"Boromar Meets Ymerek" by Michael Tresca

“M’lord, there is a company of dwarves here to see you.”

The servant’s face betrayed his mind.  He was intensely interested in why dwarves would visit his master.  Many rumors as to the nature of Wetzylbaum’s treasure were circulating amongst the servants, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the dwarves were there to claim their prize.  Or take it.

Ymerek turned tired eyes to his servant.  The elf’s quest for godhood had not gone well at all. 

His eyes widened, as if someone had suddenly doused him with cold water.  “Let them in.”

The servant complied.  Minutes later, Boromar Ironsoul, leader of the last dwarven company from Jreast, entered the throne room.  Two of his men flanked his side.

Boromar was a proud dwarf, but his weariness was evident.  His stout beard was ragged and unkempt, as if he hadn’t been able to take care of it for a long time.  He was still outfitted in battle armor, which looked as beaten and battered as Boromar himself.

Ymerek raised a delicate eyebrow in disapproval.  It was considered bad manners to be accoutered in a throne room.  Or at least, Ymerek’s throne room.  At Death’s Pass, which Ymerek had cleverly renamed Ymerek’s Pass, there were no other castles to compare God’s Eye Keep to.  So he made his own rules.

“Chancellor Ymerek, I am Lord Boromar Ironsoul.”  He motioned to the men behind him.  “This is my company.”

Ymerek smiled when Boromar called him Chancellor.  He had been obviously brief by Lord Ashman, Ymerek’s Sword Arm.  Most people just called Ymerek “lord.”

Few strangers were informed of Ymerek’s impending divinity.

“I would ask a favor of you,” Boromar said his greeting failed to elicit a response.  “I would never ask but if it were not for certain circumstances…” his voice trailed off.

Ymerek leaned forward.  “I know what you need, Lord Ironsoul.  “You wish to have the small coffin, and the skeleton within it, that I retrieved from Wetzylbaum’s hoard.”

Boromar’s eyes lit up.  “Then you defeated the mighty Dragon King of Death Pass?”

Ymerek jutted his chin out.  “With my own powers I destroyed him, like the pompous, overgrown lizard that he was.”  He lied shamelessly through his teeth.  While Boromar’s mind was as clear to Ymerek as an open book, the dwarven lord did not possess such an advantage.

“You are a great mage indeed,” said Boromar, his thoughts clearly focused on the awe that was Ymerek Stats.

Ymerek sighed, his gaze wandering towards the ceiling.  “Yes, I know.”

A moment of uneasy silence passed, only interrupted by a cough from one of Boromar’s men.

Ymerek finally broke the silence.  “You may have the coffin and all the riches in it,” he said, lazily twirling a lock of hair around his forefinger.  “I don’t need them.”

His eyes bore down into the dwarf below him.  “Perhaps, someday, you can return the favor.”

The dwarf bowed again.  “The Jreast clan owes you much.  I will make arrangements with my company—“

“Oh, no no, that won’t do,” Ymerek said, waving him off.  “My home is your home.  “He encompassed their surroundings with a sweeping gesture.

“Your generosity is boundless, Chancellor,” said Boromar through grit teeth.

“Of course.”  Ymerek then looked in a different direction, indicating he was tired of the dwarf’s company.

Boromar bowed once more, and then walked out, thinking only thoughts of praise. 

As soon as he left the throne room, the dwarven veteran for Lord Ashman’s quarters.  Ashman greeted him at the door as he waved the guards away.

“Did he say yes?” he asked before even closing the door.

Boromar tugged at his beard, amused by Ashman’s sudden interest. “Yes, he reacted exactly as you said he would.  All pomp, no prowess.”

Ashman leaned backwards into a hard wood chair.  “What did you expect.  The man’s insane.  But it’s good that he let you have your relics.  I would have to have a confrontation at this time.”

Boromar glanced over at him.  “Oh/”

“Yes.  You see, Ymerek doesn’t just control the Essene he is part of it.”

Boromar stopped stroking his beard.  “And that means what precisely?”

“It means,” Ashman said, standing up again, “he’s a god.”

Boromar said nothing.

“He hasn’t reached his full potential yet.”

“I don’t see what this has to do with me or my company,” Boromar said, his hand sliding down to the axe at his belt.

“Don’t you see?” Ashman clapped one hand on Boromar’s shoulder, “I too am a godling.”

Boromar swallowed hard and backed towards the door as his thoughts closed like a steel trap.  If Ymerek could read his mind, Ashman might also possess such abilities.  Or worse.

“It was not until I slew Wetzylbaum that I realized my powers over flame.” He began to pace, hands locked behind his back.  “Ever since I left home, ever since I stole this rod from my uncle, “ he pulled out a golden rod, about a foot long, with flamed etched into its length.  He tapped it once against the chair and a saber-shaped tongue of flame leapt out of the rod.  It continued to crackle menacingly in that shape, fed by magic.

“Do you see the power?  Do you see?”

Boromar grabbed the door handle and wrenched it open.  “I see trouble,” he said.  “I shall speak to you later.”

He stomped down the hallway towards the guest quarters.  When he was a safe distance away, he added, “When you’re sane!”