Tov had seen his fair share of funerals. Not much, despite his long life, but there had been a few. He attended the funerals of his father, his mother, and his brother before him. He had been to the wake of great smiths, nobles, and at one point, even a king. Excluding his family, the funerals he attended were of some importance; renowned dwarves who had proven themselves worthy of the Halls of Thunderstone. The only time he ever paid respects to a non-dwarf was when the great Elven king Randuil Raindancer was laid to rest in the Valley of Heroes.
Never in his wildest dreams would he have seen himself attending a funeral of equal grandeur, especially for creatures regarded only for their uses, and the ease at which they could be discarded and thrown away.
But the man standing in the distance never regarded them as such. Standing in the middle of what was called Heroes' Square, was the man he had disrespected, and the man that proved him wrong. He was a man of mystery. A man so powerful he reshaped mountains. Yet he stood there, not as royalty or nobility, but as a grieving master.
A father who had lost his children.
A tall tree with sprawling branches and thick leaves loomed behind the hermit, casting a shadow over most of the Square. Rays of sunlight streaked through the crevices as leaves, dried and frail, fell from its branches.
His friends, Gred, Dalinah, and Redtail, stood beside him. All were silent.
He found himself looking down the marble steps, beholding the grand display in front of him. Rows of warriors clad in diamond plate stood on the flanks of the marble path. The beautiful, powerful Sentinels. They held their fluttering banners high, ignoring the wind that still blew strong. Despite their imposing height, and the dread they inspired against both ally and foe, they held their chins down, in respect.
Behind the warriors was another crowd, small in stature but numerous. Helpers, they were called. There were thousands of them, all huddling together behind the sentinels that paved the path for the procession.
No trumpets sounded. No horns blew. There was only the wind, the sun, and the heavy footsteps of those who carried the fallen.
As the procession drew nearer, the silence grew louder. The helpers settled down, beady eyes watching the silver caskets as they passed by. The dwarf turned to look at the man who had suffered the most. His eyes were baggy, sunken. His lips drooped on either side as his fists remained clenched.
He noticed Dalinah looking back-and-forth between the man and the caskets, obviously still reeling from everything that had happened.
She blamed herself for the tragedy, something she had no control over. None of them, not even the strange man, had expected something as simple as a magical graduation to go so awry.
Let alone summon a rift between worlds.
Scenes from that night still haunted the old dwarf. Things were looking up for Dalinah as the hermit handed her a newer, more potent magicstone.
Magic was foreign to him. He was a dwarf, skilled with hammer and axe, inventors and craftsmen. Seldom did a dwarf carry a staff, and seldom more were any of their kind great with magic.
But there were a few.
He had always hated those masters in the academies. He saw them as nothing but a hindrance, a relic that slowed down the growth of the next generation.
The gods had long ago abandoned the world, leaving only Shards that were more trouble than they were worth. The dwarves never embraced the religions. He himself never believed the old fools, of how the gods were so powerful they needed Shards to act as their representatives lest the world was overwhelmed by their might. Sure they gave out blessings, but there was no obvious logic to them. No good reason.
If there was, the likes of Caladan The Lich, Dresnape The Vampire King, and Palanil The Cruel wouldn't exist. But they do.
Many would argue it was because the wisdom of the gods was beyond what mortals could comprehend. Evil needs to prosper for good to triumph.
A load of horseshit, he often thought.
The procession finally reached the peak of the steps as Tov shook away his thoughts. The Sentinels lined themselves, presenting the caskets one by one to the hermit.
He took each with care, before walking towards the tree. Tov saw no burials under which the casket could be buried and thus he wondered.
But as the hermit lifted the casket up towards the tree, it moved. The sprawling branches rustled as they slithered down, creaking as they did. The branches wrapped around the casket before hoisting them up. Each casket was received the same way, disappearing into the ocean of leaves.
It was an odd burial; one the dwarf was unfamiliar with. He could see the confusion in his friends as well, but none dared to ask.
The tree, however, reacted. It began to grow larger, its branches sprawling outward towards the sky. It began to rustle as it peaked, shaving off most of its leaves as it did. But the leaves did not fall down, instead they fluttered away, carried by a calm, unfelt wind.
In a display of tranquil majesty, the leaves shimmered against the sunlight, floating away into the sky and beyond.
It was a sight to behold. It was as if the heavens above were accepting the souls of the fallen, riding on the backs of golden leaves.
Golems weren't supposed to have souls. But Tov begged to differ.
The ritual was not yet over.
Barleyon, the other helper whom the adventurers had come to know, appeared beside the hermit. Neither Tov nor the others noticed the little helper until now. There was no excitement in his steps, no childlike wonder, no vigor.
He clung onto the leg of his master. But as Tov looked closer, he noticed that the helper was holding onto something else.
Wrapped around his small palm was a piece of hay, cleaned of the dirt and ash. A single bead hung onto its surface.
Tov couldn't help but lower his head.
As the leaves disappeared into the sky, the tallest Sentinel came forth from the left row.
He walked up the steps with a banner of white and gold, fluttering with a tapestry of diamonds. He stopped just in front of the hermit and raised his spear in a firm salute. The hermit nodded. The tall Sentinel then turned around and, joined by the mighty stomp of his feet, raised the banner of diamonds high above his head.
In unison, the other sentinels did the same, raising their swords into the air in a crisp salute to the fallen. The hermit, Lance Viduri was his name, lifted Barleyon up to his shoulders. Both gazed at the sky.
The helpers, meanwhile, looked on in silence.