The Guardian of the Rose

Haygate, City of the Dwarves

Spring Farren 3392

Orala stood before the enormous doorway of her father’s room. Her stout figure paled in comparison to the entry way. Why did he always want such massive doors? No dwarf would ever need so much room. Even an orc would pass through with ease. The guards lifted their pikes to allow her passage.

Orala hesitated to enter. She loved her father. However, her mind was made up. She was going to tell the council of her quest. He was going to be furious.

Her father was standing over by a large window looking out over the Great Forge of Haygate. He was robust, standing four foot and five inches and weighing almost two hundred pounds. His red hair was already braided and several servants were struggling to strap on his outgrown ceremonial armor. The armor itself was made out of silver, but had decorative symbols of gold. Each of the four clans’ crests were fused onto the front. The armor itself was strong, but the real defense was his mythril chainmail that lay underneath.

“Morning father.”

“Good morning, Orala. Did you sleep well?”

“No. I couldn’t stop thinking about today. I…” She hesitated. Just tell him. Like re-socketing a shoulder. Quick and painful, but over faster. She straightened up, took a deep breath, and spoke. “I… I am not sure I’m ready for this.”

Wrong words. She thought. Completely true, but wrong.

He turned around and the servants rotated with him struggling to finish their task. “You have been to several council meetings before.”

“I know father, but they’re boring and this time I will have to stay the whole time.”

The king let loose a loud laugh popping one of the straps of his armor. “Your definition of boring is quite different than mine. The council member’s petty arguments and insults are great fun. Not to mention the pranks and all out brawls.”

Orala looked away from her father and walked over toward his chest of treasures. She needed time to think. She didn’t mean to talk about the council. The council meeting was the simple task of the day. “It’s the same old things. Bickering about who gets what mine and what lands we can trade with.” Orala picked up a goblet decorated with large gems. She saw her reflection in the glossy surface. Her auburn hair and pale skin were tinted gold. It reminded her of an old story about a dwarf who turned everything into gold with his touch…

Thorok pushed past the servants who had finally finished their task and lumbered over toward Orala. “Same old things! Don’t you remember the time Urnigar released all his boars into the Summit? The dwarves were running around like rats exposed to the light. And the Balgak clan was practically climbing the columns.”

Orala struggled to restrain the grin forming on her face. She tried focusing on the goblet determined not to allow her father to distract her further from her objective. Thorok turned her around as if he knew the smile was winning.

“And don’t forget the time Boflon and Torippa got into that fight over their seating arrangement.”

The scene of elderly Torippa with her oak walking stick played out in Orala’s mind. “She beat Boflon to the ground with her cane. Her clanwarden had to pick her up and carry her out.” No sooner than finishing the sentence she realized that her grin had won.

She looked at her father. She watched as his mood slid from joy. His smile faded. His eyes filled with seriousness. Father put his hand on her shoulder. “The council is what you make of it. More importantly it is vital to keeping the kingdom together. Being an heir to the throne is a great honor, but it does come with its responsibilities.” He lifted the goblet up to Orala’s eye level. “The gems are always found in the stones. You must toil to find them, but they are worth the effort.”

Orala thought for a moment. She turned and placed the goblet back in the chest. “I am not sure that I am ready. I don’t think they will respect me. That is why…” Her thoughts rambled on, but her voice failed to reach the air.

“…why you wore armor instead of a dress. You want the dwarves to find you worthy?” Thorok waited for a reply that would not come. After a moment, he broke the silence. “It’s not the thickness of your armor that earns you respect. It is how true you swing your axe. A stern voice and strong arm will keep order, but…”

“…honor and compassion will inspire love and respect.” Orala pushed past him and moved to the window overlooking the forge. “I know, but it’s been a long time since there was a female heir. And I’m the first that wasn’t eldest by birth.”

“But you are the eldest now.” He was trying to encourage her, but it was clear that a deep sorrow had taken over his voice.

“Morvar was… all that they wanted for a king. Now they have to settle for me.”

“It is true that Morvar would have been a great king, but that does not mean you’re less then him. You are just as skilled in battle as he ever was. And in time, you will learn to be as good a leader.” Thorok placed his hand on her shoulder. “Possibly even better. You just have to have patience.”

“I’m going after Mythrim.”

Thorok’s arm retracted. Orala stood staring out the window. She didn’t want to turn around. She didn’t want to see her father suffer from the thought of losing another child over his father’s axe.

His pain-filled voice flowed over her shoulder. “I thought we were passed this. Father is buried with it. Morvar died trying to get it. That axe is cursed with death!”

Orala’s posture stiffened as she turned toward him. “Morvar and Grandfather must be avenged! Grandfather’s axe must be brought back as proof that dwarves deliver retribution.”

As she finished speaking she saw the nearly invisible servants scurrying out the door. Her father was now pacing across the room. Orala searched for signs in his body to determine whether the sadness or the anger would dominate over the other. His neck was stiff. His fists were clenched. The left one was swinging by his side in cadence with his march. The right fist sat in front of his mouth holding back his response. He turned and stomped toward the western wall. His right fist shot out and slammed against it. His body halted by his massive outstretched arm. He didn’t move for several minutes. Finally, his knees buckled and crashed on the floor. With his hand now above his body, his head fell against the wall.

Orala wanted to run to her father and comfort him, but she was frozen. Her body defied every command.

After what seemed like an entire age she noticed her father’s clenched fist soften. His muscles released and relaxed. Orala was finally freed from her prison and she went to her father’s side. He stood up, pushing her away. He turned in toward the room and slowly lifted his head.

There on his face was a lonely tear. Orala had only seen tears on his face once before. Only once had he been so torn in front of her. The day a messenger told him of Morvar’s death. But this time he was not mourning the death of a son, but that of a daughter.

She watched as he wiped away the tear. He plodded across the room without a word, without even so much as a glance at her.

He approached the wall, reached up, and grabbed Isidar from the wall. Isidar, the great axe, forged in the Blessed City of Haygate, blessed by Helia the chosen servant of Yorvah, and enchanted by the powerful Thragiz. The axe was said to be unbreakable and able to pierce even the scales of a dragon.

Then came his voice barely audible above the silence. “You will take my axe.” He laid the axe on the bed and walked toward the door. “Go with Bellond to the summit. I am going for a walk until it starts.”

“Yes, father.” Before she could finish responding he was already marching down the hall with his guards behind him.

Orala picked up the axe. She was surprised by how heavy it was. She had never held it before. The steel blade glistened in the fire light. Leather straps were wrapped around the handle all the way to the hilt. On the tip of the hilt was the axe’s only gem, a red ruby in the shape of a rose.