This is the story of the Dwarven settlement of Matzasit, known as "Bentknife" in the common tongue. Bentknife was a place of woe and horror, of great achievement and greater disappointment. Bentknife was a place where dwarves went to die, but in their time there some were capable of legendary feats. Bentknife was a star that burned all too brightly.
The saga of Bentknife is a sordid one. In the year 260, the Dwarven Kingdom of Kumil Dolok, "The Armory of Obstacles," a kingdom as old as time itself, was dealing with a morale problem like none in its history. Since it had signed peace accords in the year 200 with the elven civilization Elide Ficeri, "The Mother of Sacricing," Kumil Dolok had enjoyed a time of relative tranquility. Like all kingdoms, it was beset upon every few years by a great and terrible monsters, but in 260 relations with other races were sound, and even the greenskin hordes of Smospengokang, "The Certain Curses," had relented in their attacks. Although Kumil Dolok had recently lost a settlement, Zedoteral, "Lobstervessels," to goblins from Osmongestrur, "The Craterous Midnight," Lobstervessels had been a mere prototype for the plans of Kumil Dolok's leadership.
King Lokum Mafolodom, unfortunately named "Chamberbasin," had gained the monarchy a scarce two decades earlier, and lacked any significant military victory to stabilize his reign. Mere days after his coronation he was attacked by the lumbering beast Zesmstum Zakospegngun Aspid Uktang, "The Cavern of Crypts," and had barely escaped with his life. At the same time, several humans had recently become great heroes in the eyes of the dwarves of Kumil Dolok, and good King Chamberbasin needed to demonstrate that he could be as great a dwarven warleader as any of the past Kings and Queens of The Armory of Obstacles. King Chamberbasin hatched a plan that would ensure his legacy for all time, even if it cost Kumil Dolok its very existence.
And so, in the early spring of 260, the King went into the royal dungeons of the Mountainhome and opened the cages of seven of the meanest, most ill-regarded dwarves in the kingdom. They had been prisoners for so many years that they had forgotten all but a few of the skills every dwarf learns over the course of his long life. Priestbolt, a miner, had been imprisoned for preaching against the worship of Inod, the dwarven goddess of fortresses, the favored deity of King Chamberbasin. Earthenrewards, a gem cutter, had been caught embezzling from his jeweller's shop. Wirephrased, a mechanic, had designed the faulty mechanism that controlled the bridge to the Mountainhome; when it failed, the King nearly lost his life to the Cavern of Crypts. Willchambers, a farmer, had grown poisoned plump helmets to give to a neighbor he despised. Earthentribe, a fisherdwarf, had pushed her coworker into a carp-filled stream after fighting over a decorated ring. Bodicechances, a carpenter, had a terrible temper, and had killed a baby in a murderous rage after stubbing her toe on a nail. For the expedition leader, King Chamberbasin picked Wiltedclasped, a hardened murderer whose only skill was convincing people that he hadn't meant to kill all those people.
As the King oversaw the loading of the expedition's cart, onlookers gossiped about the meaning behind the choices. The King had revealed only one thing to the public: this settlement would be in the north. As Kumil Dolok was the northernmost kingdom in the world, this shocked the people. The north, as everyone knew, contained nothing but tundra and death. Those who watched the newly freed settlers carry their few belongings onto the wagon believed themselves to be watching dwarves who had agreed to journey to their dooms.
As he watched the wagon shrink into the northern horizon through a crystal window, King Chamberbasin sat in his study and reviewed the trade agreements he'd signed with the local human and elf representatives. Yes, they were required to send a caravan every year to each of his official settlements, no matter how remote. He looked back at the map he'd used to show the expedition where to go, and smiled to himself at the distant, frozen mountain he'd chosen for Bentknife.
Wiltedclasped, riding a donkey in front of the rickety wagon, pulled his cloak tight against the oncoming snow and urged the animal on. He crested a hill and...there it was, rising from the tundra, the mountain where Bentknife was destined to grow. His eyes took in the unsullied whiteness of the mountainside, and his heart warmed to imagine the colors he would paint on that rich canvas. Unconsciously, he patted his belt pouch, in which the King's secret orders were stored in a small hematite box. When Wiltedclasped had read the directive -- to mercilessly slaughter any non-dwarf who came to Bentknife -- he had almost wept with joy. Everyone deserved to die, of course, but Wiltedclasped saw no problem with limiting his targets for a time, as long as he was getting official sanction to do it. It was a brilliant plan, too; he'd heard of several settlements in colder climes that had failed miserably for want of arable land, or liquid water to irrigate underground farms. But Bentknife would be different; its military would take, by force, all the food and drink its dwarves could want. The humans and elves would assume their caravans had been lost to the elements or some ambushing goblins; they would send replacements year after year, until their patience would wear thin, and then the King would have his war.
But it would come on his terms, Wiltedclasped knew. This was a far more effective plan than simply declaring war outright; this way, Kumil Dolok would be strengthened, and the elves and humans weakened, with every unwitting merchant who met his cold, metal death on the slopes of Bentknife. King Chamberbasin would begin any potential war with a decided advantage.
Despite his joy at the prospect of years of slaughter, Wiltedclasped shuddered in the cold. It would be a difficult trek yet, and even after his arrival, there was work to be done. Every pair of hands would be needed, he knew, and so his hobby would have to be put on hold, except perhaps for the occasional kitten. Dwarves were not creatures of the winter; Wiltedclasped's own mother had frozen to death crossing a stream when he was just a baby, and only the quick action of a nearby miner had saved Wiltedclasped from the same fate. Still, he was determined to make Bentknife a success, if not a lasting one. As he often did, Wiltedclasped muttered his personal motto to himself: "Nobody lives forever..."
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