"Ye're really meaning to do this?" Shingles asked Torgar when he found his friend, fresh off his watch, at his modest home in the Mirabar Undercity, stuffing his most important belongings into a large sack.
"Ye knowed I was."
"I knowed ye was talking about it," Shingles corrected. "Didn't think yer brain was rattled enough for ye to actually be doin' it."
"Bah!" Torgar snorted, coming up from his packing to look his friend in the eye. "What choice are they leavin' to me? Agrathan comin' to me on the wall just to tell me to shut me mouth . . . Shut me mouth! I been fightin' for the marchion, for Mirabar, for three hunnerd years. I got more scars than Agrathan, Elastul, and all four of his private guards put together. Earned every one o' them scars, I did, and now I'm to stand quiet and hear the scolding of Agrathan, and that on me watch, with th' other sentries all lookin' and listenin'?"
"And where're ye to go?" Shingles asked. "Mithral Hall?" "Yep."
"Where ye'll be welcomed with a big hug and a bottle o' ale?" came the sarcastic reply.
"King Bruenor's not me enemy."
"And not near the friend ye're thinkin'," Shingles argued. "He's to be wonderin' what bringed ye there, and he'll think ye a spy."
It was a logical argument, but Torgar was shaking his head with every word. Even if Shingles proved right on this point, the potential consequences still seemed preferable to Torgar than his present intolerable situation. He was getting up in years and remained the last of the Hammerstriker line, a situation he was hoping to soon enough correct. Given all that he had learned over the last few tendays of King Bruenor, and more importantly, of his own beloved Mirabar, he was thinking that any children he might sire would be better served growing up among Clan Battlehammer.
Perhaps it would take Torgar months, even years, to win the confidence of Bruenor's people, but so be it.
He stuffed the last of his items into the sack and hoisted the bulging bag over his shoulder, turning for the door. To his surprise. Shingles presented him a mug of ale, then held up his own in toast.
'To a road full o' monsters ye can kill!" the older dwarf said.
Torgar banged his mug against the other.
"I'll be clearing it for yerself," he remarked.
Shingles gave a little laugh and took a deep drink.
Torgar knew that his response to the toast was purely polite. Shingles's situation in Mirabar was very different than his own. The old dwarf was the patriarch of a large clan. Uprooting them for a journey to Mithral Hall would be no easy task.
"Ye're to be missed, Torgar Hammerstriker," the old dwarf replied. "And the potters and glass-blowers're sure to be losin' business, not having to replace all the jugs and mugs ye're breakin' in every tavern in town."
Torgar laughed, took another sip, handed the mug back to Shingles, and continued for the door. He paused just once, to turn and offer his friend a look of sincere gratitude, and to drop his free hand on Shingles's shoulder in a sincere pat.
He went out, drawing more than a few stares as he moved along the main thoroughfare of the Undercity, past dozens and dozens of dwarves. Hammers stopped ringing at the forges he passed. All the dwarves of Mirabar knew about Torgar's recent run-ins with the authorities, about the many fights, about his stubborn insistence that the visiting King Bruenor had been badly mistreated.
To see him determinedly striding toward the ladders leading to the overcity with a huge sack on his back. . . .
Torgar didn't turn to regard any of them. This was his choice and his journey. He hadn't asked anyone to join him, beyond his remark to Shingles a moment before, nor did he expect any overt support. He understood the magnitude of it all and quite clearly. Here he was, of a fine and reputable family who had served in Mirabar for centuries, walking away. No dwarf would undertake such an act lightly. To the bearded folk, the hearth and home were the cornerstone of their existence.
By the time he reached the lifts, Torgar had several dwarves following him, Shingles included. He heard their whispers - some of support, some calling him crazy-but he did not respond in any way.
When he reached the overcity, the late afternoon sun shining pale and thin, he found that word of his trek had apparently preceded him, for a substantial group had assembled, human and dwarf alike. They followed him toward the eastern gate with their eyes, if not their feet. Most of the remarks on the surface were less complimentary toward the wayward dwarf. Torgar heard the words "traitor" and "fool" more than a few times.
He didn't react. He had expected and already gone through all of this in his thoughts before he had stuffed the first of his clothes into the sack.
It didn't matter, he reminded himself, because once he crossed out the eastern gate, he'd likely never see or speak with any of these folks ever again.
That thought nearly halted him in his walk.
Nearly.
The dwarf replayed his conversation with Agrathan over and over in his mind, using it to bolster his resolve, to remind himself that he was indeed doing the right thing, that he wasn't forsaking Mirabar so much as Mirabar, in mistreating King Bruenor, and in scolding any who dared befriend the visiting leader, had forsaken him. This was not the robust and proud city of his ancestors, Torgar had decided. This was not a city determined to lead through example. This was a city on the decline. One more determined to bring down their rivals through deceit and sabotage than to elevate themselves above those who would vie with them for markets
Just before he reached the gate, where a pair of dwarf guards stood looking at him incredulously and a pair of human guards stood scowling at him, Torgar was hailed by a familiar voice.
"Do not be doing this," Agrathan advised, running up beside the stern-faced dwarf.
"Don't ye be tryin' to stop me."
"There is more at stake here than one dwarf deciding to move," the councilor tried to explain. "Ye understand this, don't ye? Ye're knowing that all your kinfolk are watching ye and that your actions are starting dangerous whispering among our people?"
Torgar stopped abruptly and turned his head toward the frantic Agrathan. He wanted to comment on the dwarf's accent, which was leaning more toward the human way of speaking than the dwarven. He found it curiously fitting that Agrathan, the liaison, the mediator, seemed to speak with two distinct voices.
"Might be past time the dwarfs o' Mirabar started asking them questions ye're so fearin'."
Agrathan shook his head doubtfully, gave a shrug and a resigned sigh.
Torgar held the stare for a moment longer, then turned and stomped toward the door, not even pausing to consider the expressions of the four guards standing there, or the multitude of folks, human and dwarf alike, who were following him, the horde moving right up to the gate before stopping as one.
One brave soul yelled out, "Moradin's blessings to ye, Torgar Hammers triker!"
A few others yelled out less complimentary remarks.
Torgar just kept walking, putting the setting sun at his back.
"Predictable fool," Djaffar of the Hammers remarked to the soldiers beside him, all of them astride heavily armored warhorses.
They sat behind the concealment of many strewn rocks on a high bluff to the northeast of Mirabar's eastern gate, from which a lone figure had emerged, walking proudly and determinedly down the road.
Djaffar and his contingent weren't surprised. They had heard of the exodus only a few moments before Torgar had climbed the ladder out of the Undercity, but they had long-ago prepared for just such an eventuality. Thus, they had ridden out quietly through the north gate, while all eyes had been on the dwarf marching toward the eastern one. A roundabout route had brought them to this position to sit and wait.
"If it were up to me, I'd kill him here on the road and let the vultures have his rotting flesh," Djaffar told the others. ''And good enough for the traitor! But Marchion Elastul's softer in the heart-his one true weakness-and so you understand your role here?"
In response, three of the riders looked to the fourth, who held up a strong net.
"You give him one chance to surrender. Only one," Djaffar explained.
The four nodded their understanding.
"When, Hammer Djaffar?" one of them asked.
"Patience," the seasoned leader counseled. "Let him get far from the gate, out of sight and out of their hearing. We have not come out here to start a riot, but only to prevent a traitor from bringing all of our secrets to our enemies."
The grim faces looking back at Djaffar assured him that these hand-picked warriors understood their role, and the importance of it.
They caught up to Torgar a short while later, with dusk settling thick about the land. The dwarf was sitting on a rock, rubbing his sore feet and shaking the stones out of his boots, when the four riders swiftly approached. He started to jump up, even reached for his great axe, but then, apparently recognizing the riders for who they were, he just sat back down and assumed a defiant pose.
The four warriors charged up and encircled him, their trained mounts bristling with eagerness.
A moment later, up rode Djaffar. Torgar gave a snort, seeming hardly surprised.
'Torgar Hammerstriker," Djaffar announced. "By the edict of Marchion Elastul Raurym, I declare you expatriated from Mirabar."
"Already done that meself," the dwarf replied.
"It is your intention to continue along the eastern road to Mithral Hall and the court of King Bruenor Battlehammer?"
"Well, I'm not for thinking that King Bruenor's got the time for seein' me, but if he asked, I'd be goin' to sec him, yes."
It was all said so casually, so matter-of-factly, that the faces of the five men tightened with anger, which seemed to please Torgar all the more.
"In that event, you are guilty of treason to the crown."
"Treason?" Torgar huffed. "Ye're declarin' a war on Mithral Hall, are ye?"
"They arc our known rivals."
"That don't make me goin' there treason."
"Espionage, then!" Djaffar yelled. "Surrender now!"
Torgar studied him carefully for a moment, showing no emotion and no indication of what might happen next. He did glance over at his heavy axe, lying to the side.
That was all the excuse the Mirabarran guards needed. The two to Torgar's left dropped their net between them and spurred their horses forward, running past on either side of the dwarf, plucking him from his seat and bouncing him down to the ground in the strong mesh.
Torgar went into a frenzy, tearing at the cords, trying to pull himself free, but the other two guards were right there, drawing forth solid clubs and dropping from their mounts. Torgar thrashed and kicked, even managed to bite one, but he was at an impossible disadvantage.
The soldiers had the dwarf beaten to semi-consciousness quickly, and managed to extricate him from the net soon after, unstrapping and removing his fine plate armor.
"Let the city find slumber before we return," Djaffar explained to them. "I have arranged with the Axe to ensure that no dwarves are on the wall this night."
Shoudra Stargleam was not truly surprised, when she thought about it, but she was surely dismayed that night. The sceptrana stood on her balcony, enjoying the night and brushing her long black hair when she noted a commotion by the city's eastern gate, of which her balcony provided a fine view.
The gates opened wide and some riders entered. Shoudra recognized Djaffar of the Hammers from his boastfully plumed helmet. Though she could make out few details, it wasn't hard for the Sceptrana to guess the identity of the diminutive figure walking behind the riders, stripped down to breeches and a torn shirt and with his hands chained before him, on a lead to the rear horse.