***
Within a couple of days, Thunderborn had regained his strength and was teaching Dorn how to fashion items from the hides which Arrborn had cured in Grimlaw. Thunderborn it easier to sew the thick skins together. Dorn tugged and pulled the coarse threads through the heavy leather as she sat sewing sleeping sacks.
One day, feeling very proud of herself, Dorn paraded around the cavern wearing the papoose that she had made in preparation for the imminent arrival of her child.
With Thunderborn's presence and protection, Aaron was now able to travel more often, knowing that Dorn would be safe. He brought a variety of foods and materials: grasses from the plains of Oumtuk, reeds from wetlands of Meregith for weaving, timber from the forests of Learmont in readiness for winter and bundles of spices from the eastern provinces.
Then the day they had all been waiting for came, and the sound of a baby crying could be heard as the first snows of winter settled upon the Black Iron Mountains.
the brotherhood
"My good people and dear brothers." Barramon, smiling his best sycophantic smile began his discourse, his voice rasping through his exposed larynx. "It has come to my attention that there is a new king in Gnell. A half-breed troll." With a roll of his eyes, he went on, "Would you believe it?" He waited for the baying crowd to quiet down whilst soaking up the adulation. "I require an envoy to go to Gnell and confirm the truth of this. If it is true, and I believe it to be so, then you are to pledge our services to this new king," he gave a regal wave. Offer all we have at our disposal. For I feel that our time has come. Time for us to pay back the Mage Guild for our exile, all those years ago."
Barramon lowered his hood, revealing his encrusted scalp and decaying skin. His lips had all but rotted away exposing the rancid stumps of his teeth and his hard black gums. His eyelids were dry and flaking to the point of coming adrift from his shriveled eyes. From his shoulders to his chest he wore a combined spaulder and gorget covered both front and back in barbed spikes of varying sizes. His hands were protected by dark iron gauntlets that left his fingers free. In his hand was his wicked flambard with its serrated blade and barbed hilt enchanted in the elemental fires of Qtar. Dark iron leg guards rattled around his decaying lower limbs, and a heavy belt was slung around his rotting hips. His dark crimson velvet cloak, streaked with blood, bore the insignia of the Brotherhood. Beneath his cloak he wore a shield of valor taken from the last War Master of the Fighters' Guild; more a trophy than a weapon.
"We will challenge the mortals. We will no longer be brushed aside as hearsay and myth. We will take the land of Mor for our own. Then we will sweep across Gnell and Gamran Thorn. Then there will be nothing to stop us from launching our assault on the Cavern of Souls in Northshire." Barramon stepped down from the dais to walk among his minions who pawed at his armor as he passed them by. "Unless anyone knows of another way that is safe for us?"
"Master?" Quin, a conjurer of high standing in the Brotherhood, stepped forward with his succubus close by. "I have recently been informed of a fledgling battlemage who has chosen the ways of the warlock and has run to Gamran Mire with a tattlejack in tow. My sources can be trusted with this news so I would like the honor of your blessing to go and find this warlock and perhaps orient him in his ..." Quin, pausing for thought, sidled up to Barramon, "conflict with the Mage Guild."
Those who still had it, held their breath; others shuffled their feet toward the exit. Not many would dare to answer Barramon and expect to save his soul, even though he had invited suggestions from the floor. Barramon was never too pleased when others attempted to share in his moments of glory. Quin, however, was different. He was no fool. Unlike most of the Brotherhood who had never strayed far beyond the cloying mist which shrouded Drakeshire beneath its veil, Quin was well traveled. For the time being at least, Barramon was content to hear him out.
"If I can gain the trust of this young warlock then he could get us into Northshire. We could leave a gift for the inhabitants of Northshire to help persuade them across to our cause." Quin opened his mouth allowing a small winged insect to fly out and settle on Barramon's skeletal finger. Barramon raised the insect up to his eyes for a closer look. The insect had the face of a man with lion's teeth and a scorpion's tail. Its carapace shimmered with purples and deep blues in the light from the candelabrum.
"Interesting," Barramon said, looking over the insect at Quin, "what is it?"
"A plague fly," Quin inclined his head toward Barramon, knowing he had already been granted his request. "Its bite is extremely painful, and the sting, particularly unpleasant. The disease it carries leaves the victim open to all manner of suggestions." Twiddling his fingers nervously, he fixed his gaze on Barramon.
Barramon continued examining the plague fly perched on the tip of his finger. Without averting his gaze, he said, "Make it so. But be careful of the tattlejack; they have a most disagreeable habit of causing the truth to come out." Barramon stared at Quin who, averting his eyes, bowed to his master. "Take Taarl with you and do what you must. Secure a way into Northshire. Her unusual talents will be most useful no doubt. Fail me and I'll feed you to the dragon."
Quin bowed low to his master again, knowing he must succeed or face certain death and, whichever way it came, it would be unpleasant. Final death for the undead could come in several ways; they could be decapitated, lose their soul, or be fed to a dragon. Any other creature would be tolerable, but a dragon's gut was indeed a most painful end.
"I will send others to speak to the goblin king. Perhaps we can make a two-pronged attack on the Mage Guild. Such a rich harvest of souls that would bring." Barramon thrust his arms in the air signaling for all those present to shout their adulation. The gathered throng duly obliged. Surging forward as one they lifted Barramon above their heads and carried him out into the dank air for everyone to see and give obeisance.
No one in the Brotherhood apart from Barramon, Quin, Taarl and one other knew what the Cavern of Souls was. The truth was as far from the legends as the east is from the west. Few souls ever returned from the cavern as the halflings of Northshire slaughtered any undead on sight. It with this in mind that Taarl was selected as envoy; she had an almost unique gift that only those with the deepest of spiritual vision could detect. Taarl was a soul leech. She was not a true undead. She could draw out a living soul the same as a warlock, but she could keep it intact, alive. More than this, Taarl could transmogrify into the physical manifestation of the person. Very few people could detect a soul leech; perhaps it was as well there were so few of them.
There was no sun in Drakeshire, no day or night, just a dense ubiquitous, life-devouring fog. Beneath this veil, the Brotherhood reigned supreme, untroubled by outsiders. The Dark Iron Mountains to the east ran the length of Drakeshire’s border with Grimlaw. A small cutting had been made centuries before the founding of the Brotherhood, when Drakeshire was still beautiful woodland peppered with tiny villages and hamlets that serviced the thriving agricultural and equestrian industries. No one used the cutting anymore; the dwarves had barricaded the route into Grimlaw to prevent any further repeats of the tragedy from whence the cutting was named: Dragon's Lot.