Chapter 1 - Part 1

CHAPTER ONE - NO BETTER FRIEND, NO WORSE ENEMY
The 16th of Aryth, 993 Y.K., four miles west of the shifting Aundair-Eldeen Reaches border

The cold rain fell unevenly, as if unsure as to whether its presence was appropriate or not. It wavered from a heavy mist to actual droplets, and then back again, occasionally blowing sideways from a sudden breeze.

The sky has no such hesitation. It was solid gray, a dark and heavy gray that smelled of rain and cold to come. The clouds did not move, not enough to be noticed, but stood a watch over the scene below.

Most of the two to three hundred assembled stood, even if over half bore wounds. A good many of them craned their necks from litters on the ground. A few leaned on canes, crutches, or each other. One of them, a lean shifter woman with great tufts of orange and brown hair over her eyes and a large crossbow clutched unloaded in her hands, gently swaying as one would sway a sleeping infant, sat upright in a makeshift chair, her legs gone beneath the knees.

She had been the only one near the wizard commander who still lived.

They were a motley group, as varied in species as they were varied in wounds. Most were male, but only by a thin amount. The free people of the Eldeen Reaches were not so rich in population that they could afford the luxury of womenfolk staying behind the front lines. Not that their womenfolk would necessarily agree to it, in any event. In fact, the slight edge in gender was mostly a result of the thirty men in Brelish Blue, recent allies to the fight for independence against Aundair.

As far as race, no single one dominated, although humans and shifters made up about half the crowd. Other races included gnomes and halflings, elves, half-elves, and a few goblins. A single warforged stood in attendance, and a pair of winged fey hovered quietly off of its shoulders.

Everyone had moist eyes, even the warforged, although in his case it was due to the rain. The dead man had inspired them all, and if not for his actions they would all likely be dead. If not for the sacrifice and courage displayed by a single dwarf, this area would now be a clearing ground for Audarian army tents.

Instead it was a makeshift graveyard, with close to three hundred graves already dug. All but one had been filled. That empty space lay in the center of the crowd, the body of the dwarf next to it.

In life, he had worn armor. Now, his body wore linen shrouds. In life, his commanding voice had directed and demanded the obedience of all – the few times that he used it. Now he was silent, save for the memory of his final act, which had spoken more loudly than any word that had come out of his lips.

Many years ago he had given very specific instructions that he should be buried with the other soldiers, with no more ceremony than they would get. He had also made it definitely clear that under no circumstances should he receive a eulogy.

He would be buried with the other soldiers who had laid down their lives in the battle that had lasted for two hours, but his other wishes were ignored.

It was one thing to make such a declaration years before, when the Reachers first began to notice the fearlessness and prowess of the dwarf named Chubat. Perhaps back then it would have made sense. Hundreds could easily die in a day, sometimes thousands when they were foolish enough to face Aundair head on. In that mass of pain, sorrow, and loss, why should the grief for one soldier take precedence over the grief for any other?

But now, after having had watched him, and after having had followed him, it was different.

And after yesterday evening, when he had charged through a dozen of the toughest cavalry that Aundair had to offer, leaving behind his severed shield arm as he carved his way forward to the small circle of men and elves wearing robes with Aundairan colors, and calling down lightning and fire onto the Reacher troops.

To a man, they had seen him ignore arrows protruding from his body, lances digging into his flesh, magically summoned darts peppering his torso, and blasts of magical forces hitting him everywhere. In the end, magical fear has tried to shatter his mind, summoned fire had burned his flesh, and a blast of lightning had removed most of his face.

But with his life’s blood spewing from the stump of his left shoulder, Chubat had laid waste five wizards, with easily two centuries of training amongst them. Aundair’s best and most powerful on the western front had been turned to cordwood.

One wizard had gotten away, fleeing on a spell that sent him instantly across the valley. He’d left behind a hand, though.

The Aundarians had outnumbered the Reachers by almost a half when it had started. Without their wizards they had collapsed like a rotted log.

So it was a victory…if that word could be used today.

The silence among the survivors grew more pronounced as the druidess Pienna walked towards the body of one of her oldest friends. The longer-lived denizens of the Reaches who knew of her also knew of how the dwarf Chubat accepted her, a urban dweller from Cyre, a rich city girl who’d grown up surrounded by gadgets, and had introduced her to the Gatekeepers.

That had been over four decades ago, when the war that rocked Khorvaire had only lightly swatted at the Reaches. When the worst that was said about Aundair was about how the royals did not protect their western provinces from bandits.

When everyone was sure that the war would have to end soon.

Pienna crouched by her friend’s body and wept. She had not washed herself from the battle, and soot and blood still matted her graying hair. Her tears fell onto the wrapped form of her friend and companion.

A great panther stalked silently behind Pienna, its eyes deep and sorrowful, reflecting his mistress’ pain. The cat known as Missy let few creatures other than Pienna touch it. Chubat had been one.

The crowd waited and watched, their silence adding to the grief. The legless shifter woman with the crossbow filled her own eyes with tears, but made no sound.

Finally Pienna stood, and wiped her face on her sleeve.

“There was no one who taught me bravery more than he,” she began, her voice shaking as she lamented her friend.