Dark Thane

"Chaos War? And how long did that last?" Ogduan replied, pointing at him with a dripping spoon. "It's been forty years now and what have you all learned? It was nigh on to three hundred years of misery after the Cataclysm before things started to improve. Forty years? A mere twinkle in the eye of Reorx! I piss in the milk of your miserable forty years."

"You talk like you've lived forever," Mog said, growing steadily irritated.

"And what if I have! Who are you to question me?" the old dwarf shouted, his own temper rising.

"You're crazy," Mog answered, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. "What are you, feral Klar? Bloodspike sounds like a Klar name."

"Klar? Klar?" Ogduan practically shrieked. "I piss in the milk of the Klar."

"Exile, then. A Hylar exile. Who exiled you?"

"No one exiled me. I was deceived. I was robbed and did not know it! Oh, wicked deceiver, evil temptress!" Ogduan was busy railing to the heavens. Mog sighed, realizing that he'd been rescued by some half-mad untamed Klar who had cast off dwarven civilization. Known as feral Klar, these pitiful creatures preferred to live as the ancient Klar had done, wild and free barbarians of the deep earth. Mog was only lucky that Ogduan hadn't murdered him in some pique of rage, after having bothered to rescue and heal him.

From now on, he'd have to be careful.

His dinner forgotten now, Ogduan raged up and down the room, raining down curses upon the heads of enemies both real and imagined. "Oh, foul vermin that should invade my home!" he screeched, pointing at a dark empty corner of the chamber. "I shall feast upon thy flesh and spit thy bones into my fire!"

Mog watched in growing curiosity as Ogduan crept to his makeshift fireplace and reached behind a pile of broken bits of wooden furniture (fuel for the fire). From some hiding place in the woodpile, he withdrew a gleaming silver warhammer. Hefting the massive weapon, he edged toward the dark empty corner in which he had spied his enemies.

Mog was both surprised and awed by the beauty of the weapon. At the same time, he felt some old memory niggling at his consciousness, a feeling that he had seen this weapon before. Surely so magnificent a weapon had once been the property of a dwarf of great power and influence. To see this mad dwarf stalking the ghosts of his dementia with such a noble weapon filled him with dismay. Flinging back the bedsheets, he tried to stand and grab it away. The floor tilted beneath his bare feet, dumping him back in the bed.

Meanwhile, Ogduan continued to silently stalk his unseen adversary. Lifting the hammer above his head, he brought it thundering down upon the shadows inhabiting the empty corner, bellowing a mighty war cry as he swung.

Mog heard a squeak cut short by a sickening thud. "Ha, that got you!" the insane old dwarf shouted. "What, another?" A small dark form shot out of the corner and scurried toward the bed. Ogduan leapt after the large rat, his giant hammer already streaking down. It smacked the floor just behind the rat, shattering the floorstone into a spiderweb of cracks. He raised it again, staggering toward Mog's bed, under which the rat had fled.

"Ai! Ai!" Mog shouted in alarm. "Do not crush me, fool. It's only a rat!"

"Only a rat?" Ogduan shrieked, the hammer still lifted above his head. "Why, that's our breakfast!"

"Give me the hammer, old one" Mog urged. "Please. Before you do me or yourself a harm." He held out his hands, palms upward, like a supplicant begging favor from a god.

"Aye, you're right, lad," the old dwarf sighed, the light of lucidity momentarily returning to his gray eyes. He pressed the massive weapon into Mog's eager grasp. "A hammer's no weapon to be a-hunting rats from under beds. One needs an ax, or tongs! Aye, that's it! The tongs the thing!"

Ogduan rushed out of the chamber, shouting for his tongs, his tongs, "My kingdom for a tongs!"

Mog gaped in bafflement at the mad dwarfs caperings. Then he turned his attention to the splendid old weapon in his hands. Of marvelous balance, the heavy warhammer was too large for any ordinary dwarf to ever hope to wield. It needed tremendous strength and skill, but ah! what havoc it could wreak in the hands of a skilled warrior. Mog gazed at it lovingly, for this indeed was a weapon worthy of a thane. A king, even. To think it had been so ill used, for hunting rats; it filled his sold with shame.

As he examined the warhammer, Mog noticed a fine etching in the silvered surface of its weighty head. Here were dwarf runes of an ancient style. Mog's formal education had been less than complete. He could read and write well enough to get along, but only common runes. These ancient letters took some time to puzzle out. He mouthed the sounds, fitting them together like a dwarf child in school, until he was certain he'd got it right.

He nearly dropped the weapon in his surprise. "Kharas!" he exclaimed.