A Journey Beneath the Lortmils
By Richard Di loia (inspiration, lore, and compass direction), and David J. Leonard (voice, prose, and the eyes, ears, and nose of the underoerth).
"He used to often say that there was only one Road; that it was like a great river: its springs were at every doorstep, and every path was its tributary."
-- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings
The Long
and Winding Road:
Balazar Getts |
Far too many
humans and elves, too, for his liking. Best to be at one’s own behest. Every
dwarf knew as much. You never really knew where you stood with the other races.
Not really. Humans were a slippery sort; their history betrayed as much: one
moment they were honest and true, the next they were raising vast armies and
conquering hither and thither, keeping secrets and casting spells. One had only
to call Vecna to mind to realize just how bad they could get. And the elves….
Now there was a holier than thou lot, if there ever was one. As capricious as
humans, in their own way, too: They declared an allegiance for all ages, and
then when the going got tough, and their own borders were secure, they slunk
back into their forests and left their allies to fend for themselves. It was
best to trust to your own. Experience taught a dwarf to rely on kith and kin, a
sharp axe, a firm foothold, and a solid roof overhead. Therein lay security,
not having to worry about burrowing beasts, and what may be whirling overhead
in an endless sky; only what lay fore and aft, and sometimes above or below,
but that was just the same below the surface, wasn’t it?
Best to take
the Low Road, and bypass all that needless fuss.
You’ve never
heard of it?
That’s not
surprising. The dwarves keep its very existence a secret, even if more
outsiders know about it than they believe healthy.
Others have
stumbled upon it, to be sure; and a few know some short lengths of it; but you
could pull every hair from a dwarf’s beard out by the root and he still
wouldn’t tell you its exact route; in fact, he’d be sure to send you off into
its most dangerous stretches, if you did, into its dead-ends and defiles, or
down one or two holes where only the gods know what might be there, because no
dwarf ever met a soul who’d ever crept back out of them.
Those who do
know about the Low Road know it creeps high and low, connecting those dwarven
cities and towns that dot the heights and depths of the spine of the range, and
those that risk the foothills to trade with the gnomes and humans, and the
elves, too, if we’re telling the truth.
Depending on
which way you’re headed, it begins or ends in Gilmorack, and does the very same
in at its end, in Balnorhak. There’s no need for it beyond Balnorhak. The
Principality of Ulek is where the Low Road becomes the High Road, fanning out
as rivers and roads generally do when they’ve flowed as far as they can.
You might ask
why the dwarves keep it secret? And why are they so suspicious about outsiders?
Because it’s in their nature to be so. You might say they came to it honestly,
as it were.
Back in the old
days, theirs had been a prosperous realm, until the humans had torn the world
asunder, calling down such fury that the dwarves’ realm had been sundered along
with their own. The very air had been set afire, the ground scorched and
burned. Such was the devastation that they, like the humans, had no recourse
but to flee to foreign lands and start anew.
They’d found
such a place in the Lortmil Mountains. The southern bits were a bit too low for
a dwarf’s liking, too low, too wet, and prone to be drenched in the autumn when
the winds blew in a deluge from the Azure Sea, but the application of pick and
spade set that to rights. Before long they had struck out, tasting the rock,
their keen senses informing them that this was indeed a rich land. Gold
glistened. Silver seams glowed. The depths were variegated with them, aplenty.
Soon, they discovered that the Lortmils sparkled with gems, as well. This land
was truly blessed by Berronar. It must have been by her hand that they were
guided there.
Moradin must
have forged the Lortmils before all others, because they were old; indeed, they
were so old that they were worn down as only untold millennia can, lashed by
oceans of rain, and a god’s age of wind, then scraped and scoured by
glaciation. But their roots are strong, their heart stronger still. Only the
oldest ranges are as rich, despite their once majestic heights being worn down
to stubs, as are the teeth of the eldest of dwarves.
The dwurfolk
soon discovered that they were not the first to find these hallowed peaks: Even
as they scaled its first slopes, they were set upon by the orcs and goblins and
kobolds that infested them. Stones and javelins rained down, and their shields
rang with blows. Giantkind bellowed and stomped among them. But they
persevered, and clung to their gains.
It would seem
the orcs and goblins and kobolds considered those hills theirs, as if squatting
there for decades, or even centuries, gave them a greater claim to this land of
plenty than was bestowed upon them by Berronar. Had not Clangeddin lent them
the strength to take them? And had not Moradin created them to be the
custodians of the oerth?
They cleared the
vermin out, cleansing the hills, and dug deep, discovering the caverns and the
caves beneath, colonizing those most suitable, and tunnelling into where the
oerth smelled sweetest. The nose knows, as the old saying goes, and where the
nose knows, the dwarf goes.
And their noses
have led them in so many directions: Pockets of ore are never clustered
together nice and neat, making them easy to get at; no, they’re scattered
hither and thither; so, a dwarf needs to cut more passages than he’d prefer,
what with having to transport the cuttings back to mill for processing.
Mostly, new
passages are cut because the nose knows there’s ore over there. Occasionally, a
passage breaks into a cavern, or a long dead volcanic pipe; and sometimes those
caverns are filled with beasties that need to be cleared out. That’s all in a
days’ work, and no complaints about it. But before long, the workings were so
far afield, and the trek back so long, that a new community needs building.
There are other
reasons for cutting passages (they call them drifts, by the way, ‘cause they
drift here, and they drift there); sometimes they need to raise or drop shafts,
sometimes to coax the air in, and sometimes to coax air out; sometimes a dwarf
needs to get higher or lower; and sometimes, there’s a need to trade with the
surface folk, who always seem pleased to trade crops and sundries for a bit of
iron ore, or a bit of gold.
A dwarf has to
be careful about all these openings to the surface. There shouldn’t be too
many. It’s a pain to keep watch over them, to keep the nosey and the greedy
out. They had best be hidden, blending in with their surroundings, so as not to
be obvious. One thing a dwarf knows, is that if a portal to the surface isn’t
directly from a dwarven city, it’s best to rig it to collapse, just in case—you
know how it is…. The thing is, some are natural, as it were. It took some time,
but the custodians of each stretch had to find where every last crack and
crevice that connects to the Low Road is. Every last one of them. They had to
be capped or gated, set with thick iron doors, embossed with a warning to “Keep
out!” (Yes, the warning is in dwarven. It’s not the dwur’s fault if a
trespasser can’t read it. He shouldn’t be able to enter anyway, what with the
doors being locked.) Barred. And trapped. And checked on, regularly. Just in
case.
Could they have
missed one or two? Possibly. The dwarves would say otherwise. They have long
memories, and a head for tunnels, one might say. Even so, they are pragmatic;
they keep records; because, sometimes people forget. There are lots of tunnels,
and just as many natural caverns and pipes, and not all of them are safe.
There have been
times when scouts have disappeared, and times when a curious dwarf has gone
missing. Search parties were sent out, and on very rare occasions, those search
parties did not come back. Once or twice, able adventurers sent to discover their
whereabouts of those search parties didn’t, either. When that happened,
prudence dictated that those tunnels be sealed. And a warning was etched into
the walls declaring unimaginable dangers.
So, is the Low
Road safe?
Yes, of course
it is. I’d bet your life on it.
But there is
that bit in the middle….
Gilmorack
City:
Gilmorack |
Balazar
breathed in the cold air. And rounded its expanse. The Yatils loomed to the
north, an undulating green despite Abharclamh’s cap of snow and ice; and to the
east, beyond Treunsgia, Rockhome lay beneath a bed of clouds on the horizon,
their first stop.
He exhaled,
and began the long spiral down through Gilmorack’s tiers, past the Royal
apartments, and then the artisans’ demesnes, where they worked the metal, wove
the gold, and set the stones into weapons, into armours that were the envy of
any who had ever laid eye on them. Past the temples dedicated to Moradin, to
Berronar, and to Clangeddin. And past the grand old city with its layers of
hearths, great and humble, where the bairns grew strong and dreamt that they
too would craft and war and know the glory that might be sung of for ages to
come.
Clangeddin must
surely have been pleased, for the clans soon commanded the length of the
northern peaks, and stood at the foot of Mount Gilmorack. Although not as lofty
as their ancestral peaks, its height exceeded those that surrounded it, if not
Abharclamh’s.
Ever
industrious, they dug in, and even as they applied their picks, they marvelled
at what riches it was to bestow. This place must surely have been meant for
them, they surmised.
But even as they
dug down, and broke into the galleries of caverns that hollowed the hills here
and there, they were welcomed by even more orcs and goblins and kobolds than
they’d had the good fortune to have sent on back to Grummsh than they had on
the slopes. The beasties had been down there some time, because they’d done
their own bit of tunnelling, connecting this cavern to that. And they didn’t
want to give up those filthy caverns, either, so the fighting was far fiercer
below than above. The clearing of the caverns became a labour of decades.
Once again, they
put their faith in the benevolence of Clangeddin, and persevered. Moradin would
have had it no other way; and hadn’t Berronar led them to this land of plenty,
where, under the light, the walls sparkled with even more abandon than had the
slopes?
Before long,
the flush walls were bare of runes and frieze, and then, while still square and
true, their chiseled face roughened. The ceilings lowered, the walls narrowed,
the flagstones gave way to gravel and rail.
The distance
between the glowing globes lengthened, the spans between dimmer.
Until he
entered the head of the mine, the winze within the vaulted chamber illuminated
by a ring of clustered globes whose light could no more plumb the length of the
shaft than the sun could penetrate the rock above him.
He stepped
into the conveyance, and the teams of roethe yoked to its vast spool unwound
its wind. Balazar descended, and the heat of the hearths above gave way to the
chill of the shallows, where the rock was cool to the touch. Darkness enveloped
him, until even his dark vision dimmed, and the phosphorescence of the lichen
bathed his eyes with its thin glow. Deeper he rode. The chill deepened, soon as
cold as the snow upon the peaks.
Down one
shaft. Then a second, and a third. Deeper, darker, colder.
When he could
drop no more, he exited into the mine proper, where the breath of the oerth
wafted up, smelling of cut stone and the damp of a dew that dripped, and
collected until its pools flowed in the ditches, to the reservoirs. The deeps
smelled of ore, and of sweat and the fungi the roathe grazed upon. And of the
subterranean river that rushed out from the north.
Gilmorack is
typical of all cities that spill out upon the surface world. Its façade is made
to awe the onlooker, to evoke power and strength, and to enforce the notion
that to attack such a fortress would be futile. Such a warning was necessary,
what with the human’s love of war. Their history was strewn with them: Small
wars, short wars, big ones, long ones, some even named Turmoils, as if those
weren’t wars, too. Their need to claim dominion over their neighbours is
alarming, to say the least. There were so many wars, and too many despots to
count really, to say nothing of Tavish and Vecna, and the less said about them,
the better.
It’s best to
keep them at arm's length, and never within the city proper, if you can help
it. And so, what the humans think of as Glimorak is, in actuality, Upper Town.
The city proper is inside Mount Gilmorack, where the folk live, where the folk
keep their riches. Upper Town, grand as it may be, is nothing compared to
Gilmorack, proper. Upper Town is flat, one level, all at 2000 feet above sea
level, if a little sloped. Gilmorack soars high into the peak, and dives low
below, as any and all dwur cities do.
Dwarven district definitions:
- Upper Town: The part of the settlement that is on the surface and includes the Visitors’ Hall, carved into the mountain
- High Town: The part within the settlement that is closest to the Visitors’ Hall from the surface. Usually the older areas.
- Low Town: The part within the mountain that is furthest from the Visitors’ Hall. Usually the newer areas.
The Visitors' Hall |
A naïve visitor
might think that the large wooden gate leading at the Visitors’ Hall’s end is
the main defense to Gilmorack. He’d be wrong. Formidable it may be, but the true
defenses loom beyond.
Should those of
the Visitors’ Hall be overwhelmed, the Entrance Hall awaits. Siege weapons and
arrow slits face the Visitors’ Hall, from over a pair of thick steel doors. And
should those unlucky invaders happen to make it to the Entrance Hall’s gate,
murder holes await.
Only dwarven
residents, and a very few illustrious visitors, are allowed past these steel
doors and into Gilmorack proper.
The mirror of
these defenses are at the other end of Gilmorack, facing the Low Road. Those
would never be needed, a dwarf knows, but it’s better to have and never need
them, than to be caught with your britches down.
Gilmorack is not
typical in that it is the dwarven seat of power in the north. It is the most
grandiose. The most Dwarven. And it is here that the nations of the north come
to parley. Banners fly atop the entrances to manors and estates, declaring this
to be Veluna’s, that Furyony’s, this the Highfolk’s, and that Perrenland’s. Far
removed from these, Ket’s. There’s no need for the banners, but such is the way
of humans and elves, each aglitter in their polished armour and prancing atop
their horses. Even the Knights of the Hart have grounds, with delegates from
all the lands they roam.
The dwur had no
such need. The stone tells their story of steadfast power, its magnificence
embossed with the faces of their ancestors, and a warning etched atop their
gate to all who might ever think them weak:
“To Thee who are True, Welcome;To Thee who Come to Conquer,Look upon these Walls,And Despair.”
Beyond those
gates, Gilmorack is a very different city than most imagine. The uninitiated
expect high rising works of stone amid rock pillars supporting the lofty
caverns they inhabit. But the reality is that lofty spaces are few and far
between, the purview of the rich and the powerful, the kings, the governors,
and the demesnes of the gods. The vast majority of the city is akin to orderly
warrens, a stacked complex of rows and columns, each dwelling but a few
chambers, more for sleeping than living, seeing that a dwarf’s hands are never
idle, ever busy at their trade, their art, and their revelry in the commons.
The tall folk are never invited within, and they would never be comfortable
within, either, even if they were. The corridors, the chambers, even the
commons, are low, as the dwur see no need to excavate space that might never be
used. That would not be prudent. And a dwarf is, if anything, prudent.
Travel
Along the Low Road:
There are more
tunnels beneath the oerth than meets the eye. You can easily get lost, if you
don’t know your way.
Under the Oerth |
But enough talk
about mines, we’re here to discuss the Low Road. Those tunnels that are the
Road are the widest, the most expansive, and the safest. When I say widest, and
most expansive, I do not mean tall, nor wide, nor expansive. Natural caverns
may be, so too the wendings of the waterways that creep and gush here and
there; but not those that they themselves have chiseled out of the oerth, those
are only as wide and tall as needed. To have done otherwise is time-consuming,
and a waste of precious labour. Where the river may be wide where nature
decreed, the canals are no wider than the beam of their boats and rafts, and
the space to ply their poles. And only as tall, too.
If you were to
describe them in a word, that word would be practical. It would not be
“comfortable.” Where water flows, they are cold and damp, awash with the rush
of water to the point of deafening where it flows swiftest. Mists rise, and dew
drops. Where there are no rivers, no creeks, no rivulets, the air is as dry as
ground bone, each step raising the settled dust until shins are sheathed with
its puttees, and the nose blows black into hankies.
The Road is not
entirely without amenities, though. There are rest spots along the way:
Waystations, inns, taverns, and even settlements (you’ll not find such on side
passages; there’s not enough traffic to warrant the expense), invariably
located at the end of an average day’s journey. Most are little more than a
small side cavern managed by a pair of dwarves in rotation (their tenure
averaging six months, with a long list of applicants in wait, so lucrative are
these posts). Settlements invariably arise on the crossroads to the more widely
spaced mining towns.
A Glimmer in the Dark |
He could hear
the exchange already:
“What’s your
pleasure?” the innkeeper would most surely ask, all smiles, anticipating the
coin to follow.
“A bed, a
meal, a stable for the moles, and the boy,” Philbus was sure to answer. “Is it
clean,” he’d ask?
“Cleaner than
your wife’s kitchen,” the innkeeper would swear.
It would not
be; and could never hope to be; but it would suit a traveller’s need. Even the
boy would be issued clean bedding, and he’d be glad to have it after so many
days of a bedroll, with a pack for a pillow, after trekking on these less
trafficked stretches.
The soup
would surely be hot and hearty, thick with root vegetables and as little meat
the innkeeper could get away with serving and not be called to account for the
lack of amenities the traveller most certainly expected.
The room
would be clean--the floor swept, at the very least--and the sheets fresh, the
wool cover thick and snug and a comfort. A tallow included. Not for the boy;
that would be extra.
All in all,
it would serve Philbus’ needs.
“How much?”
“Ten silver.
Five for each of the moles. Two for the boy.”
Philbus was
not disappointed. And after a little haggling, the price was two silver less
than he’d expected. The price depended on the day’s traffic, and the number of
rooms available. Today, he was lucky. He paid, and laid his head upon the
luxurious feather pillow, and rested easy, secure in the knowledge that he and
his goods were safe and sound.
Not that
bedding down on the Low Road would have been. The Low Road wasn’t dangerous.
Everyone knew that. But it was prudent to take precautions. There were some who
by their very nature just couldn’t be trusted, could they?
Despite its
name, the Low Road is not always low, neither deep beneath the surface, nor
even below sea level. As any dwarf knows, it rises and plummets, as do the
tunnels and terrain that flow through the Lortmils. So do the Lortmils
themselves, ever lower as they step down south, sometimes outpacing the
downward flow of the rivers that spill off its slopes and out of its depths.
So, sometimes the Road skims very close to the surface of the mountain slopes,
indeed. And where the Road draws close to the surface, shafts are raised to
vent the heat of the depths. These shafts are well hidden, and where possible,
high up cavern walls, coming out on the surface in spots where a mountain goat
would be hard-pressed to climb.
Despite this,
there’s always the possibility that some enterprising rogue might find one, so
it's best to be tricksy then hiding them: The best places are in crags and
fissures, blinded with bush, and where water spills into them, in that case
drawing fresh air with it.
There are
stretches that are exposed to the light of day. That can be a problem, but it
also makes for a pleasant walk in the sun. There aren’t a lot of garrisons
along the Road, but they are there. One good thing about those “walks in the
sun” is that if you array a few polished sheets just so, they coax light down
the Road for quite a way. Beyond that, if you want light, you have to carry it
with you, or place magic globes, or plant lichens that glow.
Gilmorack |
Why don’t those
underoerth rivers freeze, you ask, if it’s that cold? Because deep down, the
heat marries the cold and evens them both out. And water flows. In some places,
the edges get a little crisp in winter, but never more than that.
*A simplified
geology lesson: Newly created volcanic rock is very hot. It cools as it ages,
so very old rock is cold. But billions of tons of rock overhead weigh a lot,
the pressure immense. If there is enough pressure, the rock becomes “pliable,
“reliquefies,” and begins to “metamorphose.” Volcanic intrusions will reheat
the surrounding rock, as will meteor impacts. As the rock above erodes, the
pressure is released, and the rock cools again.
From
Gilmorack to Grimahl’s Hill:
Philbus
arched his back, satisfied by the crackle that eased the ache, even if for a
moment. His feet ached too; and his boots had seen better days. Both had seen
better days, and a lot of miles over the years as he hauled the sundries up the
Road to stock the inns and the waystations.
“I ought to
get a sit-down job,” he thought, one where he took stock of the foodstuff
imported, and didn’t have to suffer delivering it to those impatient souls
expecting their deliveries. They were forever chaffing on how the price of
resupply was too high, and that it was rising by the day.
Was it his
fault prices went up? Prices always went up. That’s what prices did: Go up.
What did they
expect? He had to make a profit, too.
Gilmorack to Grimahl’s Hill |
Trade
Along the Low Road:
“Trade must
flow,” the elders decreed long ago. The People must have what they could not
provide themselves; and thus, the routes were scouted, the caverns linked, the
ways widened. Grimahl’s Hill opened the gates to the west; Gilmorack to the
north, Irongate to the east; and distant Balnorhak to all points south. And
before too long, the first boats, the first caravans shipped the first copper
and iron and gold and silver, and returned with the first spices, and the first
fruits, and such necessities and wonders as the elves and the humans might
bestow. For a price.
Bissel was
blessed with such soil that their farms were truly bountiful; as were Veluna’s,
each with a cornucopia of crops: root vegetables and wheat, apples and peaches
and berries; and with the precious timber the depths of the oerth could never
provide. So too the Gran March. The Duchy of Ulek was a veritable garden of
citrus and grape. Keoland and the humans settled along the Principality of
Ulek’s coast netted schools of fish, and such armored and ugly water bugs that
when boiled were worth the misfortune of having gazed upon them.
For such
luxuries, the folk traded what copper and iron these nations required, and such
gold and silver and gems they could afford. They will pay what the folk demand,
because they desire these things almost as much as the folk do, but they don’t
have the skill, nor the will to dig as deep as needed to gain them. And because
they fear the dark.
The dwarves
trade in another luxury, one as hotly desired as is their gold. Ice. High in
their mountains there are caverns that are veritable lodes of ice. And where it
does not form of its own accord, it can be coaxed to do so. Cut in blocks, and
wrapped in cloth, it keeps, and keeps long enough to be got to market.
Grimahl’s
Hill:
The Grimahl's Hill Market |
He only
wished they had the good sense to speak one language. Keoish was reputedly
their common tongue this side of the Lortmils, while Aerdian was on the other;
but despite that notion, each and every other human he crossed path with
babbled in some other, or so it seemed.
How did they
understand one another?
Judging from
the way they spoke to one another, even when they could understand one another,
he wondered whether a common language was truly the problem.
The High Town of
Grimahl’s Hill overlooks Bissel and the Gran March, and it is here that those
two nations peddle their produce for the folk’s gold and copper, and silver and
iron. Indeed, so many merchants from either nation come to the foot of
Grimahl’s Hill, that there are more humans than dwarves. As such, the dwarves
are very careful in who is in the know about the entrance to the Low Road, even
among themselves.
From
Gilmorack to Rockhome:
Caleb’s Head |
He heard it
long before he saw it, too. Faint at first, its flow bounced off the walls in
ever greater volume, and before too long, he heard the toil of his crews.
He was
pleased by the progress he saw upon gaining the docks. The final preparations
for launch were already underway. Their wares and sundries had already been
stowed in the wide, pointed-bowed, shallow-keeled boats: Chests with coin for
purchase were spaced and fixed to the beam between kilns of spice from the far
west, with enough spare slats and wrought iron under the gunnels to build the
boats half again. Gossamer silks were bundled against the finest bone porcelain
from Ekbir, and the most exquisite carvings from Tusmit, and atop these were
rolled and bound hand-woven rugs from Zeif. Tarps were tied taught, the knots
firm and fast. What lay between the keel and the true bottom of the craft
should not be listed, lest even the most trusted hand be tempted.
One last test
of the knots and the crews boarded, untied the boats from one another, and the
docks, pushed off, dipped oars, and coasted down current, poling the walls when
needed.
Globes fore
and aft lit their path and wake.
It would take
no more than five days to arrive in Rockhome, at least half the time the return
would take, that trek made by caravan, the boats affixed with wheels, and made
to trundle up the grade they would whisk down with ease.
Balazar
muttered a prayer to Berronar for her forethought in providing them with such a
swift passage.
Gilmorack to Rockhome |
The trek back to
Gilmorack is not as easy, the caravans are not aided by the river. Gentle though
it may be, Caleb’s head is too steep, and too swift; and the southbound traffic
too frequent, for the boats to ply their way west. Crews would be at their oars
without rest. And so, the road west is by foot, and by mole, the boats, fixed
with wheels, are hauled up its length, where they might cruise down stream
again. Hoists raised those carts toiling north, just as the locks lowered those
going south.
Rockhome:
Moradin's Temple in Rockhome |
The ranks of
lit votive tapers lining the walls beckoned, each flicker a prayer, a plea, a
bribe, petitioning the benevolence of the Lord and Creator, Moradin.
He crossed
the floor and slid a gold piece into the slot and lit a wick of one taper to
another. Kneeling, he sang his prayer, its rhythm as might accompany the
hammering of steel.
“Your forge burns within me,
Let me burn with Your fire.
Safeguard my trek,
The oerth beneath my feet, blessed be;
And let Your Will be my desire.”
Rockhome is a
crossroads. In fact, it is The Crossroads. As such, there is a saying that “All
roads lead to Rockhome, because, insofar as the Low Road, and the Lortmils are
concerned, all roads do.
It is the
largest and greatest of the crossroads, between Gilmorack and Irondelve, and
the Road south. It is no wonder that it is so populous.
It is a dwarven
city. None but the folk live here, because no visitor would ever be allowed
this far along the Low Road, no matter how trusted.
The hub in the
north, all pass through, and thus, all the deities of the dwarves are in
attendance. Their chapels and temples line the Low Road’s crossing. Their doors
are always open; for who can say when one of the People might need succor,
weary from their travels.
From
Rockhome to Irondelve:
If you were to
guess which stretch of the Low Road is the busiest, you would surely presume it
to be the Road to Irondelve. A great deal of trade follows this path. It is no
wonder. This is the market linked to Verbobonc, the breadbasket of Furyondy, to
Dyver and the Nyr Dyv, and to the riches of Free City of Greyhawk.
The passage east
is swift, still aided by that canal, Caleb’s Head, flowing from Gilmorack and
spilling out into Iron Lake at Irondelve. The way west is not so easy. Like the
route between Rockhome and Gilmorack, the boats are fixed with wheels, hauled,
and hoisted, and wheedled up slope, step by step, bench by bench, and up
tortuous switchbacks until they reach blessed Rockhome, and perhaps Gilmorack
again, whence the wheels are stowed, and the swift journey east and south might
begin anew. Waste not, want not.
Irondelve:
Aiko emptied
his cart with a care befitting the love he clearly had for his wares. The
uneducated might think them toys, but those with a keen eye understood what
wonders of clockwork they were. As only a gnome could create. Intricate.
Delicate. And exquisitely detailed.
Aiko emptied his cart... |
The others,
those that might fetch a princely sum, those he most truly wished to sell, were
behind him, and behind glass. Under lock and key, and only brought out on
request from those patrons who could afford such automata. These did not merely
hop, or clap cymbals, these could play music and dance; one could even write
simple phrases, dipping its quill and recreating the text on the spool inside
it. Such sorts of clockwork impressed all who saw them, but very few could
afford such a device.
Then there
were the few he never displayed. Few enquired about them; because very few knew
they existed. Maybe one or two of the most respected and learned of sages.
Archmagi. Not many more. Kings might be able to afford one, or better yet,
commission one (and have the patience required to wait for its fabrication, as
such things took time). They were the real wonders. Not merely clockwork, nor
even automata, but suffused with magic.
Each creation
was special. Such love went into their creation that parting with them was
difficult.
One he would
never sell. It was the culmination of all his artifice and skill. It had got
him out of more than one scrape, and surely would again. That one was his.
His display
complete, set just so, he stood tall, as only a proud gnome might, and waited.
He had
already seen the first glimmers of interest as customers strolled past, and
paused. And pointed.
You might ask
yourself, is Irondelve a dwarven city, or gnome? There are as many gnomes
crowding the market in the Visitors’ Hall as dwarves, and far more gnomes than
humans in Upper Town. Trees line its streets, and there are gardens galore.
Burrows dot the hills. Groves shelter beds, and their flowers paint the
boulevards. It’s all so very undwarven, all that greenery. And all too gnomish.
And neither. It’s a blend of both. But this is the Kron Hills. And as such, the
Visitors’ Hall is no hall, at all. It’s a garden under a canopy of trees. What
do the dwarves think of that? What do they care, so long as the merchants come?
It’s an all too
human city, too, what with so many merchants and delegates from Verbobonc and
Dyvers and the Free City. From Safeton, and Hardby and Chendl. There is even a
scattering of Rhennee, their barges so numerous that their collected berth has
been called the Little Dyv, or Swindle Isle, depending on who you ask.
All this traffic
has made many a dwarven merchant quite wealthy. And that wealth is made obvious
by the abundance of gilded opulence on display. Visiting dwarves don’t like
such a display. It draws attention, they say. And jealousy.
Which is why,
once beyond the Visitors’ Hall, the dwarves built their Entrance Hall within
the largest hill. Facing outwards, defensive fortifications are made obvious in
display, to give pause to any would-be invader. Past the Entrance Hall is the
dwarven town of Irondelve, even better warded and forbidden to all but dwarves
and a few trusted friends. And even some dwarves are not permitted past if
their allegiance to the Kingdoms of the Lortmils is suspect.
From
Rockhome to the Lost City:
The Lost City of Flint |
Few venture
close to Flint. Only the most adventurous dwarves seeking the truth. It is a
dangerous path, infrequently patrolled; the least patrolled of any, in fact. It
ought to be blocked. It ought to be sealed. Trapped. Glyphed. What need be. But
it’s not; because the dwarves still hope to find out what happened to their
lost brethren.
Some time ago, they
disappeared. Some believe Flint was overrun during the Hateful Wars. Some say
that they dug too deep. The former is possible. But the other is just as
likely, even more so. There are no bodies. Not one was ever found. No blood. No
sign of struggle. They just disappeared.
The city lies
under a shroud of silence and dust. Tracks crisscross its streets. Layer upon
layer of web climb its walls. But not spiders. No ghouls. No revenants.
Below, its mines
are foul with stagnant pools, echoing with drips, and the very rare oerthfall.
It is here that
the dwarves allow others. The brave. The foolhardy. Those adventures who risk
all in the pursuit of vainglorious thrill. Driven by Curiosity. And Greed.
From
Rockhome to Tharak’s Hold:
Though there are
side passages, they are few.
Most scurry
north and south, with nary a glance to either side, meaning to get to the other
end as quick as can be.
The only traffic
on this passage is for goods being shipped between the northern and southern
kingdoms, those luxuries not easily had to either side. There is no need to
ship gold, or silver, or iron; those can be had, in abundance, on either side.
Not so fish, and
lobster, and crab; or fine silk from the Far West. Keoish wines. Sea salt.
Ivory from Blackmoor and Stonefist (don’t ask how they got their hands on that,
and they will tell you no lies). You can get anything your heart desires, for a
price, and if you’re willing to wait a little while to get it.
Tharak’s
Hold:
South of
Rockhome, and south of Flint, there’s a valley betwixt Celene and the Duchy of
Ulek. You might suspect that it’s mostly used by the elves, what with there
being elves on either side. Clearing that and the Celene Pass had been the
elves’ main objective during the Hateful Wars, as far as the dwarves were
concerned, ‘cause once that was done, they turned their sights on the Suss
Forest and left the heavy work for the folk to do. That’s the dwarves’ side of
the story, anyway.
Krigala’s Grove |
Tharak’s Hold |
But so do the
dwarves.
Not far from
Tharak’s Hold, the dwarves stumbled upon a cavern, a very special cavern. It’s
chock full of crystals. Not your garden variety crystals. Enormous crystals.
House-sized crystals. As if you could afford such a house.
So what, you
ask? What good are big crystals? Are they worth anything?
You might say
so. If you stare at the crystals long enough, you start to have visions. You
may see images of your past, and sometimes, you might see something else. The
future, mayhap.
From
Tharak’s Hold to Hoch Dunglorin:
A Broad Expanse of Lake |
The oars
slipped into the water, and gently pressed themselves forward. In what they
hoped was blessed silence.
If there was
a stretch of the Road Balazar would describe as dangerous, this would be it.
The elders
insisted that the Road was safe from one end to the other, but Balazar knew
better. Boats disappeared along this stretch. Not many, and not often, but just
enough to raise an eyebrow. The elders declared that their loss was most likely
from misfortune. Boats crashed and sank, and few dwarves could swim.
Those who
plied the road nodded at such sage words, and did not believe them, not for one
moment.
Why? Because
the lake was a bed of the dead. Innumerable orcs and goblins had been cast into
this vaulted cavern, and buried under a bed of what rock they could scrape up,
and then rivers had been diverted. You’d think that would have been the end of
it. This was not the first time they had buried such a number of these foul
beasts; and not one of those other mass graves had ever raised anyone’s hackles
once it was done; but here, if you were very quiet, you could hear...something.
A keening. A glimmer of howling. Like the essence of the evil concentrated here
was clawing to get out.
It had to be
the place, Balazar believed. Orcs and goblins didn’t have souls, or spirits;
all they had was hate, and when they died, they just died, and rot.
Rumour had it
that the Flan had found this place first, and that they might have found
something, or dug something up. Who knows where such stories begin? But every
one of the folk had heard such. After all, where had the Flan gone? One day
their city Haradaragh was there, and the next it was gone and them with it;
and it wasn’t until Vecna rose up that anyone ever ventured into this stretch
of the peaks. He did, they say. That’s where the story ends. Most stories like
that end that way, leaving you hanging, thinking the worst. Like Balazar was
just then, his head swimming with revenants and banshees and the like.
So no more
thoughts of orc spirits. It had to be the place, this eerie place. Water
dripped, and in some places cascaded, and poured from fissures in the ceiling,
raising a fog that blanketed what little might be seen, and muffled what little
sound might be heard. And there were sounds to be heard.
He took a
deep breath and held it. He wished he could hold it unto Hoch Dunglorin. If he
could, he could hear every drip, every grain of sand disturbed, every foot that
might fall.
He listened.
If there is one
dangerous stretch of the Low Road, it is the link between the Northern Kingdoms
and Southern Kingdoms. Neither claims the territory. Neither wants to. At its
center is Dead Lake.
Why Dead Lake?
Because it is a mass grave.
It was once a
large, deep, barren cavern. Days wide, miles below the surface. Tales say that
it wends as far east as the Suss Forest, and that it stretches even further
west, not that anyone can say for sure now. After the Hateful Wars, the dwarven
armies from both the northern and southern kingdoms piled the bodies of the
tens of thousand humanoid dead into this cavern. They buried them. They had the
rock: All that tunnelling leaves a lot of waste, and if truth be told, the
dwarves were happy to be rid of it (their tunnels were full of it, and they
couldn’t cart it to the surface; not only would that have been the labour of
years, if not decades, all that scree upon the slopes would have drawn every
curious spelunker for miles around into their Low Road, and they had no wish to
let the existence of their Low Road be known). That done, they didn’t want
thousands of rotting corpses smouldering with disease stinking up their Road,
so they diverted underground rivers, flooding the cavern. Thus was Dead Lake
born. The dwarves gave it wide berth, knowing what lay at its bed; but the fish
and other life diverted with the rivers were not so particular. Food is food.
This cavern now
holds an enormous lake with rivers flowing into it from the north and east and
the west, and with sheets of water cascading into it from above, before
spilling out to the south. The very air is soaked with it, drilling wet,
stalactites brushing the surface, stalagmites jutting out, too much like teeth
for a dwarf to not shiver at the sight, despite the fetid heat.
It’s an eerie
place. The fog glows. Sound echoes without end.
You can’t help
but imagine shapes resolving from the fog.
The Long Dark Lake |
They gasped.
Panted. One retched. A few trained their crossbows on where they fled from. To
no purpose. The lake was calm. Not a ripple stirred. In the distance, a cascade
beyond the veil of fog echoed. Just as before.
One moment
the surface had been placid, and the next the lake was a-boil with froth. A
blackness reached up and out from the depths and dragged those poor
unfortunates down into their watery grave, with little enough time to scream,
let alone fight, or call for help.
Balazar and
the others raised their crossbows, but before the first quarrel could be
notched, the others were gone. They called out to whomever might be afloat; but
there was no answer.
They
panicked, threw down their bows and bore down on the oars, unmindful of the
noise they made, all too thankful when they beached, that they were no longer
out on that black, and once again, placid lake.
What did you
see, they asked one another?
Tentacles,
one ventured, a water spout, suggested another, but most were at a loss as to
what they might have seen. The fog was too thick, the boat too dim. The fog
swirled, thickening, and what might have been shadow, or a jet of ink, or the
black blood of Grummsh, thread with it, plunging the cavern into a far more
Stygian pitch than it ever had a right to be.
Hoch
Dunglorin:
Celene Pass |
They failed.
They wasted so many lives that when the dwarves marched against them, they had
no strength to repel them.
This is not to
say that the hobgoblins did not perch on the slopes for decades, howling their
hatred, pouncing on the unwary. And did so until there were no more of them.
Or so say the
dwarves.
There are still
hobgoblins in the dark valleys. There always will be. They will never abandon
the carcass of Grot-Ugrat.
“Why’d ye want
to muck about with dirt and vines and trees,” Irgor’s brother had asked him. It
was a common opinion, a very dwarven opinion. And rightly so. Their gods were
concerned with honour and courage; with the crafting of the stone, the steel,
and the weaving of mithril. Not the dirt scattered over it. But Irgor thought
that a dwarf ought not to be dependent on the other races, that a dwarf ought
to feed himself, and his people. He wasn’t the only one with that opinion.
Others shared his view. The tiers that stepped up the slopes spoke as
much.
Irgor |
His vines
were surely pleased by it. The grapes were larger, sweeter, and ready for harvest
far sooner than they would have been, otherwise.
He “stole”
the idea from a human down in the Duchy, hailing from Tringlee, or thereabouts.
They were a clever lot, humans, he thought, far cleverer than most dwarves give
them credit for. Then again, most dwarves rarely gave humans a second thought.
Or farming, for that matter.
He shouldn’t
say stole the idea: That tree-hugger, Giles Hamm, had hinted that he ought to
lay the stone, and suggested how much space each sapling needed, asking only
that he might sit awhile, and share in a pot of tea, and chat about the weather
and the welfare of the crops. Hamm had given those down slope advice, as well.
A strange fellow. Said he could talk to the animals. One might wonder what a
rabbit or squirrel had to say?
When you think
about dwarves, farming might be the furthest thing from your mind.
For shame. How
do you think they eat? It’s true that it’s not the most respected of
professions (some dwarves might even turn their noses up at the notion of a
dwarf plowing furrows in the oerth), but they do. And they are good at it.
Dwarves are good at most skills they set their minds to master. And farming is
as much a learned skill at blacksmithing.
Hoch Dunglorin,
the northern tip of the Southern Kingdom, is one such spot they excel at the
venture. The climate is ideal. They tend groves there, and vineyards, and
harvest all manner of vegetables above ground, and so many mushrooms below,
that not only do they meet their needs, and those of the travellers trekking
the Road, they trade the surplus with Tringlee, in the Duchy, and Anyanes, in
Celene. The Celene Pass is famous for its bounty (among dwarves, in any event).
It helps that
there are a number of druids nearby, and that the druids are inclined to help
those who tend the oerth, insofar as they don’t want those souls to deplete the
soil, or clear more land than is necessary. They say that “one ought to live in
harmony with the Mother,” whatever that means.
From Hoch
Dunglorin to Hearthguard Tower:
It is for this
reason that the folk had a devil of a time clearing the vermin out from this
stretch. The hobgoblins fought with a fury hitherto unheard of, what with
Grot-Ugrat so nearby, their idea of a holy city, or some such.
It’s a walking
Road. An arduous Road. No rivers flow beneath this stretch, and the way is dry
and dusty. It’s as much a desert as one might find in the underoerth. A caravan
need be twice as long as it ought to be, what with the need to carry water the
whole way.
It’s so
difficult that most take the High Road of the Celene Pass almost unto Alabaster
Abbey, before slipping below again, for the dash to Hearthguard village, just
south of the Druid’s Defile.
Hearthguard
Tower:
There are gnomes
and halflings and humans in Hearthguard Tower.
There would be.
The Druid’s Defile, despite its ominous name, is a pleasant land, with pleasant
weather. Long settled on either side. Civilized. And densely populated, as
mountain passes go. If one can call the Druid’s Defile a mountain pass. It is a
low country, as far as the Lortmils are, less peak than majestic hills. Gnome
country, for the most part. It is ideal gnome country: forested, dotted with
lakes.
And estates.
Such is the way of beautiful, scenic, pacified places.
Courwood and
Altimira lie to the east, and Kewlbanks and Junre to the west, and as such,
there is a great deal of traffic between, cut timber carted west, and culture
east. It’s the safest passage through the Lortmils, despite the Suss being a
stone’s throw away, seeing that an enormous amount of trade passes between
Celene and the County of Ulek.
An enterprising
dwarf would never let such opportunity pass by without poking his nose up to
the surface to see what might be had, and what might be sold.
It’s an odd name
for a town. There is no tower to speak of; but there is a tall, sculpted,
rounded cliff face over top the gate, and if you crane your neck to it, it very
much looks like the corner tower of a keep. The wings of a palisade stretch to
either side, rows and rows and rows of arrow slits beneath it. And above, balconies
etched into the face, their banisters, the very image of a phalanx of the
bearded folk.
It’s grand. It’s
formidable. Or so the dwarves would have you believe. It’s a bit of a pale
reflection of its past. Its vast populace has moved on. The bounty of gems had
petered out long before the Hateful Wars had flared up. But the oerth still had
a few more gems to mete out, and a few kept on digging.
The nose knows,
and a few knew there were more still, deeper down. They applied their picks,
and pried at the deep.
And a few years
ago, a sheet of rock peeled away, and those who looked on, marvelled at the
spark of glitter that gazed back at them.
From
Hearthguard Tower to Balnorhak:
The Low Road
opens up again beyond Hearthguard Tower. There are caverns and caves, rivers
and lakes, and the way is made swift again, as though the Road can smell
Balnorhak, the former capital of the united dwarven realms of the Lortmils.
Ah, Balnorhak,
city of kings. Every dwarf knows of it, and its fabled grandeur. It once ruled
over the whole of the Lortmils, and the lowlands, too.
The Road here is
befitting that of kings. There is not one foot of its length that is bare of
decoration. Tiled mosaics. Frieze. Caryatid columns. It is a sight to behold.
Made a mockery
by the betrayal.
Balnorhak:
Balnorhak |
His
grandfather had told him of its beauty at its most glorious, and it saddened
him to see it brought so low. Stonework was scarred, as though smashed by
hammer blows, or scored by chisel. Tiles lay scattered upon the station quays
they glided past. So too the spheres that had once cast light upon the mosaics
that graced their walls, and guided one down the presumptuously expansive
corridors and canals that led into the city, and the thoroughfares that crossed
them.
The corridors
that struck straight and true into the depths were shrouded in darkness now,
the shadows somehow suffocating. His keen eyesight could hardly pierce but a
few feet into it before failing utterly. What lay beyond was a mystery that
infected the imagination, with only the destruction exacted upon these close
quays to inspire it. malice during the exodus. That had been a resigned, sullen
affair, said he. Not one of anger. So who, or what, might have carried out such
violence? Those left behind? That which might have crept in to fill the void of
what was? Grandda would surely have shed a tear, had he beheld his beloved Balnorhak
now.
Where once,
it surely echoed with activity, the only sounds that cut the silence were their
efforts, their poles breaking the surface, an eerie keening of the distant
whirl of ventilation.
It stank of
rot, mould and mildew, of abandon. It caught his breath, and urged him to speed
their passage from this place.
It was once a
beautiful city. No more.
Balnorhak had
once ruled over the whole of the People. Now, cannot even say that it rules over
itself. It does not have the right. And no wonder. Its kings had grown selfish,
myopic, and vainglorious. Until finally, one had betrayed the people.
That had not
been so, once.
Once, it had
been the seat of wisdom, and creation. Crafters came from wherever dwarves had
settled, because it was said that they felt “closer” to their patron here,
inspired beyond measure, their fires hotter, the strike of hammer truer, the
result of their work beyond their skill. Moradin appeared to them in dreams,
they claimed, and whispered what could not be recalled upon waking. Those
dreams guided their hands, they said. It was by such a dream that the Anvil
of the Lortmil Mountains was conceived. Swords created upon it could cut
through the thickest armor, and keep their edge. Shields retained what was
embossed upon them no matter the number of blows that fell on them. Kings
desired what was crafted on it; and they were willing to pay the princely sum
demanded, too.
And so it was
until the War. The Hateful Wars waged on, year after year, ten in all, and
still it burned. Far too much blood was shed, even if the People never once
lost a battle. But their enemies were innumerable, an evil tide without ebb.
When will it
end, they wondered? It may never end, they worried.
The king sent an
appeal to the hobgoblin priests of Grot-Ugrat, and the goblins sat with him to
discuss terms.
The People were
shocked? How could He negotiate with such things? They can’t be trusted, they
said.
A treaty was
struck. The People were outraged. They cried out: You cannot trust a goblin! The
king did not listen. He held the treaty aloft before the. Look, he said. “Peace
in our time!”
The treaty was
doomed from the outset. The goblins never had any intention of adhering to its
promises and terms. They struck, even as the ink dried.
Incredulously,
the king did nothing. A misunderstanding, he said.
A hero rose, and
led the People to victory.
The priest
turned against the king. He has betrayed Moradin’s faith in him, they said. The
artisans concurred. Moradin no longer visited their dreams. Their creations
were no longer as inspired. Moradin had abandoned the king. And Balnorhak. Its
mines dried up; its markets fled. And still the king did nothing.
The exodus
began. The People would go to Gilmorack, for it was rumoured then that Moradin
had placed his hope and his faith in that northern city. They took with them
the Anvil of Lortmil Mountain, the instrument of his creations.
Balnorhak
withered, and soon its streets howled with silence.
Few live there
now. Those who do live in Low Town.
Some say that
High Town is the demesne of goblinkind. Others suggest that duergar and the
derro have found their way to its Halls. None have seen as much, but few
venture into Balnorhak’s depths.
And no wonder.
Shadow reigns where Light once did.
And shadows keep
their secrets.
The High
Road:
The caverns
and canals of the Low Road gave way to sunshine. Balazar shielded his eyes to
its brilliance.
He exhaled,
his very soul pleased to be quit of Balnorhak’s dark rank waterways.
Low Town was
little better, he noted as his dark vision adjusted to the light of day. It had
weathered since Grandda’s day. Erosion ruled where kings did. Lintels had bent
and fallen; columns were no longer smooth. Roofs has caved. The streets were
choked with what walls had crumbled. Those that stood were blackened by long
spent fires.
The
destruction eased as the core gave way to the outer city. It was there, beyond
the walls, where Balnorhak squatted. Low, thatched cottages huddled together,
round a meager market on the riverbank, its piers crowded with boats and rafts.
Further on, a herd of moles were corralled.
It was in the
market where the silence was finally broken, as those caravans embarking
north, and those boats steering south, haggled for what would either provision
themselves, or tide them over until making final landfall at Havenhill or
Eastpass, still four days distant.
Balazar’s spirits
rose.
It had been
some time since he’d bunked down on a bed, and not on a deck.
Or ate
anything other than trail mix, jerky, or unsalted meat.
Or savoured
fresh ale.
He was
looking forward to it.
Better Days Behind |
Balnorhak is the
end of the Low Road.
And the beginning
of the High Road.
The single Road
becomes many, a fan, a web of rivers and roads that spread out over the
Principality, the nearest cities of note being Eastpass and Havenhill. It is
there where trade is plentiful and brisk, where goods flow from Grygax and
beyond: Fish and salt, and all manner of things from such far off places as the
Amedio, and Hepmonaland.
Not far away, a
half-day’s surface journey to the east, lies the human village of Thrunch. It’s
a quiet place. Few there ever speak of Balnorhak, let alone venture there. They
whisper warnings to those who enquire after that once great city: “Go there if
you must,” they say. “but be wary. Keep your bow strung. And a hand upon the
pommel of your sword.”
"And whichever way thou goest, may fortune follow."
-- Jules Verne, Journey to the Center of the Earth
One must always gibve credit where credit is due. This piece is made possible primarily by the Imaginings of Gary Gygax and his Old Guard, Lenard Lakofka among them, and the new guards, Carl Sargent, James Ward, Roger E. Moore. And Erik Mona, Gary Holian, Sean Reynolds, Frederick Weining. The list is interminable.
Special thanks to Tommy Jon Kelly whose Hateful Wars fiction inspired much of the history of the Low Road found within. His Hateful Wars serial can be found on his web blog: Greyhawk Stories.
Further thanks to Jay Scott, some of whose creations have made an appearance in this piece.
The Art:
The Lortmil Mountains, by Darlene, from the World of Greyhawk Folio, 1980
Dwarf Combat, by Stephen Fabian, from Rockhome, 1988
Dwarf Elevator, from Underdark, pg. 34, 2010
Parlay, by Stephen Fabian, from Rockhome, 1988
Dwarfcraft, by Stephen Fabian, from Rockhome, 1988
Greyhawk Map details, et al., by Anna B. Meyer
Road Illustration, by Stephen Fabian, from Rockhome, 1988
An Exchange, by Stephen Fabian, from Rockhome, 1988
The Long Dark Lake, by Francis Tsai, from Underdark, pg. 80, 2010
Sources:
1015 World of Greyhawk Boxed Set, 1983
1064 From the Ashes Boxed Set, 1992
2023 Greyhawk Adventures Hardback, 1988
6025 World of Greyhawk Folio, 1980
11743 Living Greyhawk Gazetteer, 2000
The map of Anna B. Meyer
The Hateful Wars, fiction by Tommy Jon Kelly
The Greyhawk Campaign World of Jay Scott (Lord Gosumba)
Wonderful!
ReplyDeleteEpic! Absolutely epic.
ReplyDeleteOne correction. The treaty of Grot-Ugrat which precipitated the disintegration of Balnorhak predates the Hateful Wars by 700 years (-211 CY). The last king of Balnorhak died in 279 CY, at which point, Keoland established the Principality to replace of the failed dwarven kingdom. That timeline gives the sad ruins of Balnorhak at the end of the Low Road a little bit more antiquity.
ReplyDeleteDwarves are pretty long-lived; and Grandda might have been decidedly venerable when Balazar sat at the old codger's knee, listened to his long tales. :)
Delete