Magician Bestowed

Chapter 2

Someone to Watch Over Me

Rock Cliff was an outpost carved into the Green Mountains where the foothills grew too large to be foothills, and the rounded peaks rose up to become mountains. The Green Mountains were ancient and smooth, eroded slowly over the centuries until their majestic peaks wore down. Although the legends in that part of the world spoke of a time ages upon ages past when the Gods themselves danced atop their lofty peaks, the Green Mountains were now little more than unusually large hills. Rarely did snow cover their peaks, and often it was easier to go over them than to find passes between the peaks. Here and there along the range an occasional peak would reach high into the sky, attempting to reclaim the glory of years gone by. But rather than appearing regal with their lame display of splendor, the few snow caps atop these ancient mountains only made them look feeble. Their majesty was long since gone.

It was in this place that the Dwarven race established Rock Cliff, an outpost at the southern end of the mountains they had inhabited for centuries. The Dwarves had gained so much knowledge of the mountains that many believed that the Green Mountain range had been carved out of the ground by the Dwarves themselves. Their knowledge of all things on and in those mountains was nearly as limitless as time itself. They studied the wildlife, the habits of the mountain lions and bears, they had navigated the rivers and lakes above and below. They had measured the winds that swirled through the passes, watched patiently from generation to generation as erosion shaped their home. They studied the ways of far darker things, as well. They were constantly at war with the orcs and ogres that sought to make their own place in those mountains. They crawled and crept through their own dark tunnels in the mountains, causing the Dwarves to forever be on their guard. The Dwarves and the mountains were inseparable, and the fates of bother were intertwined. As farmland is little more than dirt without a farmer, the mountains were little more than rock without the Dwarves.

Amandis Thorl knew of the Dwarves, of course. He had seen many of them passing his lands on the roads that would take a traveler through the center of his home in Ayrvil. R’Hurk Macni, who had never been given to hard work, would often trade with them at his little post, offering up whatever had been left by the last trader in exchange for items of Dwarven craft. Sometimes it was merely a lump of some strange ore, worthless to a Dwarf, but a rare and unique item to a simple farmer. On several occasions during the year, a small caravan of Dwarves would descend from the mountains and travel across the valley, trading their crafts for grains and vegetables grown on the farms. One of Thorl’s most prized possessions was a mirror of Dwarven make. The frame was made of an ornate bronze, shaped into an intricate pattern with an oval mirror of highly polished glass. He hung it above his bed, and on certain mornings reveled at the way the morning light would bounce off it and brighten his room. That mirror had cost him several bushels, but it had been a good enough year in the fields for him to determine there was enough surplus in his yields to afford a luxury.

He could still recall the name of the Dwarf who had sold him the mirror. His name was Myrgat Oredigger.