Five Years after the destruction of the Worldstone.

Chapter 1: Life in the Dreadlands

For Torin, son of Ivan Stromgood, nothing ever changes. He awakened as usual with the cock crow, dressed in his simple clothing, attended to his morning toilet, and went into the kitchen to prepare a quick meal for his father and younger brother Torey. The meal usually consists of steamed oats, eggs, and leftover bread, however this morning the bread was too hard and the eggs were rotten. Still, Torin had long learned to count his blessings. Compared to most in Iskarvena and its surrounding territory he and his family lead a rather comfortable life. Not that they could be considered wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, however as the town blacksmith Torin's father always managed to earn enough to put food on the table and keep a roof over their head, and for this the seventeen year old Torin was ever thankful.

Their house would be considered small, except most in Iskarvena didn't live in dwellings of more than a few rooms. Ivan's profession had allowed him to build a larger house on a plot of land he owned himself, of which he fully intended to leave to his eldest son upon his death. Torin looked out of the kitchen window as he chopped the oats. The snow covered road ran along in front of the house under a grove of large oak trees, and disappeared over a hill in the distance. Less than ten leagues down that road lay the river Solzenkard, which was the boundary of Iskarvena's territory. Two leagues to the north lay mount Katarraht and the Pass of Skulls, which formed the northern border. Dark forest and icy wasteland lay to the west, sheer, impassable cliffs to the east. Within these confines Torin had lived the majority of his life.

And probably the remainder of it as well, he thought.

Father, Torey... it would be time to wake them soon. After they've all eaten, father would expect Torin to go down to the shop with him and continue his apprenticeship. Torin was reaching that age, he'd been told, when a man must settle down, take up a trade, and earn his place in the world. One day father won't be around anymore and he, Torin Stromgood, would have to provide for his family... and speaking of families. There was the girl.

Not any girl, but the girl, the one he was supposed to marry. Of course, nobody knew he was supposed to marry her but himself. Mehgan was her name, and she was a beautiful as the morning sunrise. Slender of body, with a narrow elfish face and hair more golden than the glittering wheat fields in summer. She was the daughter of the local magistrate, Baron Ogdstrom, the wealthiest landowner in town. More than one time he had spied the girl through her window, dressed in fine robes and satin, shining like a princess. One day Torin would marry that girl, or so he told himself.

One day... if he ever got up the courage to talk to her.

Torin searched through the cupboards and found a loaf of bread which was hard, but still edible, and thus went to work cutting it into slices. In a town as small as Iskarvena there weren't many choices for potential mates. The only other girl in town close to his age was Gaewen, whose family owned the local inn. She was a few years younger, shorter and a bit more plump around the edges than Mehgan, but not by much. She had a round face and a mane of wild red hair which burned like bonfires in the twilight. Plus from what he'd heard of the two, Gaewen was definitely the better cook. Such was a trait to be considered when wife-hunting, Torin thought to himself. He couldn't live on soggy oats and stale bread for the rest of his life.

The two had been childhood friends, and many around the village had assumed they would eventually wed. Many days in their youth went by when they would camp out for the night and lay together in the fields beneath the stars, and tell each other stories they'd heard (and sometimes, invented) about heroes, monsters, and distant lands. Yet despite her beauty Torin couldn't really bring himself to think about her in such a way, the girl was more akin to a little sister than potential mate. Also, his brother Torey had definitely taken an interest in her. They would make a good couple, he thought to himself. She's closer to Torey's age anyway.

The young man let his mind wander about women and things to be as he placed a few wet logs upon the hearth. Normally wood this damp wouldn't light, but he had a trick which could take care of that. Once the wood was in place, Torin rolled up his selves, narrowed his eyes, and stretched his arm towards the hearth, with the palm outward.

"Incendaria" he whispered.

A small flame crackled out through his palm and raced through the air, seemingly dancing as if alive, before striking the damp logs and instantly lighting them afire. Torin let himself a small smile, not so much for the trick he'd just performed rather than the fact that he knew his father would be furious at him for it. Torin prepared the oats in a large cast iron pot and placed it over the fire to cook. He sprinkled a pinch of salt and spices into them before placing the lid on to let it steam, the same way his mother used to do it years before.

Mother, she was the one with the power. Father never spoke of it, but she was a witch, from the fabled city of Caldeum, the jewel of the desert. She was the one who taught Torin his simple tricks, how to light fires, how to freeze water, how to make things float in mid-air. She was the one who saw potential in him. His younger brother Torey didn't have the gift, she had told him, but he did, and one day with practice he would be able to do great things. And so she continued to school Torin in the magical arts despite the objections of her husband, until that fateful day five years ago, when Hell itself seemed to spill out onto the Earth...

Yes, today he'd go into town with father, and would no doubt spend the day relentlessly pounding hot irons into farm equipment. Not that anyone could do any actual farming in the middle of winter. Still, spring was less than six weeks away, and the first thaws had already begun. Soon the shop would be bustling with grubby farmers purchasing new shovels or mending broken pick-axes, and father liked to be prepared.

Several years from now he could see himself in this very house, with a trade and a wife, raising children of his own. It could be a good life, if he'd only reach out and take it.

Yet for some reason while the oats steamed and his life lay planned out before him, Torin's gaze kept crawling - as it often did - out of the kitchen window, down the road, and over the horizon.

To Torin, the pounding of iron sounded like church bells. Loud, jarring, annoying church bells that shook one to their very core and set the ears ringing for hours afterward. Each impact of the hammer upon the hot metal seemed to shake him from his teeth to the bones in his feet. It was with profound relief that father called to break for the midday meal.

He and his brother walked through the muddy lane on the way to the Red Stallion, which was the town's only inn, and the only place in Iskarvena where one could obtain a decent ale. Torey of course was always eager to visit the Red Stallion, as it was pretty red-headed Gaewen's family who owned the inn.

It occurred to Torin that he'd only actually heard such bells one time in his entire life. He'd been to a Zakarum church once, over ten years ago when he and father had made the trek down to Westmarch to trade in the market. The church was a massive building, nearly five stories tall, with huge towers and a doorway that seemed large enough to admit the whole world. The outside was covered in statuary depicting various things – men, angels, beasts, and even demons, arranged in reliefs which told the story of Zakarum to passersby. Then the bells rang, and the skies filled with their crystal clear chime, almost as if it were the song of the angels themselves. It seemed the most beautiful sound in the world.

This trip to Westmarch is the farthest he'd ever traveled from home. He'd spent nearly his entire life inside Iskarvena's borders, or within the outlying lands, never more than a few leagues from home. It also occurred to him that his younger brother Torey has never seen a church, never heard church bells, never seen a building larger than the Baron's paltry, run-down manor, or had never even seen a statue beyond the ugly tarnished copper figure of Barron Ogdstrom's great grandfather in front of the magistrate's office. Torey didn't seem one to take to travel. He could very well live his entire life in Iskarvena, and never experience such things first hand.

Then Torin considered all the things that exist in this large world that he himself had never seen, and would probably die without seeing. The thought was not very comforting.

At the Red Stallion, many patrons had gathered for their daily luncheon. The menu today consisted of roast pheasant and barley stew. The two brothers sat at stools at the bar, at a counter which was made from a log split in half, then sanded and polished to a fine finish. The Inn was one large hall, larger than most of the houses in town, with a few simple but well-built tables in front of a grand, roaring fireplace. Large barrels of ale lined the wall behind the bar, along with a shelf that held more expensive, imported spirits, which few in town had the gold to enjoy.

"Father wants you to go down to the quarry today and fetch a load of ore after we're done here" Torin said in-between mouthfuls of pheasant. Torey hated hauling ore. This was an opinion he expressed frequently, to anyone who would listen.

"What? Why do I have to go?" Torey replied. "I thought he was going to teach me how to smelt iron today!"

"We can't smelt any iron if we don't have any ore, now can we?" Torin replied dryly. "Father probably thinks you're still too small to do any of the real work. Maybe he just wants you to build your muscles up. You can't swing that stupid hammer if you're not strong enough."

"I'm strong enough." Torey replied sullenly, as he took a large gulp of barley stew. "I'll be the best blacksmith ever one day."

"No doubt you will," replied a sweet voice from the redhead behind the counter. "More tea?" Gaewen pushed back her curling red hair from her speckled face, and bent low as she refilled their mugs with red leaf tea, giving Torin a view of her ample bosom. She did this on purpose, nearly every time the two spoke, and he was growing ever so slightly annoyed.

Torey really didn't seem to mind though. "Do you have any blackroot stew back there?" Torey piped. He didn't really like her stew that much as his brother, but never missed an opportunity to compliment the red headed girl.

"Why, my barley stew not good enough for you?" she retorted as she made an exaggerated, pouty face. Torey seemed suddenly alarmed as the two made eye contact, then grew red in his cheeks, and attacked the stew with great vigor.

"But I can make some tonight, for dinner?" Gaewen turned back to Torin, "That is, if you're coming back?"

The door to the inn swung open, and in walked the two people Torin liked least in this world. Two large, dirty, ugly, smelly barbarians, vagabonds from the western tribes that had immigrated to the surrounding area five years ago. The shorter one had a face full of pimples, the other bore an uncanny resemblance to a warthog. He had never bothered to learn their names, so he just made up his own, Pig-Face and Pimple-Face. They usually hung around an even larger barbarian named Oslar, of which he was happy to note was absent. Large, rude, and usually filthy, these particular barbarians had recently made a habit of frequenting the Red Stallion, as it was the only pub within ten leagues.

Barbarians, with their penchant for rash decisions, hard drinking, and unadulterated violence, had a way of making "normal" folk uncomfortable. Torin had assumed they had a settlement of some kind nearby, but to seek it out had been absolutely forbidden by his father. Rumors abounded of their harassing travelers and raiding caravans, however they had so far left his village alone. What was there of value in this place to steal?

Torin smelled the pimply man well before he took a seat next to him, a musty stench of body odor, alcohol, and filth. Pimple-face seemed to be swaying slightly as he sat down. It's hardly mid-day yet. Can these idiots be drunk already?

"So, how be thee, blacksmith?" Pimple-face gurgled. "Shouldn't you be down in the shop, in case somebody wants to mend a shovel or something?"

Torin held his tongue, and ate another piece of pheasant. He'd long ago learned to grow a thick skin, especially when dealing with these two troublemakers. Torey however was a lot younger and a much less versed in the skill of tact.

"What's it to you, Pimple-face?" He retorted.

"Puglis, did you hear something?" The Pimple-faced barbarian said. "It sounded like a mouse squeaking near my boot."

"So it is!" responded his pig-faced companion. "Maybe we should teach him a lesson?" In one swift motion the pig-faced vagabond snatched the bowl from Torey's hands and held it up high, where the younger boy could not reach.

"Give that back you swine!" yelped Torey, desperately grabbing for his bowl of stew.

"Give it back, 'e says! Aye, have it you shall. Methinks it's time for a bath!" laughed Pig-Face, who then swiftly proceeded to upend the bowl of stew onto Torey's head, spilling barley and vegetables all over him and on the surrounding bartop. Several patrons at a nearby table quickly stood up to avoid the associated splatter as the two miscreants howled with laughter. Torey's eyes met his big brother's, and were nearly full of tears. The unspoken message was clear between the two, Do something!

Torin stood up slowly, put his serving knife down, and handed his brother a bar rag. He gave the two troublemakers a dirty look, and kept his eyes on them while he spoke.

"Clean yourself off, brother, and let's be on our way."

Despite their clownish behavior, these two young men were of the Barbarian race, and as such were born warriors. They spent their lives training in the ancient arts of war from the time they could walk. Torin was well aware of his limitations. I'm no fighter, he reminded himself. He doubted that he could physically best even one of them, even in their seemingly inebriated state. Fighting both of them together was certainly a losing proposition. If even by some miracle if it came to blows and he did come out the victor, then he'd have Oslar to contend with.

Still, the sight of these two dirty simpletons laughing at his brother filled him with rage. Perhaps he could mutter a small firebolt spell, just enough to light Pimple-Face's pants on fire? The thought of him running around with a burning ass, yelping for water like a moron while he and his brother laughed took the edge off Torin's anger for a moment, just long enough to consider the consequences if the townspeople actually found out about his "talent."

That can't be allowed to happen, he thought. I'd be an outcast.

The Pig-Faced barbarian (Puglis, was his name, Torin noted, although he didn't care much to remember it,) stood up off his barstool and locked stares with him. The filthy cur was inebriated, yet that did nothing to make him look less intimidating. It would be suicide to try and fight this man.

Yet a part of him screamed at him to do it anyway, because sometimes the pain was worth it.

"You care to make something of it?" Puglis sneered.

Gaewen choose this moment to intervene in the conversation. This wouldn't be the first time she'd had to separate these particular delinquents from her friends before violence broke out. She set down two large steins of house ale with a loud clank onto the bar a further distance away from Torin and his brother.

"You two, drinks are ready for you," she said in a loud voice, "Over here!"

Pimple-Face stood up, swayed a bit, then grabbed Pig-Face by the arm, then dragged him over to the other end of the bar. "Come Puglis, let that weakling be," he belched. "Drinks today are on me."

Torin slowly turned his head, keeping his eyes locked with Pig-Face until the last moment. When they were safely away (and out of earshot,) he sat back down and continued his meal. He tried to make conversation, but his brother was no longer in the mood, and the two of them ate in silence for the remainder of the hour. Gaewen provided the younger brother with a fresh towel, and another bowl of stew. As she refilled Torin's teacup the two made eye contact briefly. She had been his friend long enough to read his look at a glance. Thank you.

Torey ate his food in sullen silence, without another glance at the two barbarians, who had since consumed several more tankards of ale. That barbarian dog had made him look like a fool in front of the girl he loved! I'll get that swine, one day.

As for Torin, well he loved his brother deeply, he told himself. He looked up to him, as he was the smartest man he could name. But it shamed him all the same when he realized his brother was a coward.

Why do I always have to carry the damn rocks? thought Torey, as he lugged a basket full of heavy ore up the stony hill. The road made a particular turn down below to navigate through a gorge before emerging at the top of this hill out of the other side, and taking this short cut would save Torey many hours of walking. None of this made the climb any less bearable however. Torin is bigger and stronger than me, why doesn't father make him get the stupid rocks?

In the basket of course were no ordinary rocks, but iron ore mined at the base of nearby mount Katarraht, which meant it was ore of very decent quality. For some reason which he didn't understand this made them seem heavier than normal rocks. Still, father had sent him on this errand, and if he knew what was good for him he'd do his best.

Torey dug his heels in a bit deeper and continued to trudge up the hill. At thirteen years of age he took after his father's side, more stout and stocky of build than his older brother, with a shaggy mop of dark hair that seemed to defy all means of taming it. Unlike his brother he actually appreciated the blacksmithing lessons their father taught them, and did his best to learn. The elder brother's mind always was on other things, myths and legends, and old superstitious tales. Father seemed set on leaving the shop to the senior brother, but it appeared that he really didn't want to inherit the family business. Which of course, was just fine with Torey. He'd gladly take it over if Torin didn't want it. Seems like he'd be happier as a storyteller than a blacksmith.

One day, he thought, One day it will be all mine. I'll be the finest blacksmith in the land, and I'll forge weapons even the gods will fear. Visions of giant steelclad warriors filled his mind, wielding fantastic weapons - his weapons - glistening, jewel encrusted swords, massive spears, giant, double bladed axes, striking down hideous evil fire breathing demons, like the ones who killed his mother five years ago. She was so beau-

Torey stepped on a loose rock which gave way beneath him, sending him head over heels backwards down the stony hill. The basket of iron ore spilled to one side as he rolled and tumbled, striking his head several different times, until he came to a twenty foot drop. He just had time to see the jagged rocks beneath him and realize there was no way out, before he suddenly came to a stop.

Torey hung motionless in the air, inches above the large sharp boulders at the bottom of the gorge he'd just fallen down. For a moment his mind had trouble realizing exactly what was happening. Was this a dream? Was he dead? Is this what happens to people when they die?

Over the next few moments the pain in his head and hard breathing in his chest told him he was still alive, and although he still could not believe what he was seeing, he came to accept the fact that he was suspended in mid air.

"Uhhh... Hello?" he said, partially not expecting a response. Could he be dreaming? Had he hit his head too hard? Torey took a deep breath, and felt the bump on his head. His breath frosted and the cold air stung his lungs, but he was alive, and awake. He began to slowly raise farther up into the air, and moved over the road by some invisible force he could not comprehend. Just as slowly he was spun around, and that's when he saw the ugly man at the covered wagon.

The man was short and stumpy, with a face full of knots and welts. Torey doubted he was much taller than himself, although he looked to be far older. He was at the reigns of a covered wagon that was crafted in an unfamiliar style, full of strange angular shapes with sharp points. The simple canvas coverings were not suitable shelter for the weather one encounters in the Dreadlands. The wagon also seemed to be covered in strange writing and designs which Torey had never seen before.

Next to him stood a much taller man dressed in red and black robes. The robes were of a light linen, hardly protection from the ice and snow, yet the man did not seem the slightest bit inconvenienced by the cold. The garment was also covered in the same type of symbols as the wagon. His head was shaven, except for one long braid which began at the apex of this neck. He was holding his hand out in the air.

"Who are you? Put me down!" Torey cried.

The tall man turned his hand over, and as he did so did Torey's body, until his feet were pointing down at the ground, after which the man dropped his hand, and Torey followed. Although it was a drop of only a few feet, Torey collapsed onto his knees afterwards, the pain in his head still throbbing.

The tall man walked forward, and placed his hand on Torey's head.

"What are you - " he began.

"Silence" the tall man blurted out, with such authority in his voice that Torey instantly obeyed. "Do not move your head until I am done."

"ALSHEFAAH!" the tall man bellowed. Instantly Torey saw a pale red light in front of his eyes, then an incredible warm feeling descended from his head and covered his whole body. The pain in his head vanished, along with all his aches and pains from the climb. He stood up refreshed, and felt like he'd just gotten a good night's sleep.

"How did you do that?" He asked, as he stared dumbfounded in the wizard's eyes.

"Boy, I am in need of a horse, for my wagon. Ours starved to death." The wizard spoke. His tone made Torey feel that he'd somehow did something wrong. He had an expressionless face, but a foul look in his eyes which made him feel uncomfortable.

"Gahrain the stable master has horses for rent." Torey replied. "If you'd follow me back to Iskarvena I can show you where."

The short lumpy man looked eager to come along, but the tall man dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "Rodolpho, stay with the wagon." he barked, without even looking in the deformed man's direction. "Lead the way, child. And be quick. I must procure a horse and be on my way before nightfall."

Torey did not like the idea of bringing this sorcerer back to town. Although magical ability was not unheard of even in such an isolated place such as Iskarvena, (as even Torey's own departed mother had possessed some ability, although father had forbid her from using it) most "common" folk still held a deep distrust of those who developed such gifts. Many in town were filled with superstitions, and would be fearful of a man like this. Torey thought of just running away, but then he'd have to come back here later for the ore anyway, and who's to say what the wizard would do to stop him? He could freeze him in his tracks, or turn him into a snail or something. Still, the tall man had saved his life and healed him of his wounds, the least he could do in return was to help him procure a horse.

Besides, he thought to himself, What's the worst that could happen?

"Torey! Come over here! Now!" bellowed Ivan. He had been immediately suspicious of the tall man accompanying his son into town. The man had a foreign look about him, from southern parts near the vast deserts Ivan reckoned. The clothes he wore were unlike any that many in this part of the world had ever seen, long and flowing, and obviously no good for the cold. Yet he walked through the muddy streets without a hint of discomfort, his head held high like one accustomed to privilege. He obviously was in possession of great wealth, something else the simple folk in these parts were unaccustomed to. Men like this had no business traveling through the Dreadlands.

Torey pointed to a group of low buildings, some distance down the road. "The stable master is there," he said. "I have to go." Torey took a last look at the tall man before leaving, who gave him the slightest of nods, almost as one does to dismiss a servant. He was silently relieved to be away from him. The way the wizard looked upon him felt like spiders crawling on his skin.

As the robed traveler walked off into town to attend to his business, Ivan wasted no time with his wayward son, immediately grabbing him by the ear and hauling him inside.

"Where have you been? I sent you off hours ago! And who's that outlander you're with? How many times have I told you to not talk to strange folk?"

"But he saved my life father!" cried Torey. "I fell down a cliff and then-"

"No excuses!" Ivan scolded Torey and sent him inside. At least he had returned with the ore, so the day was not a complete loss. But the boy would need to be punished in some way. Ivan spied the wizard's back as he made his way into town. The man was a wizard, the strange symbols on his long, crimson robes left no doubt about it. Torey was just a child, he didn't understand that just associating with the likes of men like that could be dangerous. In this world trouble had a way of following in the wake of such people, and "normal" folk like Ivan and his family often found themselves caught in the crossfire. Men like this left bodies in their wake. Even his own wife had dabbled in the magical arts, and look at where it got her!

His wife… she was from the southern deserts also. She'd fancied herself a sorceress, and ran the village sick house, healing the injured with salves and potions, driving out disease with the blessings of angels and gods. When the mountain spewed ash and fire and the demons ransacked the countryside, she didn't run with the other women and children. She stayed to fight with the men, and Ivan had allowed her, because of her abilities. She had trusted her magic, and it failed her.

Yes, nothing good could come from such folk in Iskarvena, that he was sure of.

The tall wizard, draped in resplendent black and red robes and carrying an ornate, golden staff, stuck out in such a place where folks were as plain as Iskarvena. As he glided through the narrow snow covered street heads turned, passersby stopped and stared, curious eyes peeked through curtained windows. A stranger in town was news enough, but one so exotic quickly set tongues wagging. The man's clothes alone probably cost more gold than most in town earned in a year, and the staff could feed a family here for several winters. Many gossiping onlookers watched the outsider, yet he walked as one without the slightest concern, as a master does among servants.

Torin lugged two buckets attached to a yoke over his shoulders, off to fill them at the town's central well. The center of Iskarvena held what passed for the town square, and there several merchants hocked their austere wares - clothing, fresh vegetables, horse feed, and so on. Torin's father had set up the smith shop not far away. Near the end of the square lay the Red Stallion. Maybe he would take Gaewen up on her offer and come by later for some blackroot stew. Or maybe later he would stop by Mehgan's house. Of course since she lived on the other side of the village he had no excuse for doing so. He would have to make something up.

Torin was trying to decide if he liked Gaewen's cooking more than Mehgan's beauty, when he saw the wizard stride past him.

The robed figure was a sorcerer of great ability, this he knew instinctively. It wasn't the clothes or the staff which told him the man had skill in magic, it was the way the man felt. He could feel the energy radiating off the stranger, almost as if invisible waves of power emanated from him, like ripples in a pond. It was obvious this man could do things far beyond the simple tricks Torin had learned from his mother. This was a man of great stature and wealth, what could he possibly be doing in the Dreadlands?

The wizard was speaking with old Gahrain the stable master. A small crowd had gathered around the two, close enough to eavesdrop but far enough away to pretend not to be. Torin himself busied himself by drawing water at the well, but not too quickly. He too was curious as to this man's business. He was so engrossed in trying to not appear too curious that he hardly noticed when the wizard looked directly at him.

Suddenly a small rock whizzed by Torin's head, while another splunked into one of the buckets at his feet. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Oslar and his two idiot friends, Pig-Face and Pimple-Face. They were sitting on a bench outside of the Red Stallion, gulping tankards of ale and joking loudly, and pointing at his direction. Oslar was very large for his age, as were most of his kind, with huge arms and a growth of long hair with the bangs cut in front, as was common among his ilk.

The pimply one was pointing at Torin.

"You missed! Ha! You're buying the next round!" he chortled.

"He moved at the last second," Pig-Face retorted. "Hey blacksmith-welp! Stand still!" He reached down to pick up another rock, then drunkenly fell face first into a pile of mud, which elicited roars of laughter from the other two.

Torin made a crude gesture at them, then quickly positioned himself on the other side of the well as to better dodge any more unexpected projectiles. Torin had only spoken to Olsar a few times but the two had already formed a severe disliking of each other. Oslar himself was only a few summers older than the blacksmith's son but was a full head and shoulders above him in height. Barbarians were naturally large and strong, and had a fierce reputation. Their one goal in life was to die in glorious battle, yet it seemed more likely that Oslar would die in a drunken tavern brawl. More than once the town magistrate has had to throw the young barbarian and his inebriated friends from the Red Stallion in the middle of the night. Oslar had been threatened with the stockade many times for his rabble rousing.

They're bullies, thought Torin. Simply drunken bullies, with no ambition for the future. Torin ignored them and went back to filling his buckets. He had lingered here too long.

But like everyone else in the town square, Oslar and his kin also kept a close eye on the sorcerer, and when the man made a purchase of the stable master for two sickly looking horses with pure gold, they spied his coin sack with hungry eyes.