The story of Old Saber

Old Saber and the Dwarves of Gunabash

Centuries passed as the dwarves mined and carved their way deeper into the mountain. Gunabash was a full citadel now, with great keeps filled with extended clans and a thriving economy. They were producing master-quality weapons, armor, and jewelry. They worked with clever gnomes to build amazing technical marvels, partnered with powerful human wizards to create great and terrible magic items, and even joined with the elves to craft works of art so beautiful they could make even the most hardened heart feel again.

Clan Rockwill was leading an expedition into deeper tunnels when they came upon the sounds of battle.

They rushed into a vast cavern and found orcs and goblins attempting to both kill a dragon and steal from its hoard at the same time.

The monsters were many, and they attacked the dragon from all sides. The great beast was already wounded and weakening — the dwarves could see that immediately.

The leader of Clan Rockwill, Agatus, at first thought to stay out of the fight. But something about the dragon gave him pause. Perhaps it was the beast’s eyes, or the way it seemed unwilling to fight unless forced, but something tugged at Agatus’s heart.

He raised his axe.

And ordered the charge.

The battle was over quickly. All the orcs lay dead, and most of the goblins fled into the tunnels.

Agatus slowly walked toward the dragon, leaving his axe behind with his company.

“Many thanks, good dwarf,” the dragon said. His voice sounded tired, but cautious.

The greed of dwarves was a thing of legend, and the dragon feared the company might yet finish what the orcs had started simply to claim his hoard.

“I am called Agatus. What be yer name, great wyrm?” the dwarf asked, reverence plain in his voice.

“Saberallian is how I am known in your tongue,” the dragon answered, still wary of facing a full company of armed dwarves in his weakened state.

“Ye are hurt,” Agatus said softly. “Can we do anything to help?”

He bowed as he spoke.

“I could use a good meal,” Saberallian replied.

Only then did Agatus truly see how thin the great beast was. His scales were dull. His ribs and hips showed clearly beneath them. The dwarf wondered how much longer the dragon could have held out against the monsters alone.

“I suppose mushrooms and salted pork aren’t yer usual diet,” Agatus said with a quiet chuckle as he turned back toward his company.

Moments later, half his group turned and left the cavern.

Agatus returned to Saberallian.

“I’ve sent me folk back to the nearest outpost for food. The rest of us will stay with ye until they return, in case those goblins go fetch friends. I’ve got a couple healers with me too, if ye’d allow them the chance to help ye.”

Saberallian inclined his great head.

“That would be greatly appreciated.”

The clerics stepped forward and spoke their prayers. Wounds closed beneath glowing hands, though scars remained as silent witnesses to the battle.

When they finished, Saberallian lowered his head onto his hoard and closed his eyes.

Even as he rested, his keen ears heard Agatus giving orders.

Dwarves were posted at every entrance to the cavern. Scouts were sent down the tunnel where the goblins had fled. Others formed a careful perimeter around the great dragon.

All were as silent as dwarves could manage, allowing Saberallian to rest in peace.

The scent of fresh meat finally woke him.

He opened his eyes to a sight he would never forget.

Four heavy carts rolled into the cavern, each piled high with cattle, pigs, and sheep.

Saberallian lifted his head and looked to Agatus.

“Is that enough, Saberallian?” the dwarf asked.

“I should think so, my friend,” the dragon replied, smiling.

Agatus remained with the dragon for three months.

His company rotated out weekly, but Agatus himself stayed.

It turned out that Saberallian was a brass dragon — long rumored to be more reasonable and benevolent than most of his kin. Now that he was well fed, his scales gleamed like polished metal and his eyes once more carried the spark of life.

The dwarf and the dragon spent long hours speaking.

They shared stories.

Saberallian especially loved tales of dwarves driving back orc warbands and reclaiming lost tunnels. They traded riddles as well, for the dragon delighted in clever wordplay — and Agatus took great pride in crafting new puzzles for his unlikely companion.

A friendship was forged in those months that neither time nor stone would break.

When Agatus neared his final days, he was carried down into the deep halls to see his old friend one last time.

Saberallian wept when the dwarf passed.

But his grief did not last long.

More visitors soon followed.

At first, the dwarves of Gunabash brought food and gold in tribute to the friendship between Agatus and Saberallian. In time, the reason shifted.

They brought their gifts so they could speak with the dragon.

Over the last two thousand years, Old Saber had come to know and love many of the dwarves of Gunabash.

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The Watch at the Lair

Long after Agatus had passed into stone and story, another dwarf stood watch at the mouth of Old Saber’s lair.

His name was Raggard Thornbeard.

He was young then.

Broad-shouldered, quick to laugh, quicker still to anger, and newly assigned to what he believed would be the dullest post in the mountain — guarding a quiet tunnel that led only to the resting place of an ancient dragon who rarely stirred.

The lair opened onto a high ledge carved into the mountain’s inner face.

From that post, Raggard could see the world beyond Gunabash.

Jagged peaks rolled into the distance like frozen waves. Sunlight spilled across the stone in bands of gold and shadow. Thin clouds drifted slowly between the spines of the mountains.

Raggard rested his hands on his spear and let himself forget, for a moment, the clamor of the forge and the press of the deep halls behind him.

Then he heard stone move.

Not the scrape of boots.

Not the rumble of carts.

Something heavier.

He turned.

Old Saber stood just within the threshold of the cavern, watching him.

The dragon’s great eyes were calm.

Knowing.

For one terrible heartbeat, Raggard nearly dropped his weapon.

Then the dragon inclined his head.

Not as a king.

Not as a guardian.

But as an equal.

Raggard froze.

Slowly, Old Saber lowered himself to the stone beside the tunnel mouth and gently laid his massive head upon the rock, facing outward.

Toward the mountains.

Raggard hesitated only a moment before stepping forward and standing beside him.

They did not speak.

They did not need to.

Dwarf and dragon simply watched the distant peaks together, sharing the quiet wind and the long, slow passage of clouds across the sky.

It was the first time Raggard Thornbeard truly understood what Gunabash protected.

And the first time he understood why some relics were meant not to be wielded…

…but kept.