The Guardians' Blade
Chapter Fifteen - The Thilbare Mountains

The Thilbare Mountains were looming rocks that ran the length of the western border of the Golden Realms, from the sea to where they intersected with the Drakebare Mountains. Within these mountains the Mar’quie had carved out their home and gained a name for the jewels and precious metals they mined and sold to the other races. Grong was now the leader of the expedition, taking them up into the mountains via various tracks that were invisible until you knew about them. He halted before a vertical wall of rock.

“Grong, you’ve led us to a dead end.” Ryu was not looking amused. “I’m hot, I feel dusty and we aren’t getting anywhere.”

Storm shot the Omarian a glare. “Be patient. He knows more about these mountains than you do.”

Grong regarded the Omarian and snorted, before he walked up to the rock face and proceeded to blow dust away, revealing square stones. He pressed these in a particular pattern. When he had pressed four there was a deep rocky groan, and the vertical rock began to ease slowly to one side, to reveal a large doorway. He turned and shot Ryu a triumphant look, before motioning for all to follow him into the main tunnel. This was long, and wide enough for two dragons to walk down with ease. It sloped downwards at a slight angle until they stepped out into a large chamber where Mar’quie could be seen busily moving about. Some were pushing carts of precious stones to various tunnel openings. Others were sorting handcrafted jewelry, weapons and armor.

“Grong!” A Mar’quie approached with a slight limp. His scales were earthy brown in coloring, and he had a patch covering one eye. “Grong! Is that you, little brother?”

Grong flashed a grin that showed all his teeth. “Yes!”

He bounded over to the other, giving him a huge hug that would have crushed an Omarian, before letting go and stepping back. “How are you, Imqar?”

“I am well,” was Imqar’s response before he peered at the strangers behind Grong. “Taking a tour through the mines?” he asked after a moment.

“Oh, these are my friends. I need to speak to the Tribal chiefs,” Grong said as he looked back at the Rangers and Guardians then back at his brother. “Is that possible?”

“Why are you asking me?” Imqar grunted. “Of course it’s possible, you know that as well as I do. You know where to go.” He eyed off the horses and destriders. “Leave the animals here, don’t worry,” he flashed a grin at the rest of the party. “They won’t be eaten.” He turned to limp off.

Serraria opened her mouth as if to speak but Soryn put a hand on her shoulder with a smile on his lips. “They are the Mar’quie: they are meat-eaters, my dear. The appetites of dragons suit them very well.”

Serraria took a moment to digest this information. This race would be intriguing to study. As they did indeed look like dragons only smaller in sized and seemed to favor walking on hind legs rather than all fours. She moved to follow where Grong led the group, through the main chamber and to one of the tunnels. It seemed long and bleak, but she could see that the tunnel had been carefully carved out. She reached out and smoothed a gloved hand against the wall. It was jagged and crooked from the digging. Then they stepped out of the tunnel and she was stunned with what she saw. Towering archways, massive thick columns, large dragon statues guarded doorways that led off elsewhere. A stone bridge crossed over a carefully chiseled ravine. Sunlight filtered in through various shafts above, as well as ventilation shafts that brought in clean fresh air and removed the stale air. She turned around slowly, taking it all in. It was a wonder and a marvel and almost made her feel like she was home.

Soryn chuckled as he watched the girl, and spoke to her. “The Mar’quie are the architects of the Fortress of Ramoth and Dilbare. We learned from them how to further our techniques in stone masonry. They are very talented in carving homes and cities out of the interior of mountains.”

Serraria swallowed as she turned to look at Grong. “Your people built this?”

Grong flashed a big wide toothy grin and gave her a little bow. “Yes, little one. Every- bit of it. We love working with rock, we can mold it to whatever we desire.”

Serraria blinked again, silently very impressed with this race’s skill. “Where do we go now?” She asked after a moment, feeling she had stared long enough at everything.

“This way,” Grong proceeded to walk over the smooth stone floor towards an archway that held two stone-winged dragons guarding it, one wing of each spread over the archway, the other wings carefully folded against their flanks. Through this archway they entered a smaller chamber, where dragons were carved into the walls in various stages of flight, slumber, walking or guarding. Here they found an old Mar’quie with a pair of spectacles on his snout, shuffling through some paperwork. He looked up and let out a small snort before pushing himself up to his feet and addressing them in a gruff voice. “Who yer wanting?”

Grong stepped up to the stone desk and bent a little, leaning in towards the other’s ear before shouting, “WE WISH TO SEE THE TRIBAL COUNCIL!”

“You want a parcel?” The old Mar’quie blinked at Grong a couple of times. “I don’t remember getting a parcel.”

“COUNCIL!” shouted Grong again, snatching at the inky quill the other held. He wrote on some parchment and pointed at the message.

“Ohhh – you want to see the Tribal Council. I see. Why didn’t you just say so?” He huffed as he turned, and shuffling over to the wall he tapped his claws against the wall in a staccato rhythm. This was returned several moments later. Then he moved to a dragon statue that sat against the wall and lifted up its snout, before pushing down its long tongue. A portion of the back wall slowly slid aside, to reveal another chamber. Grong grinned, and motioned for everyone to follow him through. This chamber was larger. There were several benches along the walls, as though it was a place of assembly for the Mar’quie, perhaps when needing to make decisions. In the center of the chamber was a large rectangular block of stone. It was bare of decoration. Around this were five seats. In each seat sat a Mar’quie of one of the five colors, representing the five different clans.

These Council chiefs were also painted with markings on their faces, chests and arms, wearing skirt-like materials clasped around their waists. All five turned their heads to eye off the large group that followed Grong into the chamber.

Grong bowed once he was closer to the flat stone table and then straightened up. “I am Grong, son of Krunge, asking to speak to the Council.”

The Council regarded him silently a moment more, then one of them addressed him. “You may speak, and explain your reasons for being here and bringing strangers into our midst.”

Grong nodded, clasping a clawed hand to his chest before he continued. “I come with a question. First here is Guardian Krammer, Lightweaver and Lionheart. They come from Shaylo with an urgent request. With them are representatives of the other races who have agreed to this request.”

The Council Chiefs looked at one another, than one pointed at Soryn with a clawed finger. “Guardian, tell us this question.”

The Guardian bowed with fist to chest then stepped forward, removing from the pouch at his hip a scroll that he held out to Grong who took it and presented it to the chiefs to look it over one by one while he addressed them. “I come from Shaylo with an urgent request. The Guardians are trying to hold the mountain pass of Eagle’s Point against the Warlords of the North, but we are without our normal resources as the Guardians in this realm have been cut off from our brothers in Shaylo. We require aid from the races here. We have visited most of the others, with mixed responses. I am now here to ask you if you will aid us in keeping the pass from falling into evil hands.” Once he had finished he drew back a step, and patiently waited to see what the Council Chief’s would decide.

The Chiefs continued to look at the scroll for a few moments. They began to argue amongst themselves in their own tongue. Soryn glanced over to Grong and asked in a low voice, “What are they saying?”

“They are arguing the benefits for assisting the Guardians. One is saying that it is not their battle; the Dragons of Drakebare guard the north border. Another is asking if it is in their interests. One says that we should help, but only if the Omarians do not.” He huffed a little and looked over towards Soryn. “This could take hours.”

Soryn chuckled quietly and inclined his head. “Well, one must look out for one’s own interests I suppose. Though there will not be a reward paid.”

The Chiefs continued to argue and Serraria frowned, folding arms over her chest as she started to get impatient. She was not so impressed with the Mar’quie now. She wrinkled her nose and then asked Millianyia who was standing next to her, “How long will they argue for?”

Millianyia idly played with one of her braids while considering that question. “It depends. They have been known to argue over an issue for ten years before it was resolved.”

Serraria blinked at that. “But we can’t wait ten years!” Her voice rose, causing the Chiefs to stop a moment and stare in her direction. She went pale, realizing they were staring at her and blushed slightly as she cleared her throat. She quickly stepped up beside Grong and Soryn. “Does it matter if the Dragons of Drakebare protect the north?” she asked, looking at the red-scaled Chief. “Does it matter if you’ll get a reward or not?” she asked of the green-scaled Chief. “Does it matter if the Omarians join in this endeavor or not?” she asked of the blue-scaled Chief. “Does it matter if the enemy will outnumber us?” she asked of the purple scaled Chief. Then she looked at the brown-scaled chief with her final question. “Does it matter if it’s your battle or not?” She bowed before speaking. “What does matter is this particular fact. If the races of the Golden Realms do not join together in an alliance, however brief it may be, to protect the Eagle’s Point pass, life as you know it will change. You will no longer be free, you will be enslaved and forced to work for the Wolf King. I highly doubt you want him to acquire the special jewels you are known to make; some of which you have had to lock away as they became cursed or unusable.”

“How did you know that?” demanded one of the chiefs.

Serraria blushed slightly again then said, “I was listening to your people out at the main entrance. They were talking about the vault where the broken and cursed articles that you make are sent.” She licked her lips and ploughed on. “To the Wolf King they would be invaluable – things that he could use against people like you and others.”

The Chiefs murmured amongst themselves, than the green scaled-chief rose slowly to his feet before speaking. “Very well, girl- child. The Mar’quie will give their assistance to the Guardians. We have no desire to be enslaved by some Warlord of the north.”

Serraria smiled, feeling relief flood her body. She bowed humbly. Then Soryn grabbed her arm and escorted her out of the Council chamber with the others. Serraria was hustled along all the way to the main entrance where their animals stood, until finally she jerked her arm free of the Guardian’s hold and glared at him. “Why do you treat me so?”

“It was not your place to force their hand,” he snapped back, frowning down at the girl. “That is why there are five chiefs, so that they can discuss their various insights. They look at an issue from five different angles.”

“They could have taken years to make a decision,” retorted Serraria, her eyes starting to flash. “We didn’t have time for them to argue about it.”

“You still do not intervene in how various people and cultures go about things.” Soryn stalked over to his destrider looking very annoyed. He checked his gear and tack before easing up into the saddle.

Serraria glared after him, and stormed over to her horse. Grong watched this, as did Rakkath. The two looked at one another then parted. Rakkath followed the girl and rested a hand on her horse’s neck, murmuring softly as it was sensing Serraria’s anger, calming it while she swung up into the saddle. “There are times when you just have to let things flow.” He looked up at the angry young girl and smiled slightly. “It is difficult to understand other cultures. But I think you did all right in provoking the Mar’Quie chiefs into their decision.”

Serraria seemed to calm down a little, looking down at the Dark Krysalith as she relaxed and smiled slightly. “Thank you Rakkath, that means a lot to me.”

He nodded and smiled, before moving away towards his horse. He felt Boar’s pointed stare, and turned his head to return the look with a wink and smirk at the Shadow Warrior, causing Boar to scowl.

Boar didn’t like this one bit, especially now that he was noticing how much attention the Dark Krysalith was giving to Serraria. Was she the Dragon child he and his black robe companion had been discussing on the lake’s shore? If so than he was going to have to make sure that Serreria was protected. And he would defiantly have to have a word with Soryn. He swung up in the saddle, watching as the rest of the companion’s prepared to take their leave of the lively internal home of the Mar’quie. It had been quite a unique stop over, he had thought the Guardian’s underground city was something, but now he knew where the Guardian’s had gotten idea’s for their newer Fortress’s and cities.

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