die. But there are things more valuable than living. Honor. Loyalty. Courage. And then there is love. I should like to live a long life with Kuitu; I would like to see my children born free. Not under siege, but under the the wide skies of our new home. If I must die to buy them that, then I will consider it a good death. And in the meantime we wait. For any word, any signal that our plight has reached the ears of our neighbors. For hope that someone will help us. Sage... Anacard.. my friends, where are you? |
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