Mountains of Fire and Thunder – Part 1

A KGB madman drunk on his own power, fueled by a desperate desire to return to the glory days of the Soviet Union, has pushed the world to the brink of nuclear catastrophe. 

I am immensely proud of how much the world has united in scorn against the actions of this man. I am absolutely terrified at what happens when he is pushed to the breaking point. Will such a man hesitate for even a moment to push the button which ends our world? 

I don’t know. People who’s jobs and lives are bent solely upon knowing such things don’t know. 

I could wake up tomorrow to a world none of us would recognize. Everything I love burned to ashes, everyone I cared for destroyed. 

That brings me to this post and why I am writing despite such ill tidings. You see, Ukranians are faced with the exact same reality. Only I get to pose such questions to myself in the comfort of my own home, typing on a keyboard in a quiet house under no threat other than the existential one hanging above us all.

They are faced with bombardment, with privation, and with occupation. 

And you know what they aren’t doing? They aren’t backing down. 

They are going out swinging. They are standing up to the monsters at their door and turning them aside. They are riding out, slicing them asunder, rending them where they are most vulnerable and making them suffer for every step. They post videos of their victories, videos of their triumph, videos which taunt and threaten their foe. 

And their foe quakes with fear. 

They are meeting the reality of ashes at their doorstep with the determination of a man literally carrying a mine away from a shelter point with a lit cigarette in his mouth.

That man, more than anything else I have seen, should fill their enemies with fear. That man isn’t some super soldier gifted with preternatural cunning and reflexes. 

He’s someone’s uncle fresh out of shits to give who isn’t going anywhere.

They aren’t running from the monsters at their door. 

I have no excuse to run from the monster at mine. 

I am a writer. I want my life to be one of contribution and betterment. 

Now is my time to prove that. I can’t be there in the woods and the cities with the Ukraninians. I can’t fight their war. What I can do is provide those who can fight a place to rest their cares for a moment. I can tell them a story as we all sit gathered around the fire. I can fill the spirits of those around me. That’s what I can do. 

Mountains of Fire and Thunder – Part 1

Smoke and the rhythmic blows of hammers on metal filled every nook and cranny of the audience chamber where four kings sat waiting upon the fifth. 

The room was a dome of stone walls and stone chimneys broken only by the enormous vent windows high up the walls. Three stairwells spaced evenly at the rear of the chamber led towards the rear of the fortress. Completed arms and armor were hustled off by stocky older women whose loads were carefully tracked and tallied by young men and women not up to the task themselves. Young apprentices in leather aprons were a constant flurry of motion as they carried out their assigned duties to one of the twelve furnaces set into the curved walls. Master smiths worked in pairs, their efforts in perfect harmony without a single wasted motion.

There were no tapestries, no hanging banners, no gaudy collection of wealth and power to display the kingdom’s magnificence to the guests within the chamber. Instead, the four esteemed guests sat upon the only nod to their station located within the room; chairs of exquisite craftsmanship and beauty, arranged in a neat semi-circle facing the space where a raised dais and a throne should have been. The chairs were as noteworthy as their occupants; for where smoke should have clouded the air around them there was nothing. What air surrounded them was clean and sweet, as invigorating as the organized chaos of the room around them.To each king, the unbearable clamor of the room was no louder than a murmured conversation.

The kings upon their chairs were a study in contrasts. Two, the youngest present, stared around them with barely restrained glee at all the bustle. Their cloaks and clothing were festooned with wealth; they had clearly not considered their outfits for this audience as their gaudy display made them stand out like a sore thumb.  The tallest of them was a whip thin woman covered in scaled bronze battlemail that showed use despite the dull sheen indicating recent polish. With each second that passed, a little more patience drained from her thin, angular features. Her eyebrows gathered like storm clouds across her pale ivory face.

The fourth was separated from the rest by the lack of reaction on display. He sat tall and composed, a thin silver crown around gray temples, unmoved by the deft industry and clever magics on display. His wide shoulders were adorned with neither cloak nor brocade; instead he wore common riding leathers noteworthy only for the quality of their make and material. 

The four were arranged around what stood in place of the absent throne. It was an enormous pillar of stone, colored so deep that even the daylight that filtered through the open vent windows high above were lost within its depths and cast no reflection. It was the height of the tallest king if she were standing; an unnaturally smooth and level oval of blackrock which jutted into the room like an invader.

Behind the pillar, towering above everything in the room, was the fifth king whose audience the other four had sought. His height was twice that of the sinew and scale clothed king approaching the edge of her patience.. His eyes were as dark as the pillar’s surface below him; contrasted by deep azure where whites should have been. A blonde beard woven into a single functional braid hung down to his stomach. His skin was ruddy and olive, marbled  with scars so thick they seemed to layer atop one another.

Arms thick as a man’s waist and braided with muscle slammed a hammer bigger than the young apprentices behind him into the smooth surface of the pillar. 

Trapped between hammer and stone was a hapless sheet of iron. The hammerblow should have shattered it whole, sending iron projectiles into everything around him. Instead, as the hammer rose, the metal was curved in a way that should have been impossible given the strength and angle of the blow. Among the gentle curves and pinions which shaped half the plate, intricate and ornate embossing graced the metal. No heat was evident in metal, hammer, or pillar. Another blow landed, the metal disappearing from sight. As the hammer rose yet again, the clear shape of the front half of a breastplate came into focus. The iron sheet had also been sheared in twain upon being struck the second time. The half which had yet to be shaped was stubbornly flat and without blemish.

Hands, unaccountably nimble given their size, picked up the front breast piece and gave it a measured inspection. It twisted in his fingers, being scrutinized from every conceivable angle without prejudice. He nodded, a grunt of satisfaction tufting out the thick mustache on either side of his mouth. He turned the half finished armor towards the assembled leaders, setting it on the edge nearest them so they too could inspect his handiwork. 

It was a breathtaking piece; radiating sturdiness while also containing an ornate mosaic of an armor clad woman holding up a shield to ward off a blast of wyrmfire emerging from an enormous rotting black ophidian which loomed over her. The features of the woman were rendered with striking detail. It also bore an uncanny resemblance to the tall king now seated before the forgemaster of all forgemasters. 

This last detail was the final straw for the tall, thin king, Reaching the limit of her tolerance, she shot to her feet. Her thin face was flushed with anger, and she opened her mouth to let out a vehement diatribe. Without a sound, the gray-templed king was at her side. He did not loom over or stand in front. Instead, his hand was upon her arm in a gentle, wordless plea for restraint. His craggy patience broke for just  an instant; replaced with a look of concern and care that ran deeper than any treaty could explain. 

The woman, face still flush, regained her composure as her eyes met his. She nodded with deep respect towards the unassuming older man and took her chair once more. The older man let loose a thin sigh of relief, and walked back to his chair on the far side opposite her and sat back down. He sent a thankful nod towards the giant king as he did. 

The giant, for his part, looked from one king to the other, and gave out a huff which let both parties know there would be no repercussions for the breach in protocol. After a few more thundering blows, the back portion of the breastplate was complete. Another thorough inspection followed which mirrored the first, then the back of the breastplate joined the front of it at the edge of the pillar. 

A heavily muscled gray-haired matron with four intricate braids trailing from her head  which gathered into a fifth at the middle of her back sauntered up to the front of the pillar. She gave the armor a second inspection, let out a whistle of appreciation, and gathered up the heavy plate in either hand as though they were empty dishes instead of dozens of kilograms of armor. She turned a questioning expression up to her behemoth of a king.

With a snort, an enormous thumb hooked towards the gray-templed leader who had recently saved his daughter from censure. The forewoman rolled her eyes and gave a long suffering sigh. Regardless of her response, she turned and made her way towards the king with exaggerated pomp, and laid them before him with an elaborate flourish that was full of the same mirth dancing in her eyes. 

The craggy, implacable features of the equally gray king broke into a rare grin. He bent his head in an overly polite bow and rumbled out a statement of gratitude.

“Why thank you Lady Ausha for this wondrous and completely unexpected gift.”

She let loose a laugh that seemed to shake her whole body with mirth. She turned, saluted her king with a closed fist blow to the breastbone, and sauntered back into the maelstrom of motion from whence she had appeared. 

The king, finished with the labors required of him, set his hammer atop the pillar and rounded it with ponderous steps. With a distinctly ungraceful grunt, he hiked himself to sit atop the smooth surface behind him. He stared down at the assembled lords of the neighboring kingdoms, all of whom were now giving him their undivided attention. 

“I will be brief. The Unnumbered Fangs are massing in numbers I haven’t seen since I first started carving the Mountain of Thunder.”  

His gentle baritone was entirely at odds with his size and features, but he wore a scowl that could have bent steel. 

“I have called you all here because without your aide, Woadenar will fall.”

If protocol hadn’t required their silence, this news would have stunned them into it. For a thousand years Woadenar had formed the impenetrable bulwark which the other kingdoms had used as shelter from the unrelenting aggression of the Unnumbered Fangs. If Woadenar were to fall, then there would be nothing to stop them from toppling right alongside it.  

The sound of snapping wood filled the silence as King Dwentor, the hundred year sovereign of Arantor, broke the arms of his chair as he clenched his fists. His face was suffused with rage, a look few beings had seen and lived to tell of. 

“By my heart and my might, Lord Woadan, your kingdom shall not fall while even one man or woman of Arantor draws breath. By the Mountains of Fire and Thunder do I swear this.”

The other kings echoed this vehement oath with equal fervor. They would turn their kingdoms upside down and wring every single able bodied citizen they could find within it. 

Without Woadenar, there was no survival. 

To be continued….

Smithfully,

The Unsheathed Quill