Ur-Namma could not contain his pained laughter when Oak pulled out packages of hardtack and salted pork from his rucksack. He lit some candles with a small flame he summoned, and the elf said nothing of it, but observed him with a keen eye.

“Do you know how often I have eaten something like this on campaign?” Ur-Namma said in a hushed voice, nursing a bottle full of water and taking small bites out of a piece of hardtack. Blood ran down the elf’s chin, for his chapped lips and dried out gums bled with every bite. “It’s fitting that my first meal in three hundred years should remind me of who I am.” His face fell. “Or who I was.”

Oak detached the longsword he had taken from the barracks from the side of his rucksack and handed it to the elf.

“If soldier fare brings you back to better days, this should remind your hands of their purpose,” he said.

Ur-Namma set his meal down and accepted the blade with fumbling hands and an unreadable expression on his face. His long, shaking fingers wrapped around the hilt, and he pulled the sword partly out of its sheath.

“Where did you get this blade? And your other weapons, if I may ask?” Ur-Namma whispered.

“From a barracks nearby. They were much better than my own equipment, and I thought their former owners would not mind me putting them to good use,” Oak said. “I thought you might want a weapon of your own, so I picked one for you as well, since traveling around Ma’aseh Merkavah unarmed does not seem wise.”

Ur-Namma nodded and squeezed the hilt with trembling fingers. He watched the failure of his flesh with a clinical eye, like a master evaluating an apprentice and finding them wanting.

“It was thoughtful of you,” Ur-Namma said. “But let us hope our survival does not come to rest on me putting this blade to use. The weakness of my body speaks for itself.”

The elf put the sword fully back into its sheath and placed it in arm's reach, after which he went back to nibbling on hardtack.

Even though their supper was meager, conversation flowed freely between Oak and Ur-Namma. The light of the candles painted shadows on the walls of the dressing room in such a way that when either of them shook in laughter, it almost looked like the walls were laughing with them.

Only now that he had someone to talk to did Oak realize how much he had yearned for conversation. Being without someone to converse with was easy, when you could just walk down to town whenever you wanted to. When the option was taken away, he found being alone an altogether different, suffocating experience.

His hunger for talk could only be surpassed by Ur-Namma’s own. The elf asked question after question, wanting to know all that had happened in the outside world since Yam-Nahar sealed him away, and Oak answered to the best of his ability.

“Do you know what became of the elves who survived the fall of this city?”

“I imagine the survivors joined the rest of the elves and migrated to the western reaches of the continent, across the Whispering Sands,” Oak said. “Though I do not know for sure.”

“What is the latest news from the city of Calambria, the Jewel of the South?”

“Calambria?” Oak asked. “Never heard of it.”

The elf sighed and mumbled something unintelligible, rubbing his eyes in frustration. Cities and kingdoms had fallen to ruin, and out of memory during his centuries long imprisonment. The world had changed.

We are both strangers in a strange land, in our own ways. One by distance, the other by time.

Geezer tried to take advantage of Ur-Namma’s lapse in vigilance to steal a piece of hardtack from the ancient general’s hand. Oak watched silently as the hellhound crawled closer and closer to the prize, snout twitching with excitement. The hounds' attempt at stealth left a lot to be desired. Ur-Namma’s eyes snapped open, and the elf hissed at Geezer, pointy teeth bared.

Three hundred years of starvation could make even royalty act feral. Fast as lightning, Geezer escaped into Oak’s lap, and glowered at the elf from a safe distance.

“None of that now,” Oak said, and stroked the hound’s head. “It’s your own fault for trying to steal food from someone else’s mouth.”

Ur-Namma looked embarrassed by his own savage display, and nibbled on his piece of hardtack in silence, while Oak petted his dog. It did not take long for curiosity to rekindle the conversation.

“How about the angels and the demons?” Ur-Namma asked.

“Creation is not in open war, but other than that, much the same,” Oak replied. “Nothing new under the sun. Everyone jockeys for advantage. A soul gained is a soul lost.”

“What of the dwarves?” Ur-Namma asked. “Have they been freed from their madness?”

Oak shook his head and Ur-Namma’s face fell.

“Azidahaka’s final act has not been undone and I doubt anyone remains in all of Pairi-Daeza who could undo it,” Oak said. He had already eaten his fill and scratched Geezer absentmindedly, staring into the candle's flame. “I have always wondered how it really happened. The legends say you were there that day.”

Ur-Namma gray eyes grew unfocused as he began his tale.

“I was there. It might have been better if I had not been, but who can tell if what I did was good or ill?” Ur-Namma shook his head, looking dejected and focused his gaze on Oak. “Maybe you can tell me, when you have heard my tale?”

Oak laughed, but there was no humor in his voice. “That would be a first. I would not ask for my advice on good or ill, believe me.”

Ur-Namma was about to wave him off, but stopped and cocked his head at him, almost like he now saw him in a new light. The elf’s long, pale fingers tapped his chin rhythmically, or at least tried to. Tremors plagued his body, messing up the rhythm.

“I see your past haunts you, much like mine haunts me. But onto my tale,” Ur-Namma said. “We had allied with the dwarves to slay the mightiest and cruelest of dragon kind. In all honesty, the dragons had already laid my people low, and the dwarves saved us. Many of the oldest among us had been slain by claw, spell, and dragon fire. The Elven tribes of the south fell and never recovered their former glory.”

Ur-Namma’s eyes reflected the flickering of the candle’s flame. Two hot coals, boring down upon Oak’s soul from across the room. So intense was Ur-Namma’s gaze that his tale swept Oak along with him completely.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“When battle was joined in the Namerin mountains west of here, only me and my sister remained from those elves who had seen the first sunrise and heard the Mother’s Song,” Ur-Namma said. “We were a desperate lot, devoid of hope, unlike the dwarven clans who had constructed mighty instruments of war, and still held faith. The mightiest instrument of all was fielded by their greatest king, Taliriktug.”

“Seven times Azidahaka, the oldest and cruelest of all dragons, dove to strike at us, thunder in his claws and the winds of the world behind him, bearing a promise of ruin for all who dwelled under the skies. He was like a mountain in flight, a storm ready and eager to break the world. Seven times king Taliriktug played his silver harp and sang such notes that Azidahaka was repelled.”

Oak listened with rapt attention, utterly enthralled. Even Geezer lay quiet and still, captured by the moment.

“When finally the dragon grew tired, Taliriktug’s fingers danced on the harp and he thrice summoned chords that broke Azidahaka’s wings and cast him down upon the mountainside. And so it was that as we fell upon the wounded beast with sword and spear, song on our lips and hope in our hearts, Azidahaka burned his own soul to cinder in a final act of spite,” Ur-Namma hissed. “With his last breath, the first dragon set a curse upon all dwarves, and the beast's body had not even grown cold by the time our allies were in the grips of madness.”

“As a reward for ridding the world of Azidahaka’s shadow, Taliriktug received the mercy of my blade,” Ur-Namma said, tears in his eyes. “I put him down when he ate his own daughter's face. And so were all clans damned for the courage of the few to live lives of agony and sorrow. We killed many that day, though I know not the number of the dead.”

A prayer spilled from Oak’s lips, and he put his fist over his heart. “By the Chariot, Ur-Namma.”

“By the grace of the Mother indeed.” Ur-Namma said. “Now, how does history remember Ur-Namma of the Tribe of Shara?”

It was a question for a scholar, and Oak was no such thing. He could only answer to the best of his limited knowledge. “I cannot speak for other peoples, but in the North this legend is told as a warning of the spite of dragons, and as a lament for the dwarves,” he said. “Not as an accusation laid at your feet.”

History knew Ur-Namma as a ruthless conqueror, but Oak thought it best not to mention it, lest he ruffle any feathers. He still needed the elf, after all, and he did not know him well enough to say if he would be insulted or flattered by the notion.

“That at least warms my heart. Let us talk of something else, for I grow weary in my grief. Tell me about your home.”

Oak obliged and launched into a tale of his childhood. When Oak had been young, his favorite pastime was running away from his chores so he could explore the forests and valleys around Spoke with the other boys. Those were happy days, before the death of his father and the war.

“One time, me and two other young lads called Catell and Ougein got into our heads to steal a chicken from the Cutter family down in the valley. Catell dared either of us to steal it from the coop, and I took up the dare,” Oak said. “It was supposed to be a good bit of harmless fun, but the man of the house, Jon Cutter, returned just as I snatched the bird.

“We had to leg it so he didn’t stick us with a pitchfork. The man was downright livid. Our escape took us across his fields into the forest, and in our haste, we did not pay as much attention to our surroundings as we should have. Ougein stumbled on a protruding root, and I ran right into him, still holding onto the chicken.”

Oak took a sip of water and continued.

“The three of us, bird included, fell down in a heap. It did not end well for the chicken,” he said. “The poor bastard got squished between us, and the fall broke its neck. So there I was, lying on the forest floor, covered in pine needles with a dead chicken in my hand.

“Suffice to say that tempers flared. Ougein blamed me for running into him. I blamed him for stumbling. And we both blamed Catell for the stupid idea of stealing a chicken.”

“When things go wrong, there is always enough blame to go around,” Ur-Namma muttered.

Oak nodded his assent. “Soon, we were all wrestling and rolling on the ground, trying to convince each other of the merits of our arguments,” he said. “It continued for some time, but in the end, our lively debate ended inconclusively, and each of us headed home.”

The more he talked, the more nostalgic Oak became. What I wouldn’t give to go back and do things differently. But the wheel turns only one way.

“I sneaked into our homestead like a thief in the night, with messy hair and dirty clothes,” he said. “There was no hiding it. My old man saw right through me. He knew instantly that I had done something stupid.”

“Did he give you the belt?” Ur-Namma chuckled.

“Nah, much worse. He was disappointed in me.” Oak replied. “The next day I had to go back to the Cutters and apologize. Father made me bring two of our chickens with me. One to replace the one I had stolen, and the second as recompense for the trouble I had caused.

“I can hear him say it like it was yesterday: ‘When you wrong a man without cause, pay him back twice over. Make him thank his lucky stars it was you who did him harm.’”

Father was always crafty like that. He had a way with words like no other.

The fire was fading. Oak stared at the dwindling flame, lost in thought. Geezer poked him in the cheek with his snout and Oak gave a start. He had not noticed the passage of time. Even after ten years, the death of his old man was like an open wound. One he could not help but pick at.

“Surprisingly peaceful, for a northerner's tale,” Ur-Namma commented. “A learning experience, yes?”

“Ay, I felt we had enough talk of war. I will leave tales of battles and raids to another time,” Oak replied. “They are not cheerful stories, nor do they paint me in the best light.”

“I thank you for lifting my spirits. And I offer a piece of advice, though you asked none,” Ur-Namma replied. “Do not judge yourself too harshly. If I have learned something during my long life, it is that war brings the worst aspects of us to the fore. I have returned victorious from battle and ridden the main road of Ma’aseh Merkavah in triumph countless times. Never has my conscience been clean or my mind, without doubt.”

The elf had a strange look on his face, half disgusted, half longing.

“You know what never changed?” Ur-Namma asked.

“What?” Oak asked.

“The more doubt I felt and the heavier my conscience, the louder and more feverish were the cheers of the masses,” Ur-Namma declared. “People will love and cherish a monster if it is their monster. Sometimes I wondered if their chants of adulation would have broken open the Heavens themselves if I had walked down the street covered in the blood of my enemies, a procession of heads on pikes leading the way.”

“Better the devil you know,” Oak said quietly. “Even better if it's a devil that fights your battles for you.”

“People and elves especially are not fond of change, that is true,” Ur-Namma said. “And everyone loves a winner.”

They stayed silent for a moment, both miles away in their own thoughts. Geezer laid down on his side and in no time at all, the hellhound was snorting in his sleep, front legs twitching as he chased something in his dreams. Oak looked at the dog fondly and thought of tomorrow. They would need to leave this place and make their way out of the city.

Eventually Oak curiosity got the best of him and he asked: “Can you truly find a way out of this place?”

“I think so.” Ur-Namma licked his bloody lips, eyes turned at the ceiling. “But I must ask, how did you make it here in the first place if you don’t trust yourself to find a way out?”

“My arrival into the city is not easily replicated, and it was sadly a one-way trip,” Oak replied. “It might be best to give you the short version of how I ended up here, so you understand the situation.”

“I would appreciate that,” Ur-Namma said and settled down to listen once more.

Oak told the elf everything that had transpired since his and Geezer’s sudden arrival to Ma’aseh Merkavah. When Oak finished his story, Ur-Namma asked him to repeat Ashmedai’s words once more and Oak did so.

“How would you like to help me fulfill an oath by saving a tortured soul from centuries of torment so you can escape Ma'aseh Merkavah together? After that, you can begin the long and arduous journey to save the continent from a dragon’s folly,” Oak said, reciting Ashmedai’s offer from memory.

“A dragon’s folly,” Ur-Namma whispered, and once again, his gaze was far away. Oak did not know how he could tell, but the elf was coming to a decision.

“I have been thinking since you freed me. I can find a way out of this place, as Ashmedai predicted.” Ur-Namma glanced towards Oak, and his long fingers clenched the grip of his longsword. “I can only guess the demon's full purpose, but one thing is clear to me. He intends for us to face Yam-Nahar, and that means we cannot leave Ma’aseh Merkavah just yet.”