 
TABLE OF CONTENTS

RAVINE OF BLOOD AND SHADOW

COPYRIGHT

MEDRYN-THA

ARX GRAVIS

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

EPILOGUE

THE STORY CONTINUES
A babe is born in the shadows of the ravine city, a child who will end the self-imposed exile of the dwarves and usher in a new age of glory.

Years later, Ravine Guard Carnac Thayn discovers a break-in at the Scriptorium. A dwarf has been murdered and a book stolen, but the ruling Council of Twelve do nothing.

Then, when Carn is called to investigate thuds and crashes from the mines, old horror rises from the deep, and the city is threatened with slaughter.

Rumors begin to circulate about a mythical axe said to be lost below the earth, an axe wielded by the dwarf lords of old that might just be the last hope of a race marked to die.

But deception is rife, and unseen forces manipulate all paths to the future.

It is a pivotal moment for the dwarves, and Carn must make a choice that will either save or damn his people.

Blood will flow in rivers through the ravine. Friends will become foes. A name will be forgotten.

And a hero will rise.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

RAVINE OF BLOOD AND SHADOW. Copyright © 2019 by D.P. Prior. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

RAVINE OF BLOOD AND SHADOW was originally published in a substantially different form as CARNIFEX: A PORTENT OF BLOOD and was also included as part of the box-set LEGENDS OF THE NAMELESS DWARF: THE COMPLETE SAGA.

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PROLOGUE

Moonlight splashed the walls of the ravine that housed the dwarven city of Arx Gravis. Lightning flashed, illuminating the great central tower that rose from the depths and the interconnecting walkways and plazas that surrounded it.

In his granite home deep down in the ravine, Droom Thayn jumped at each muffled clap of thunder, and the thick hairs on his arms stood on end. For the hundredth time he glanced at the window, imagining a grey face pressed up against the glass, pebble eyes staring. The face of a faen. Because one of the underworld tricksters had visited him long ago and told him he would have two sons. Told him his sons would usher in a new era of greatness for the dwarves. Told him what to name them. He didn't like it, but what could he do? Deny the faen, the old folk said, and they would curse you. A niggling worry at the back of Droom's mind wondered if they already had.

He forced a reassuring smile for his firstborn, Lukar, but it went unnoticed. The boy had his head in a book as usual, determined to learn his letters. So unlike his father. Maybe the second-born would be different.

Thunder boomed again, but this time Droom was ready and barely even flinched. In previous years he would go up to the top of the ravine to watch the storm. It was a risky business, and he'd almost been struck by lightning on more than one occasion, but it always left him feeling more alive.

As a young man, Droom had clung to the hope that there was more to life than the humdrum work of mining. Then he had been blessed with Yalla, the only woman foolish enough to marry him. And what's more, she was descended from the Exalted, the ancient heroes of the dwarves.

Suddenly, doors were opened to Droom, and he was offered an apprenticeship as an architect. Within a few short years he was adding to the structures of the city, designing and overseeing the building of aqueducts and walkways, flying buttresses and battlements, all cunningly blended with the natural lay of the ravine.

He smiled at the memories, but it did nothing to allay his mounting anxiety. As the storm rolled in from the north, Yalla had gone into labor. He couldn't help thinking it was an omen.

Droom raked his fingers through his beard, twisting strands into braids. It was no secret how many women--and their babies--perished during childbirth.

The doctor's voice from within the bedroom door sounded suddenly shrill with panic.

Droom hurried toward the door, but it opened before he got there. The midwife beckoned him inside, where it stank like a latrine, but Droom did his best not to show it.

Doctor Sedloam turned away from the bed to face him--a wiry man for a dwarf, lank beard, just the one eye, from where the other had been ruined by a red-hot splinter when he'd worked the forges in his youth. Blood speckled the front of his apron. Droom had wanted Doctor Moary, the man who'd delivered him into the world, but Moary had given up medicine for a seat on the Council of Twelve, who had governed Arx Gravis since the last dwarven king, Arios, sunk beneath the waves, along with the city of Arnoch he ruled from.

Yalla lay on the bed, atop the rumpled sheets. Crimson stained her thighs. Her hair was slick with sweat. It was a shock to Droom how wasted she looked. When her waters had broken, she'd been glowing with health.

"What have you done to her?" he demanded.

The __ doctor dismissed the question with an impatient wave. "I need you to tell me who to save: your wife or the child?"

"It's not his choice!" Yalla said, raising her head from the pillow. "You hear me, Droom? You do as I say."

Droom met her eyes, saw the fire in them, a blaze of fury that was even now starting to fade. He shoved the doctor aside and leaned over the bed.

"Lass, I can't..."

Yalla forced a smile, touched his hand with her fingertips. "You're stronger than you know, husband. Don't let me lose the baby."

Tears welled in Droom's eyes, blurred his vision, rolled down his cheeks.

Yalla gripped his hand, wincing at some unimaginable pain. "You'll be all right," she said, voice barely a whisper.

Droom pressed his ear to her mouth the better to hear. Her breath felt cold.

"Remember..." she gasped, "when we wed?"

Droom shook his head, already pulling away.

She gripped his wrist, firm, unbreakable, like the Yalla of old. "You swore to obey..."

Footsteps from behind distracted Droom.

"I have to act now," Doctor Sedloam said.

Droom's innards turned to ice. He looked back at his wife, at the dying spark in her eyes. She gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Speaking with a mouthful of gravel, Droom said, "The child."

The doctor squeezed his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Droom. Truly I am. Now stand aside."

A scalpel glinted in the doctor's hand.

"Not you," Yalla rasped. She flicked her eyes at Droom. "My sword, husband. Use it."

It was hanging from the head of the bed. Droom drew the blade, with one glance taking in every battle-carved chink, the frayed leather grip, the tarnished pommel.

"I'll help you," Sedloam said. "Make the incision here."

With a groan of anguish, Droom shut his eyes and plunged the blade in. Yalla grunted. Hot wetness splashed Droom's face. He felt the doctor's __ pressure on his wrist, guiding the cut. A violent tremor ran through Droom's body. He opened his mouth in a scream that wouldn't come.

"Enough," Sedloam said, pulling the sword from Droom's grasp. "Reach inside. Grab the child."

Droom opened his eyes onto bloody horror. He touched shaking fingers to the gash he'd made in his wife's belly, squirmed as he thrust them inside.

"It's not there!" he cried.

Yalla tried to sit up, but she was too weak.

"I can't find--"

Then he snagged something stringy, got a grip on a clump of it, and yanked the baby out by its beard.

Yalla gasped and then sighed. Her head sank into the pillow. "Is it...?" she mumbled.

"A boy!" Droom said. He held the baby out at arm's length, and it wailed, as if it were angry about being forced into the cold outside the womb. The boy was a fighter, no doubt about it. The swell of pride made Droom forget--just for a second.

He knelt beside the bed and lay the child on Yalla's breast. "You did good, lassie," he said through tears. "He's a strong one."

"Has the blood..." Yalla whispered. "The blood of the Exalted."

"Aye," Droom agreed. "Like mother like..." He trailed off, numb from head to toe.

Yalla was no longer breathing.
ONE

Carnac Thayn's blood-washed face stared back at him. The whites of his eyes burned crimson. His hair and beard were slick with gore, and a smoldering hole punctured his helm. A killing hole. It was the window reflecting his image back at him, and the hole was in the glass, not his head. But it didn't stop him checking with a finger just to be sure.

Carn wrenched his eyes away from the scene of the crime and looked up, past the top tiers of walkways to the red-streaked skies. One of the suns was sinking below the lip of the ravine, its twin already out of sight.

Carn looked back at the window, steeling himself in case the grisly illusion turned out to be real on second glance. But the light had dimmed as the suns went down, and now he could see through the glass to where floor-to-ceiling bookshelves held dozens of leather-bound tomes with gold-embossed spines: the _Chronicles of Arx Gravis_ , the entire history of the city.

One of the books was missing. Halfway along the third row down there was a three-inch gap that shouldn't have been there. On the floor below the gap, a dwarf in the chainmail hauberk and red cloak of the Ravine Guard, same as Carn wore, lay staring blankly at the ceiling, a wound in his chest seeping blood.

Murder on top of theft.

No one had died in Arx Gravis for as long as Carn could remember, save from natural causes or recklessness in the fight circles. And nothing had ever been stolen. What would be the point? Everyone had the same, eked out fair and square by the Council of Twelve. No one basked in riches, but no one lacked what they needed, either. And a volume of the _Chronicles_ --it took an expert to read all that Old Dwarvish drivel, and outside of the narrow circles of scholars there was hardly a market for it.

Carn turned at the sound of booted feet to see a troop of Ravine Guard running toward him along the walkway.

"Anything, sir?" Kaldwyn Gray said, getting there just ahead of the others.

"See for yourself." Carn flicked his head toward the window then leaned on his axe. Sweat dripped into his eyes from beneath his helm. He wiped it away with a fistful of beard.

All along the walkway, amber glowstones set amid the bricks winked into life, as they always did at the onset of night. The same thing happened on the levels of the city above and below until the ravine seemed filled with fireflies. As the last flush of sunset faded to black, Raphoe, the largest of Aosia's three moons, stood stark in the night sky, bathing the city in silver ripples. Another illusion, this one making it seem as though Arx Gravis had sunk beneath the waves like the lost city of Arnoch, where the dwarf lords of old had met their end.

Kal was pale-faced when he turned away from the window. The five Ravine Guard with him started mumbling among themselves, but Carn silenced them with a glare.

"What do we do, sir?" Kal said.

Carn's mind was a blank. Nothing like this had happened before. Nothing ever happened.

A fizzing rasp from below cut the air. Someone screamed.

Carn looked down, but his line of sight was blocked by a flying buttress that anchored the Aorta, the great central tower around which the city was built, to the distant ravine wall. He rushed to the closest of the walkways that radiated from the Aorta like the spokes of a wheel, and from there he could see the commotion on the level fifty feet beneath him.

A crowd had gathered around a woman lying on one of the circular plazas the walkways intersected with. A plume of smoke drifted up from the front of her smock. Red Cloaks were swarming out of the stone doors set into the ravine walls.

A speck of movement caught his eye--a child, perhaps, head to foot in black, zipping through the crowd.

Carn called out, "Halt!" and waved to the Ravine Guard mustering below.

Before they could respond, the dark shape leapt from the walkway and vanished.

"What the shog?" Kal said, breath hot on Carn's ear, the rest of the troop close behind.

Raised voices came from below--barked orders. Carn swept the walkways with his gaze till he found Marshal Thumil in his red cloak and golden helm, taking charge of the chaos.

"Down there," Carn said. "Quickly now."

He led the way back to the Aorta and descended the winding staircase that ran around the outside of the tower. Thumil met them at the bottom.

"Get the people off the walkways," the Marshal told Kal and the others. "Everyone indoors." To Carn, he said, "See anything?"

Gone was the boisterous friend who'd been deep in his cups last night, singing bawdy songs till the early hours. That was the thing about Thumil: as good a friend as a dwarf could hope for, but he was all about responsibility the moment he put on the Marshal's helm and cloak.

"One dead in the Scriptorium, Marshal," Carn said. He felt self-conscious using his friend's title. "Shot through the window, I'd say, though I've no idea what with. Pierced chain mail and left a hole in his chest."

"Corporal Jarfy?"

"Jarfy, sir, yes. I think." Carn wasn't good with names. Thumil knew the names of all the men under him. The names of their wives and kids, too.

The Marshal shook his head. "Poor old Jarfy. Shog only knows how I'm going to tell Mina."

"A book was taken," Carn said. "One of the _Chronicles_." He told Thumil about the dark-cloaked midget he'd seen leap from the walkway.

Thumil crossed to the edge of the plaza, glanced down then craned his neck to stare up at the shimmering face of Raphoe.

"What is it, sir? What are you thinking?" Carn asked.

"This feels wrong, and I don't just mean the murder." Thumil grimaced then looked back down below.

Carn followed his gaze. There were scores of Ravine Guard flooding the walkways, and Black Cloaks weaved in among them: the Svarks, the Council's special cohort.

"You think we have an intruder?" Thumil asked.

Carn knew where this was going. That implied an incursion from outside. No one got into the ravine city, same as no one left. The dwarves had remained hidden away in Arx Gravis since the time of Maldark the Fallen, over a thousand years ago.

"Has to be," he said with a shrug. "What dwarf would gain from stealing?" Oh, people cheated and gambled, made a bit on the side, but there was no burning need for more. They generally did such things to pass the time, to alleviate the boredom.

Thumil nodded, stroking his straggly beard. "But why the _Chronicles_?"

"Shog knows," Carn said.

Thumil looked up at the heights. There were several levels above them, reaching toward the lip of the chasm that engulfed the city. Walkways spanned the gaps between the vast platforms encircling the Aorta.

They both knew the upper levels were the most heavily patrolled. The moment outsiders reached the topmost walkway, they would be surrounded by Svarks in concealer cloaks.

Carn suppressed a shudder as he looked back below and studied the play of moonlight on the surface of the lake at the foot of the ravine. Beneath the iron-rich waters of the Sag-Urda, a portal was said to lie: a gate to the underworld of Aranuin, and the only other way in or out of Arx Gravis.

Thumil caught him looking and frowned. "Faen?"

No one had seen one of the denizens of Aranuin for a very long time. Carn's pa had many years ago in the mines. Droom said the faen prophesied he would have two sons; told him what to name them. The foreman accused him of drinking on shift, but when his wife Yalla fell pregnant, Droom did as he was bidden and named his firstborn Lukar. When Yalla died giving birth to their second child, Droom still honored the faen's prophecy and gave Carnac his name. Droom was superstitious like that, and part of him always believed the other thing the faen had told him: that through his sons, the dwarves would find themselves again. Through his sons, the age of legends would be reborn.

Miners still reported the occasional uncorroborated sighting. But a faen in the city, stealing from the Scriptorium? It made no sense.

"We should get down there," Carn said.

"You really think two more will make a difference?"

Thumil was right. The lower levels were teeming with Ravine Guard. Carn was about to ask, "Then what?" when something prickled the back of his neck. As he turned, he saw a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye, a tiny figure in black.

"I didn't see him fall, sir,"--Carn was already running toward the Aorta--"because he doubled back."

"What?" Thumil panted hard to keep up with him. They were going to have to talk about his drinking, and maybe a regimen with the weights.

"He went under the walkway, sir. Must have clung to the struts like the under-city gibunas. He's heading back up."

Carn retraced his steps to the Scriptorium window, but if the intruder had come back this way, he'd moved fast. Except for Jarfy's livid corpse, there was nothing inside but books, and no sign of movement on any of the adjoining walkways.

He was about to turn back when his eye caught the bookcase opposite the window. Where there had been a space before, there was now a full shelf of _Chronicles_.

Thumil came alongside, bent double and wheezing.

"It's back," Carn said. "The book is--"

A black-garbed figure emerged from an upper window. It paused on the sill, as if shocked to see them below. Beneath the cowl of its cloak, onyx eyes glistened from a grey face, craggy and rough-textured like granite. It was small, no more than chest-high to a dwarf, and lithe as a cat. It raised a hand holding a sleek metal wand.

Carn shoved Thumil back against the wall as lighting fizzed and crackled from the rod and blasted a chunk out of the walkway. He rolled back into view and hurled his axe. At the same instant, the faen leapt from the windowsill. The axe hit stone with a chink; as it fell, the faen fell too, but then a silver disk materialized beneath the creature's feet. When the axe clattered to the walkway, Carn was already sprinting for the edge. The disk sped off, and he flung himself at it, caught hold of its rim with the tips of his fingers.

"Carn!" Thumil cried, but Carn couldn't see him. All he could do was cling on as the disk skimmed between two parallel walkways and banked into a steep dive.

A booted foot came down on his fingers, and the faen took aim over the edge with its wand. Carn let go with his free hand and swung aside from another blast of lightning. On the return swing, he lunged up and swiped the wand from the faen's hand.

Shouts went up from the Red Cloaks milling on the walkways. A crossbow bolt zipped past his ear. Another hit the disk and clattered off.

Down they spiraled, rocking and tilting each time the faen tried to stomp on Carn's fingers.

Into the under-city they soared, over the glimmering waters of a canal. The lanterns hanging from barges were no more than streaking blurs of amber as they passed. From some hidden cleft, a gibuna shrieked, and then, with a sickening dread in his belly, Carn saw they were heading straight for the moonlit surface of the Sag-Urda.

As they skimmed the embankment, he let go. The ground teetered toward him. He hit hard and jarred his ankle. Grunting, he stood gingerly, hopping on his good leg as the silver disk carried the faen beneath the surface of the lake.

Carn cursed and eased himself onto his arse to nurse his throbbing ankle. Even without the injury, there was nothing he could have done. Just looking at the water turned his guts to cold mush. While it might have been mandatory training, passed on from every mother to every child, Carn couldn't swim. His mother hadn't been there to teach him.

Black Cloaks descended like spiders on threads of webbing. Thumil was with them, rappelling with the grace of a sack of coal bouncing down a mine shaft.

The Svarks stalked toward Carn, cloaks flapping in the swirling gusts that sent ripples out across the lake. Bands of _ocras_ armored their chests, the green-flecked black ore virtually impregnable. Six of them came at him in a pincer, as if he'd done something wrong. The seventh broke away and stood brooding at the edge of the water. He might have been considering jumping in and going after the faen.

Carn got to his feet and tested out his leg. At least he hadn't sprained it. A few cautious steps, and it could take his weight. A few more, and it was no more than a dull ache.

Thumil pushed through the cordon of Black Cloaks. "He entered the lake?"

Carn swallowed down bile and nodded. "I would have gone after him, laddie,"--he was beyond titles at that moment--"but..."

"It's a good thing you didn't," said the Black Cloak at the lake's edge. He spun round and glared. "You know the rules."

Carn did, but he still narrowed his eyes as he nodded. Svark or not, he didn't like the shogger's tone. "Aye, laddie, I know."

Thumil clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, Carn, let's get cleaned up before we make our report."

The Marshal bustled toward the Black Cloaks with the confidence born from rank. To Carn's astonishment, they got out of the way. He clenched his fists at his sides and followed, albeit more warily. He'd heard things about the Svarks. Heard you didn't want to get on the wrong side of them.

Thumil led him along the banks of a canal and headed toward the iron ladders that joined the under-city to the levels above. Carn went first, keen to put some distance between him and the Black Cloaks.

He grabbed the first rung and immediately snatched his hand away. It was coated in something brown and slimy that stank worse than a pint of Ironbelly's ale.

Thumil chuckled and took the next ladder along. "Gibuna's got to go, same as we all have."

Carn growled then looked around for something to wipe his hand with. When nothing better presented itself, he crouched down to rub the muck off against the pavement.

Thumil was already halfway to the next level. He leaned away from the ladder, holding on with one arm, and began to sing the same bawdy song he'd offended everyone with last night in the tavern.

Carn raised an eyebrow. It was a rare interlude for the Marshal, one that would no doubt stop the instant they got back to barracks and had to plan what they were going to say to the Council of Twelve. Because those old codgers would want to hear about this, you could bet your shogging axe on that.

Now, there was a thought...

"We got time to go back to the Scriptorium?"

"Why's that?" Thumil called down to him. "Looking for something to read? I don't think they keep your kind of material. And besides, it'll make you blind. You'd be better off revisiting that whore at Rud Carey's Ale House, the one that gave you the pox."

"I need to fetch my axe, you silly shogger. And it wasn't the pox, I keep telling you. It was a reaction to the Ironbelly's."
TWO

The summons came even sooner than either Carn or Thumil expected. Black Cloaks were swarming about the Scriptorium, both inside and out. One of them, a scrawny-looking shogger, was leaning on the haft of Carn's axe as if he owned it.

"Baldar Kloon." Thumil acknowledged him with a curt nod, which was his way of letting you know you were a scut or a toe-rag.

Carn couldn't tell which. He only knew Kloon looked like the sort who'd offer one hand in greeting and stick a knife in you with the other.

Thumil snatched the axe from Kloon and patted his shoulder with his free hand. "Good boy. Thank you."

Kloon's face twisted into a snarl, and Carn shot him a warning look. Threaten him and he'd laugh in your face, but threaten Thumil, threaten a mate, and he'd knock your shogging block off.

"Right," Thumil said, handing Carn his axe. "Freshen up, a swift pint, and then we make our report."

"No," Kloon said. There was a rasp to his voice that was just plain wrong, as though he were a spiteful child taking pleasure in what he had to say next. "The Dokon, right now. You've been summoned."

"Oh, aye?" Thumil said, squaring his shoulders and looking suddenly imperious in his red cloak and golden helm. It was an art, how he turned on authority at the drop of a hat. It was something Carn had tried to emulate, but it always came out as intimidation when he did it.

"Aye," Kloon said, a thin-lipped smile cutting a gash across his face.

Black Cloaks closed in from either side of the walkway, upwards of a dozen.

Carn watched Thumil for any sign they were to resist. He tightened his grip on his axe.

"Thought it was past the Council's bedtime," Thumil said. "Oh, well, beer later, I guess. Thanks for letting us know, sonny."

Kloon stiffened. He'd been furious at being called "boy," but "Sony" was a whole degree worse, just one short step from "lassie" or "whiskerless titty suckler."

Carn peered at him and squinted. "You oil your beard, laddie?" Only women oiled their beards, and only cheap whores at that.

Kloon's hand went to his lank excuse for facial hair, and Carn gave a pitying shake of his head before setting off after Thumil, an escort of Black Cloaks in tow.

Rather than descend the hundreds of steps spiraling around the Aorta to reach the seventh level down, the Black Cloaks led Carn and Thumil to one of auxiliary pillars set apart from it, and they entered through a concealed door.

Carn had to owe it to them: they'd done a good job of concealing it--the Svarks, the Council, or the Founders who'd built the city. The door was invisible, even to a dwarf. Even to Carn, who was a miner's son, and miners knew all the tricks.

The door led to a vertical shaft that fell away into darkness.

"What do we do now?" Thumil asked one of the Black Cloaks. "Jump?"

It occurred to Carn that they were to be pushed, though he quickly shook the thought off. They had done nothing wrong, nothing to get on the wrong side of the Council. And besides, they were Ravine Guard, and Thumil was the Marshal, too well known, too important to suddenly go missing.

Instead of answering, the Black Cloak pulled up his sleeve to reveal a silver vambrace. He held it to his mouth and muttered something, and in response a tortured yowl sounded from the depths of the shaft.

A rush of air hit Carn in the face, and the wailing dropped to a whine, then a drone. Silver flashed below, and then a platform came into view, not dissimilar to the disk the faen had ridden into the waters of the Sag-Urda.

"Get on," the Black Cloak said.

Thumil was hesitant. Clearly, even the Marshal of the Ravine Guard hadn't been granted access to this hidden space before.

Carn, though, didn't want to give the Svark the satisfaction of cowing him, so he blithely stepped on, and Thumil joined him.

"There's room for one more," Carn said to the Black Cloak with the vambrace. "Maybe two, if we breathe in."

Ignoring him, the Black Cloak muttered into his vambrace again, and the platform dropped like a stone.

The speed of the descent flipped Carn's guts into his mouth. Thumil looked green, but to his credit he didn't spew as the platform came to a juddering halt. They stepped off onto a statue-lined walkway that could only have been the seventh-level approach to the Dokon, the seat of the Council's power.

Two columns of Black Cloaks formed a corridor for them to pass through. Of course, it could have been an honor guard, or simply a formality, but to Carn it looked like a threat.

He'd only been to the seventh level once, and that was for Councilor Moary's interminable speech on why the _status quo_ could not be changed, why Arx Gravis shouldn't open the way to trade with the races outside the ravine, as Councilor Yuffie had proposed. Carn had heard every word, but he couldn't for the life of him say what Old Moary's argument was. All he remembered was a lot of toing and froing, endless "What ifs" and "Well, I don't knows." Even so, Old Moary had gotten his way, as he always did. It was far easier convincing the dwarves to leave things as they were than to introduce even the slightest degree of change.

Yuffie had his reasons for wanting trade with the upper lands, no doubt, and by the measure of the man, they likely weren't legal ones. But the idea had fired Carn's imagination, aroused in him the speculation of what might lie up there in the world above the ravine. When he'd mentioned it to his pa, Droom had shut the lid firmly on that can of worms. Miners weren't exactly renowned for their wanderlust, and speculation to them was as useful as a broken pickaxe.

Thumil marched ahead, on more familiar turf now. As Marshal, he'd endured his fair share of summonses, and he'd let slip once or twice when he'd been asked to attend meetings, and the occasional private talk with Dythin Rala, the Voice of the Council.

Behind the flanking Black Cloaks, Carn caught glimpses of fluted columns and statues of the mythical kings of Arnoch. About halfway along, they came under the cover of a vaulted ceiling that hid the walkway from the one above. Supporting struts of whittled _ocras_ --no mean feat, for the ore was harder than diamond--gave way to windowless walls of hexagonal bricks. Glowstones set into the ceiling dappled the floor with an amber sheen. One of them winked and stuttered, its glow bordering on red. The flickering light it shed on the paving was like a bleeding wound, struggling in and out of reality.

They stopped outside the door. It was _ocras_ , too, blacker than coal and flecked through with green. There was no handle. The twelve doors surrounding the Dokon were hermetically sealed, though the odd thing was, the mechanism was on the outside only. Whatever the original intended purpose of the Council Chamber, it conveyed the idea of an elaborate cell. Maybe that was the only way the dwarves of old could get the job done: ensure their leaders reached a decision before they were allowed out to eat.

If that was the original function of the doors, perhaps the dwarves today could learn from the wisdom of their forebears, because the Council of Twelve was notorious for its stalling, and everyone knew it was comprised of a bunch of shilly-shallying shogwits. The idea, it seemed to Carn, was encapsulated in the two mummified councilors standing solemnly either side of the door, no doubt as animated in death as they had been in life.

One of the Black Cloaks touched his vambrace to a crystalline panel on the wall, and slowly, inch by inch, the door began to grind upward.

Blue light spilled through the widening gap and painted the walkway. As they entered, Carn tried to locate the source of the light. He'd heard about it from Thumil: a hidden glow that suffused the interior walls, just enough to illuminate every nook, cranny and feature, but not so much as to make a dwarf squint. The councilors, like everyone else, were used to the shade of the ravine.

Rugbeard, the teacher of the _Chronicles_ , said the lighting was of underworld origin, from a time long past when the faen had mixed with the dwarves. Some even said the two races were related; others, that the dwarves were nothing other than faen altered by the mad sorcerer, Sektis Gandaw.

The chamber they stepped into was vast. It must have occupied most, if not all, of the seventh level of the Aorta. There were twelve sides with twelve _ocras_ doors that each opened onto a different walkway or plaza. The green-flecked ore absorbed force, which meant the doors would have made the Dokon impregnable, even to the explosives used by miners to crack open buttresses of rock. The head of a dwarf lord was embossed in the center of every door.

Twenty-four ribs of _ocras_ stretched from the edges of each wall to meet at a hub of gold in the middle of the ceiling. The hub was molded in the form of twin axe blades, symbolizing the _Paxa Boraga_ , the Axe of the Dwarf Lords said to have hung above the throne of the king of Arnoch.

A long table of granite was the focal point of the chamber. It was flanked by twelve high-backed chairs seemingly welded from pick axes, mauls, sledgehammers and chisels--another symbol, this time of the workers who were the lifeblood of the city.

Black Cloaks stood two to a wall, as still as the statues lining the walkway outside. Only their eyes moved, tracking Thumil and Carn as they entered.

The councilors were dotted about the room, blue tinting their white robes, each uniform in their dress, but unique in the wearing of their hair and beards. Apparently, they had time for such affectations, time that might have been better spent doing something, rather than carrying on endless circular arguments that ensured nothing ever changed.

Like a chorus line of dancers, they glided into position, each behind a chair, in a wave of motion that was anything but indecisive. In fact, it looked thoroughly rehearsed, as if that's how they spent their days sequestered away in the Council Chamber: blocking out moves that created the appearance of regality, of cohesion and solidarity. The only thing that spoiled the impression was Old Moary's holey socks poking out from his sandals.

At the head of the table, Dythin Rala, the Voice of the Council, covered his mouth and yawned. The action deflated him, and he slumped down into his chair. Taking it as a cue, the other eleven followed suit, some scraping their chairs on the flagstones as they turned them to keep Thumil and Carn in view.

The Voice looked grey as ash, and though his beard was awash with the same blue light as everything else, there was no hiding the yellowish streaks--the result of too much smoking. As if he'd read Carn's thoughts, the wizened leader of the Council produced a long-stemmed pipe and began to tamp down the tobacco in its bowl.

The only other councilor Carn knew by sight was Brann Yuffie, and that on account of his shadowy presence at the fight circles, and his underhand dealings in Arx Gravis's taverns. Rumor had it Yuffie was the one smuggling somnificus from the outside world and making a tidy profit out of addicting folk to the narcotic herb. The Ravine Guard had closed in on Yuffie's activities on several occasions, only for Thumil to receive communication from on high to back off.

In the action of lighting his pipe, Dythin Rala somehow managed to convey to the councilor on his right that he was ready to start.

With too much vigor, for Carn's liking, the councilor concerned swiveled in his seat and speared Thumil with a vulture's look.

"Welcome, Marshal. Your promptness is appreciated." He had a nasally voice, but each word was carefully enunciated, vowels short, consonants clipped, "Rs" rolling. "A nasty business, by any measure. What is your take on it?"

"Councilor Grago." Thumil acknowledged him with a nod but directed his reply to the Voice.

So, that was Grago, the boss of the Black Cloaks, and as affable as a baresark whose beer had just been spilled, from what Carn had been told.

"The philosopher's wards on the Scriptorium were triggered around about dusk," Thumil said.

--Magic or some other lore the human Aristodeus had installed to prevent just such an incursion. The philosopher was the only outsider permitted in the city, though no one could say how or why he'd been granted permission. All Carn knew was that Aristodeus tutored his brother Lukar and had been known to the dwarves of Arx Gravis since time immemorial. He was older, it was said, even than Moary.

"Corporal Jarfy was first on the scene," Thumil continued. "Carnac here found him. Dead."

"Jarfy, eh? Never heard of him," Grago said, glancing around the table to see if anyone else had.

Dythin Rala puffed out a smoke ring and retreated behind his wrinkled eyelids.

"So," Grago said, "how did this Corporal Jarfy die?" He gave the impression he already knew, that he'd been briefed by the Svarks.

Still, at mention of the death, worried looks were exchanged up and down the table. It wasn't that a dwarf had been lost--accidents in the mines were commonplace--it was that murder had come to Arx Gravis.

Thumil deferred to Carn with an open palm.

"Something tore a hole through Jarfy's chest, Councilor." Carn found himself addressing Grago, whose relentless glare seemed to demand it. "A smoking hole that punctured armor as though it were linen."

"Punctured _ocras_?" sunken-faced councilor said. He was stooped over the table like an old man, but he couldn't have been more than two-hundred.

"Fool," the big lummox next to him said. This one looked half baresark, what with the vivid tattoos on his face and forearms, the iron-beaded braids of his beard. "Ravine Guard are working men, am I right, Marshal? Born to the mines and the lower levels. _Ocras_ is for those more equal than the rest of us, eh, Grago?"

"Councilor Crony," Old Moary said to the lummox. Dythin Rala might have been the Voice, but it was Moary that did most of the talking. "Council Jarrol. There will be plenty of time for questions once the Marshal and his--Carnac Thayn, isn't it, son? How's your pa, lad? I've known Droom since he was a nipper. Knew your mother too. So sad."

Grago coughed pointedly.

"Ah, yes," Old Moary said. "Quite. Do carry on."

Carn described what he'd witnessed. When he mentioned the faen, mutters flew around the table. When he described the flight on the silver disk to the foot of the ravine, some of the councilors shook their heads as if he were a liar, while others looked like they'd seen a ghost.

When he got to the bit about the faen escaping beneath the waters of the Sag-Urda, Councilor Grago said, "And you went after it, yes?" His eyes flicked to the Black Cloaks lining the walls.

The implication of Grago's question wasn't lost on Carn. Nor on Thumil, either, by the way the Marshal flashed him a warning look. Pursuing the faen into the lake would have been a violation of the law: it would have meant setting foot outside of Arx Gravis. The punishment was exile, and execution if you were foolish enough to return.

"No, Councilor Grago, he did not," Thumil said.

"Really?" Grago's eyes bored into Carn's for a long, uncomfortable moment, as if he were seeking a vulnerability, or trying to force a confession. Finally, he said, "But you thought about it, didn't you?"

Thumil laughed. "Then you obviously don't know Carnac, Councilor. He can't swim."

"Can't swim?" a stoat-faced councilor said in a voice full of shrill disbelief. "But that's against the rules." He looked straight at Dythin Rala for confirmation.

The Voice lazily opened one eye and puffed out another smoke ring.

"Is this true?" Grago asked. "It is every woman's duty to teach her children, along with every other skill outside of the professions."

"His mother was Yalla Thayn," Old Moary said, and eyes widened around the table.

"She died," Carn said. A hundred and sixty years ago, come the morrow, and yet it felt as though his guts had been ripped out. It caused him to choke up just thinking about his mother, even though he'd never seen her. Of course, Droom claimed that she'd held the infant Carn just before the end.

"Died in childbirth," Thumil added for clarity.

"So sad," Moary said. "But I don't rightly remember, was I in attendance?"

Old Moary had been a doctor before he became a councilor. Before that, it was said he was a soldier with a fearsome reputation.

"It was after your retirement, Councilor." Thumil said.

"Of course it was," Old Moary said. "Couldn't recall if I was to blame, if I'd botched things in some way." He held up the shaky hands that had forced his exit from surgery and opened the door to politics.

"So, no one taught you the basics every dwarf child must learn?" Grago said.

"When Ma died," Carn said, "my pa went back to work in the mines, and my older brother Lukar was deep into his studies."

Grago opened his mouth to say something, but it was Dythin Rala who spoke.

"Aristodeus's pupil, no?"

"That's right, my Lord Voice," Carn said.

"Thought as much." The Voice's eyes closed again, and he sat back, puffing on his pipe.

Carn glanced at Thumil, wondering how come Dythin Rala knew about his brother.

Thumil shrugged.

Maybe it was because Lukar was the philosopher's only disciple--at least in Arx Gravis. Aristodeus came and went whenever he pleased, popping up almost out of thin air. Carn could only imagine the heated debates the Council must have had about his taking on Lukar as a student, but, as with everything else, the philosopher had gotten his way.

"So, what was missing?" a scruffy-looking councilor said. His robe was more yellow than white, his beard matted and dusted with dandruff. He had red cheeks, not from heat or embarrassment, but from an angry-looking rash. He scratched his head, and flakes fell to his shoulders. "Presumably one of the Arnochian folios, or an early charter."

"What makes you say that, Councilor Dorley?" Grago asked with narrowed eyes.

Dorley plucked a pair of spectacles from his robe pocket and sat them on the bridge of his nose. "Because they are of the greatest value. And because the crime scene was the Scriptorium. What else would they take? The King of Arnoch's crown jewels? A crate of gold ingots found at the foot of a rainbow?"

Grago's cheek twitched, and his lips pressed into a tight line.

"A book was taken," Thumil said, with a nervous glance at Carn. "One of the _Chronicles_ , but it was--"

"The thief put it back," Carn said. "And like I said, he was a faen."

"That is what perturbs me," an immensely fat councilor said. He shifted in his chair, and it scraped on the floor. "A faen infiltrating the city? The implications are magnanimous."

Carn shot Thumil a look. The Marshal was stony-faced, staring straight ahead, but something about the tightness of his jaw revealed he was trying not to laugh.

"Peace, Councilor Garnil," Old Moary said. "You must not worry so. I mean, what if--?"

"Strikes me," a white-haired councilor said, "this is a lot of hullabaloo about nothing."

He didn't look old enough for his hair to have lost its color. Carn expected him to have pink eyes to match, but the councilor was no albino: his eyes were of sparkling blue. He was tall, too, for a dwarf--half a head above everyone else seated at the table.

"Oh, Councilor Castail?" Grago said. "And why is that, then?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Castail turned to address the Voice. In profile, his nose took on the semblance of a beak, and with the haughty tilt of his chin, he could have been mistaken for the living embodiment of one of the statues of the dwarf lords. "The book was taken and subsequently returned. Nothing gone. No harm done. I rest my case."

"Save for the evidence against that theory," Thumil said.

Castail turned a withering look on him, rolled his eyes and sighed. "And what, pray tell, is that? The far-fetched testimony of this Ravine Guard? Next you'll be asking us to believe there are dragons nesting in the Farfall Mountains!"

"Corporal Jarfy."

Castail's expression melted, and he started to stammer a reply, but Thumil spoke over him.

"One of my men. One of our citizens." He stared until Castail looked away, and then he continued to stare.

Eventually, Dythin Rala broke the tension. "But it still begs the question, Marshal: what are we supposed to do about it?"

Thumil swung toward the Voice, but Carn clamped a hand on his shoulder and spoke for him.

"You want us to go after the faen?"

"Into Aranuin?" Old Moary said. "Into the warrens beneath the Sag-Urda?" __ He shook his head, as if the idea were not just illegal but insane.

"Special dispensation could be granted," Thumil said cautiously. "A dwarf could be tasked with such a mission."

"It has never happened before," Councilor Garnil snapped.

"Maybe not," Carn said, "but in a case like this..." He trailed off when he caught the smirk on Grago's face.

Garnil coughed and whimpered. Castail leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. The lummox--Cony?--fiddled with the iron beads on his beard, as if he were taken with the idea of going into the realm of the faen, maybe even bringing along an axe and giving them something to think about.

But any hint that the Council might actually do something was quashed when Dythin Rala sucked at the stem of his pipe and said, "No. And it is impudent of you to suggest such a thing." He turned one rheumy eye on Carn, then let the lid droop shut.

No one said anything for a long moment, until Grago leaned in and whispered in the Voice's ear. They exchanged words that only they were party to, and then Grago straightened in his chair and said, "This sort of thing mustn't be allowed to happen again, Marshal."

Thumil stiffened. "What sort of--"

Grago silenced him with a raised finger. "You are Marshal of the Ravine Guard, are you not? And it is the mandate of the Ravine Guard to prevent incursions into the ravine, is it not? Among other things," he added, as if he didn't want to lose the right to fling anything he'd forgotten to mention at Thumil at some later date.

"Jarfy..." Thumil said. His voice shook with suppressed rage.

"Arrange a pyre," Grago said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Honor him, or whatever it is you do. But let's just be clear, Marshal, this is a black mark against--"

"No, Council Grago," Dythin Rala said. He tapped out his pipe on the table, apparently fascinated by the little pile of ash it left. "No, it is not."

Grago's cheek twitch went up a notch. It went up another when Old Moary said, "Hear, hear."

"You have both done well," the Voice said. "And you have our thanks. You may go."

Carn gave Thumil a "That's it?" look, but already a Black Cloak was muttering into a vambrace, and a door began to grind open.

Carn gestured for Thumil to go first, but the Voice suddenly looked up.

"Not you, Marshal."

Thumil's eyes widened.

"And, Councilors," Dythin Rala said, "let's call it a day. Marshal Thumil and I have things to discuss."

"Thumil?" Carn said.

The Marshal gave a reassuring wag of his fingers. "Finish your shift early, son. You've earned it. Get yourself home."
THREE

As Carn left the Dokon, the thrill of the chase, the tension of being summoned before the Council still fired his blood, and he knew if he headed straight home he would never sleep. Nevertheless, he descended, rather than ascended, the steps spiraling around the Aorta. There was no point drinking in some priggish upper-tier tavern and then tumbling all the way back down to the sixteenth level where he lived with his brother and pa.

The silver glow of Raphoe still filled the sky, but the moon was slowly rising, and a thin black smile now separated it from the top of the ravine. As the darkness widened beneath it, amber glowstones would brighten to compensate, and the evening crowds would start to make their way home as the stallholders packed up for the night.

Dozens of dwarves passed Carn on their way to the upper levels. The Aorta's steps were broad enough for three abreast, and despite there being no hand rail, no one had ever heard of a dwarf falling to their death. The people of Arx Gravis were as sure-footed as the goats that pulled their carts up and down the switchback paths cut into the walls of the chasm.

The farther he got from the Dokon, the more the sounds and smells grew to his liking. Incensed braziers and the incessant patter of feet from scurrying messengers gave way to the muted revelry of the clerks and merchants who frequented the next tier down. The smell of sizzling meat, slaughtered and salted in the baresarks' abattoirs, mingled with the earthy aroma of roasted kaffa beans, which were harvested from their ledge plantations.

Lower still, the plucking of a harp underpinned the yowl of a fiddle. It was enough to make Carn linger for a moment, lost in the dark spell it weaved. It was only the bitter warning of experience that enabled him to wrench himself away and continue down to the next level. The music was just a catalyst, but it was something he could do without. Already, the excitement was leeching from his veins, and as it always did in the wake of a good fight, or a raucous evening in the taverns, his black-dog mood started to creep from the shadowed edges of his mind. It feasted on scraps of vitality, hunted for glimmers of hope and happiness.

Almost the instant he reached the sixteenth level, the homey sounds of table-thumping and bawdy singing from Bucknard's Beer Hall sent the darkness scampering back to the corners. Orange hearth-light bled through the latticed windows, and the pungent scent of hops was strong in the air.

He pushed open the door and stepped across the threshold, and a dozen flagons were raised in salute: Red Cloaks, finished for the night, all of them clearly way ahead of him in their drinking.

The place was heaving, like it always was. Besides the off-duty Ravine Guard, there were smiths and masons, canal workers and quarrymen. There was a scattering of miners--those lucky enough not to be on the morning shift. Most of them he knew, and they acknowledged him with nods, winks and waves.

"No Thumil tonight?" Bucknard Snaff hollered from behind the bar. Bucknard's grey beard was plaited into two braids that were slung back over his shoulders to keep them out of the beer.

It was hard to hear Bucknard above the din, much of it coming from the women hammering out a beat on the top of a long table, froth spraying from their whiskers as they bellowed some vigorous shanty comprised of "shogs" and "scuts" and what sounded like "hairy roots."

"He had too much the other night," Carn said as he leaned his axe against the wall and hung his helm from a peg by the door. "His guts aren't what they used to be. Age does that to a man."

"Oh ho!" Bucknard wagged a finger. "I'll tell him you said that. What'll it be, the usual?"

Ballbreakers Black Ale, he meant, but it was time for a change. Cordy was bringing out her new beer later in the week. Since her ma and pa had passed away, she'd partnered with her aunts and uncles in the family trade. The Kilderkins were Bucknard's greatest rivals, but Carn's loyalties were never in question. Bucknard was a decent enough brewer, and a nice bloke to boot, but Cordy was his mate from the Slean, and she'd break his shogging fruits if she caught him drinking Ballbreakers instead of her new brew. Now, there was an irony to bring tears to a dwarf's eyes.

"Stand me a mead, laddie. No, stand me two." He knew the first one would barely touch the sides.

"Mead it is," Bucknard said, already pouring from an earthenware cask. "Hard day?"

"You heard?"

Bucknard arched an eyebrow. "Aye, Carn, I heard. The lads told me coming in. Everyone all right?"

"Save for Jarfy."

"Aye, well, I'm sorry to hear about that. Sorry for his folks, too. Terrible business. Terrible. Here, matey, on the house." He handed over two flagons.

Carn nodded his thanks and did his best to hide his relief. After the other night he was running low on tokens and would be hard-pressed to eat if he exchanged any more for booze.

He carried his drink to the Red Cloaks' table, and Kal budged up to make room for him on the bench.

"So, what's happening?" Kal asked. The others stopped their conversations to listen. "What's the Council going to do?"

Carn took a long pull on his mead, paused to belch, then finished it off. He slid the empty across the table and lifted the other flagon to his lips. This one, he just sipped. The second drink was to be savored. Unless, of course, he could persuade someone to buy him a third.

Kal and the Red Cloaks waited patiently for his answer. It would have been considered rude to rush a dwarf breaking his booze-fast after a hard day's work.

"What's the Council going to do?" Carn said, eventually. "I'll give you three guesses."

"Shog all?" Kal said.

"Ah, laddie, you're too much the cynic."

"But I'm right, aren't I?"

"Well, you're not wrong."

"You're pulling my beard, ain't you?" Dar Shoofly said. He was new to the Ravine Guard, two weeks in, and yet to be dispossessed of the illusion the Council of Twelve actually did anything.

"They won't let Jarfy's death count for nothing," Muckman Brindy said. "You mark my words."

Muckman was a veteran, one of the few Red Cloaks to have ever seen action, if he were to be believed. And if you didn't believe him, he'd gladly show you the notches on his shortsword. Rumor had it, the only action he'd really seen was going after a stray goat that had made it onto a ledge and started munching through a crop of kaffa plants. The nicks on his blade, so it went, were made with a hammer and chisel.

"They said we could have a pyre for him," Carn said.

He shook his head and sighed into his mead. If only things were as simple as Dar Shoofly believed, and the Council really was like a caring parent. He knew Thumil had tried to protect him from the politics and allowed him to focus on the job, on training recruits, and encouraging them in their idealism, but Carn wasn't stupid. He'd always smelled a rat in the way Arx Gravis was governed. He'd caught a glimpse of it at times, in Councilor Yuffie and his dodgy dealings. But tonight, he'd seen another layer of the facade stripped away. The Council didn't care about individuals like Jarfy. They didn't even seem to care much for right and wrong. To his mind, they cared about one thing, and one thing alone: making sure nothing ever changed.

The lads respected his silence and didn't bother him with any more questions. While he sipped at his mead and followed one spiraling train of thought after another down into a burgeoning well of blackness, he was dimly aware of them discussing where to have the pyre for Jarfy, and how they were going to help his wife and kids. Even as the dark crawled back out from the corners of his mind and started to weave a canopy over him, Carn felt himself smiling. They were good lads, simple and true. The kind of dwarves he was proud to know. With a deep breath that filled his lungs, he set his empty flagon down on the tabletop with a thud and looked at each of them in turn.

"Now, laddies, who's going to buy their commanding officer a drink?"

They all immediately set about turning out their pockets, looking for the tokens they'd earned in service to the Ravine Guard. It was no different to the pay Droom received from the mines, or any other dwarf for that matter. That was one good thing about the Council, Carn supposed: every dwarf got the same, irrespective of what they did for a living. It hadn't always been that way. Up until the time of Maldark the Fallen, it had been a dog-eat-dog world, with every dwarf for himself. Now, with the even distribution of tokens, there was a sense of solidarity. Of course, like everything else in Arx Gravis, it wasn't quite as simple as it seemed. Favors were always being done in exchange for tokens, and what you had could always be doubled at the dice table or wagered on a circle fight. And if you had the kinds of privileges the councilors enjoyed, you might do even better for yourself.

Midnight came and went. Through the window, the amber light from the glowstones steadily increased as Raphoe flew the nest and left her two sibling moons adorning the night sky: Charos, a mere fraction of Raphoe's size; and Ennoi, smaller still, or perhaps more distant.

The table of women quietened down somewhat at the arrival of a night-time feast of pie and potatoes. One of them caught Carn looking and winked. He smiled and turned away. She was a bonny lass, right enough, but he was hardly in the mood.

Carn worked his way through flagon after flagon of mead the Red Cloaks set before him, but no matter how much he put away, he never found the liberating effect of drunkenness. Truth was, he seldom did, and on the few occasions he'd been totally inebriated, he'd sobered in an instant at the prospect of a brawl or the tug of a lassie's beard.

The other patrons filtered out, dropping their tankards off at the bar as they left. Bucknard straightened up chairs and benches, then seated himself on a barrel by the hearth, keeping a bleary eye on those still drinking. He took out a pipe and lit it with a taper he held to the flames.

One by one, the Red Cloaks bade their farewells and got up to leave.

"Coming?" Kal said. He was the only one left.

"Aye, laddie." Carn pushed himself up from the bench. Twelve empty flagons were lined up in front of him. Suddenly he felt bad about letting the Red Cloaks spend their tokens on him. "I'll pay them back," he muttered.

Kal wasn't meant to have heard, but he did. "Don't be a shogger. The lads don't do anything they don't want to. And besides, it's your birthday. Think of it as a gift."

"Birthday?" He'd completely forgotten, what with all the excitement. Although, that was only the half of it. The reality was, he'd tried to forget his birthday every year he could remember. "Not till tomorrow."

"It is tomorrow, you stupid scut. Look out the window."

The amber glowstones had all gone out, and red and purple light from the rising suns reflected off the walkways overhead. Already, dwarves were moving about outside: stallholders hoping to catch the morning shifts on their way to work.

The tavern door opened, and in came a bunch of miners, grabbing a beer and some eggs and bacon before heading off to chip away at a vein of _ocras_ , or silver, or gold.

And that reminded Carn: Droom would be up and expecting to see him before leaving for the mines. It was the same every time this double-edged day came around. Droom was a stickler for celebrating the birthdays of both his sons, but today was especially important to him: it was also the memorial of Yalla's death.

Carn gathered up his axe and helm and nodded that they should leave.
FOUR

Carn parted ways from Kal outside Bucknard's Beer Hall and headed for the Sward, a broad ledge jutting from the side of the ravine that had been seeded with grass and planted with trees centuries ago. From time immemorial the Sward had housed a small village--scattered dwellings of rough-hewn stone designed to blend in with the natural rock formations. There was more accommodation farther back in the ravine walls, where networks of tunnels linked subterranean homes and barracks for the Red Cloaks. But those whose ancestors had been blessed with good fortune--some said it was good breeding, back before the dwarves had learned the ways of equality--had their homes amid the trees and the greenery of the Sward. That's where Yalla Thayn's family had lived for as long as anyone could remember. And that's where they lived now, one hundred and sixty years after her death.

Patches of reddish light shone through cleverly designed gaps between walkways, and, as he reached the Sward, Carn caught a glimpse of one of Aosia's twin suns rising in fits and starts, darting in and out of the wispy cloud cover.

The dawn glow limning the ravine seemed unearthly and made old familiar things look fresh and new, as if he were seeing them for the first time: the stunted watchtowers of the Ravine Guard; the manicured lawns and sculpted hedgerows of Tranquility Park; and the tinkling waters of Lords' Fountain in the plaza.

It was a magical time of day. His favorite. The air was chill and crisp, without the stultifying heat it would later acquire. And it was redolent with the smells of cooking--sausages, bacon, and toasted bread, of scented smoke pluming from chimneys. The chirping of birds and the chitter of insects gave the Sward its own brand of music, and every now and again the muffled blare of barge horns carried up from the canals.

Carn's tension evaporated like the morning dew pearling the sheer walls of the ravine. It was only when he passed Krank Scorby's smallholding, adjacent to the Thayn family home, that his trepidation began to rise once more. He stopped for a moment to lean on the fence, gazing out at the half dozen boars snuffling for something to eat.

In the distance, the clangor of the blacksmith's had already commenced. To anyone else it would have been a deafening din, but the Thayns were so inured to it, they barely noticed. Carn did, though, on the bad days. And there were few worse than this.

The wind turned, and for an instant he caught the rancid whiff of the mushroom farm across the way. During storms, when the wind howled through the ravine and gusted in vicious swirls, the stench of the fisheries around the Sag-Urda would rise to mingle with it.

Carn drew in a long, deep breath then let it out with a sigh. He pushed off from the fence and headed for home. The door was open as always, and he entered, setting his axe and helm on the table in the hallway.

Droom stumbled out from the bathroom, one foot booted, the other covered by a threadbare sock. His grey-streaked hair was mussed up, his beard a tangle of knots. He already had on his thick-weave work jacket and britches, both with their permanent coating of rock dust from the mines. The jacket was coming apart at the seams, and Droom's massive shoulders threatened to burst out of it at any moment.

"You seen my boot, laddie?"

Without waiting for an answer, Droom hobbled off into the hearth-room and Carn followed. "Where were you all night, laddie? I cracked open a cask of mead. Thought you might have joined me, seeing as it's... you know."

It was bad enough enduring the combined celebrations and mourning one day every year, without adding the night before. Even if he'd thought about it, Carn would have drummed up an excuse.

"I'd have liked that, Pa, only there was trouble."

Droom's eyes continued to flit about in search of his missing boot. "What kind of trouble? You been losing tokens at the dice table again?"

"You got time for a kaffa before work? I'll tell you all about it."

"Fix me one, laddie," Droom said, "while I find my boot. I'm starting late today, in any case. Foreman knows what day it is. Knew your ma, he did. Oh, that reminds me." He came back out into the hallway and clapped a hand on Carn's shoulder. "Happy birthday, son."

"What did you get me?"

Droom winced and chewed on his top lip.

"Don't tell me," Carn said. "The mead you drank last night."

"I'll pick up another on my way home. Taffyr's Golden Honey Mead. Best there is."

Carn shook his head and wandered toward the kitchen. "You should know, Pa."

And judging by Droom's notorious forgetfulness, he'd be the only one to know. The chances of him remembering to buy another cask were the same as Lukar giving up the pies and going for a run each morning.

Carn's brother was at the kitchen table, still in his night robe, which was threatening to burst open for a completely different reason to Droom's jacket. Droom was all muscle, earned from a life of hard labor, but Lukar had the physique of a dwarf who sat on his arse all day poring over books. And it wasn't just his waistline that suffered: he was blind as a bat and had to wear one set of eyeglasses for reading, and another for everything else.

On the opposite side of the table, tamping down tobacco in a pipe, a steaming cup of kaffa set before him, was someone Carn hadn't seen in quite some time.

"Aristodeus."

"Carnac, my boy. Happy birthday."

As usual, the philosopher wore a simple robe of white that draped over one shoulder and left the other bare. Even seated, his balding head nearly touched the ceiling. Whether or not he was tall for a human was anyone's guess. He was the only outsider Carn had ever seen.

"So," Carn said, crossing to the hearth, where the copper kettle sat atop its cast iron trivet so that it didn't boil dry. "You came all the way from wherever it is you come from to wish me happy birthday. Laddie, I'm touched."

"Thought I'd kill two birds with one stone," Aristodeus said. He took a shiny silver object from his robe pocket and pressed down on one end with his thumb. A wavering flame sprang up, and he used it to light his pipe. He took a couple of draws on the stem and then pocketed the silver flame-maker. "I've always loved that about dwarves: having the entire family together under one roof. Your brother's thesis on the _Chronicles_ is nearing completion, and I've come to offer my two talents' worth." When Carn frowned his confusion, the philosopher added, "Two tokens' worth?"

Carn looked about for something to eat. There were links of sausages hanging from the hook in the ceiling, along with a cured haunch of ham. To one side was a covered plate of cheese, and he helped himself to a chunk, grimacing as he chewed. It was hard and tasted faintly of mold.

"Didn't know you were an expert on dwarf records," he said, grabbing a couple of cups and adding a spoonful of powdered kaffa to each, before pouring on hot water from the kettle.

"I'm not," the philosopher said. "But I know history."

Droom bustled in, both feet now booted, hair slightly less of a muss. He was running a comb through his beard but gave up with a curse. It was too tangled to do much about.

"You'll have to shave it off," Aristodeus said.

"That what happened to your head?" Droom said. He took a kaffa from Carn and pulled out a chair. "So, laddie, what's this trouble you mentioned?"

Carn leaned against the hearth. The heat from the fire seemed to thaw away some of the numbness that had crept into his limbs with the black mood.

Lukar yawned and tried to snag Aristodeus with a new strain of conversation, but the philosopher's eyes were glued to Carn, as if he wanted to hear about the trouble. As if he already knew.

"Someone broke into the Scriptorium," Carn said.

Lukar sat up with a gasp. The Scriptorium was where he spent the majority of his time.

Carn took a sip of kaffa and near-scalded his lips. Droom swigged his and sighed with appreciation. His cast iron palate was as legendary as his cast-iron gut.

"Why would they do that?" Lukar asked.

Aristodeus said nothing. He was watching Carn like a vulture over a carcass.

"Took one of the _Chronicles_."

"The _Chronicles_?" Lukar said. "Why?"

"Sure it wasn't you, laddie?" Droom said to him. "Getting in some extra study from home?"

"No, it wasn't him," Carn said. "The thief wasn't fat."

Aristodeus leaned forward, pipe held by the bowl and pluming smoke. "You saw him?"

When Carn answered, he was looking at Droom. "It was a faen."

The kaffa cup stopped at Droom's lips. He stared into it as the color bled from his face. Without looking up, he asked, "What did it do?" Automatically, he slurped at his kaffa.

"Killed Jarfy," Carn said. He patted his chest. "Put a hole through him. A smoking hole."

Aristodeus's eyes widened, and he rubbed his box beard. "Took one of the _Chronicles_ , you say?"

"Which volume?" Lukar asked.

Carn shrugged. "Who cares? The faen put it back."

Droom's mouth hung open, but his eyes were focused some place else. Perhaps he was remembering the faen that had come to him all those years ago, just before Lukar was born. When Yalla was still alive.

A look of impatience flashed across Aristodeus's face. "Why would it put the book back?"

Lukar stuck out his bottom lip, and he snatched off his eyeglasses to wipe them on his robe. "You sure you weren't mistaken?"

Carn couldn't take his eyes off his pa, and when he answered Lukar, there was no conviction to what he said. "It's possible, I suppose."

"The faen told me I'd have two sons," Droom said. "Your ma said I was crazy. She always had a feeling she'd only ever see one child."

Carn dropped his eyes to the floor. In a way, she'd been right. Yalla had given birth to two boys, but she'd died almost as soon as he was born.

Droom saw his reaction and set down his kaffa mug. "She chose it, laddie. The doctor said he could save her or the baby, and she wanted it to be you."

Carn lifted his head to meet his pa's gaze. He felt the warm trickle of a tear rolling down his cheek, and Droom's eyes were glistening with moisture.

Without looking away from his son, Droom said, "Is this it, do you think, Aristodeus? Has it started?"

The philosopher let out a sigh. Carn heard the click of his flame-maker--he must have needed to relight his pipe. When he didn't answer, Carn turned a glare on him, but Aristodeus looked away.

"Your ma told me to pay it no heed," Droom said, taking in both his sons. "But the faen gave me a prophecy."

Aristodeus rolled his eyes. "It was nothing of the sort."

"Oh?" Droom said. "Then how do you account for what it told me?"

"It was a faen," Aristodeus said. "A creature of deception. Spawn of Mananoc, the Lord of Lies."

"That's not what you said before."

"Sometimes it is necessary to meet people where they are at," Aristodeus said.

Lukar gave a knowing smile and popped his eyeglasses back on the end of his nose.

"Oh, aye?" Droom said. "Indulge the uneducated and the superstitious, is that what you're saying? Suppose you'll be telling me it's all just coincidence next, that a faen tells me I'll have two boys, tells me what to name them, and then another faen appears in the city on the eve of his birthday and Carn just happens to catch sight of it."

"What prophecy?" Carn asked.

At the same time Lukar said, "What do you mean it told you what to name us? I thought that was him." He nodded at Aristodeus.

"I am not the only one versed in Ancient Vanatusian," the philosopher said.

"Ancient what?"

Aristodeus touched a finger to his lips, as if he'd been caught doing something wrong. "I meant Old Dwarvish."

"Oh," Lukar said. Then by way of explanation, as if the rest of them were all morons, he added, "The ancient tongue that died out with Maldark the Fallen. The language used in the scriptures he followed. The language of the earliest _Chronicles_." To his father, he said, "So, this faen spoke to you in Old Dwarvish?"

"No," Droom said. "It spoke the same as we do. Only your names were Old Dwarvish."

"Ancient Vanatusian," Aristodeus corrected, and then he winced. "What I mean is, Old Dwarvish shares a common root with the language of my people."

"So, what does it mean?" Carn asked. "My name."

Droom shrugged. "I didn't ask, and your ma told me not to. Actually, she wanted me to call you something else, both of you. But I couldn't. When the faen told me what to call you, I felt something bad would happen if I didn't. And besides, he said the names were fitting. And he said the hope of our people would arise from you. That, through my boys, the dwarves would become like the dwarf lords of legend."

"Understandable, given my name," Lukar said with a half laugh. "But not yours, Carn."

"Carnac means 'Executioner,'" Aristodeus quickly said, holding up a hand to forestall anything else Lukar might say. "One who executes, gets things done."

"Or 'Butcher'," Lukar said. "One who carves up shanks of lamb and makes sausages."

"Nothing wrong with sausages," Carn said.

Droom grinned at that, but his eyes were still troubled.

"So, what does your name mean?" Carn asked his brother. "Lard-arsed layabout? Man-breasts? Fat flatulent shogger?"

"It means 'light'," Aristodeus said.

"One who illuminates," Lukar added, sitting back in his chair and resting his arms behind his head. "The bringer of enlightenment."

"No, just light," Aristodeus said. As if to illustrate, the philosopher once more set about clicking the end of his silver flame-maker, but try as he might, no flame sprang up this time.

"Thing that troubles me," Droom said, meeting the philosopher's gaze, "is you showing up for the first time right after I saw that faen, and you showing up today, following Carn seeing his."

"That, my dear Droom, is the problem with dwarves," Aristodeus said, giving up on lighting his pipe and shoving it and the flame-maker back in his pocket. "You see signs and patterns where there is but chance and coincidence. I am here merely to help Lukar with his studies, and to wish Carn a happy birthday."

"Hmm," Droom said. He wasn't convinced, but Carn knew his pa wouldn't take it further. There were standards of behavior Droom believed in more strongly than being proved right, or calling a shogger a shogger. He'd made his mind up what he thought of Aristodeus, but he wasn't the kind of dwarf to say what it was to anyone else.

"Well," Lukar said, a lightness entering his tone, like it always did when he sought to keep the peace, "the _Chronicle_ was returned, you say? No harm done, then."

"Except to Jarfy," Carn said.

"Who?" Aristodeus said.

"Like Carn said,"--Droom stood from his chair--"the lad that was killed."

"Oh... Yes, of course," Aristodeus said.

Lukar dipped his eyes toward the table, and then lifted them to track Droom as he left the kitchen.

"Ready?" Droom said from the doorway.

Carn's heart sank, sitting heavy in his guts like one of Bal Grimark's goat and mushroom pies. It was time for the yearly ritual, and there was no getting away from it.

As Droom headed toward his chambers and Carn made to follow, Aristodeus leaned over to Lukar and said, "Maybe the faen was looking for something in the _Chronicles_ , some reference."

Lukar pursed his lips and shrugged.

"You should take me to the Scriptorium later," Aristodeus said. "See if there's any clue to what it might be."

"For someone who thinks it's all chance and coincidence," Carn said, "you seem to be taking it rather seriously."

Aristodeus let out a shrill peal of laughter. "Ha! Not at all. It's just intriguing, that's all. It isn't every day a faen comes calling at Arx Gravis."

But there was more to it than he was letting on. The philosopher's eyes gave it away. He was worried about something. Worried, and already working overtime on a way to remedy whatever it was.

"Coming?" Carn said to Lukar, and the brothers started after their pa.

"Should I join you?" Aristodeus asked, not sounding at all enthusiastic about the prospect.

"Be rude not to," Carn said.
FIVE

Droom's suite was its usual chaotic clutter: clothes strewn across the floor, waiting to be washed; half-drunk kaffa cups; a scatter of clay pipes with singed bowls. But in his bedroom, same as this time every year, he'd tidied up. The bed was freshly changed, and on the nightstand was the box of letters Yalla had written him when they were courting.

All that remained of her belongings was arrayed on a low table by the window and flanked by two guttering candles: the marcasite ring of pyrite and silver Droom had given her when they were married; the battle-chipped sword that had been handed down to her from her mother, and her mother before that; Yalla's _ocras_ great helm, which was said to be even older. No one these days could craft even the simplest of objects from the black ore, never mind mold it into one seamless piece with the narrowest of slits to see out of. Somehow, the helm's maker had engraved the family name "Thayn" at its crown in an embellished, swirling script. Besides the banded breastplates worn by the Svarks, Yalla's helm was the only example of _ocras_ armor Carn had heard of.

And then there was the oil painting of Yalla by Durgish Duffin that was commissioned by her pa in memory of her coming of age. She had Carn's hazel eyes and Lukar's fair hair, but not his physique. Only her head and torso were depicted, but it was enough to show she was like chiseled granite, lithe yet strong. Droom had always said she was the embodiment of the dwarf lords. Those among the Ravine Guard who were old enough to have trained under her confirmed the fact and said she had the moves to back it up. For there was no one fiercer, folk said, no one more deadly with a sword, and she'd been unbeatable in a grapple. Save with Droom, of course. He'd always claimed he'd out-grappled her on numerous occasions, but all of them were behind closed doors.

In among the small collection lay the scroll that listed the roll of Yalla's ancestors. It was the mother's line the dwarves considered important, and the mother's family name that was passed to her husband and children. Droom was a Screebank by birth. Word was, the few Screebanks that were left hung out in the bottom of the ravine among the baresarks. Droom never said much about his family. They'd not spoken in more years than Carn could remember. They thought Droom was a snob for marrying Yalla. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Aristodeus reached for the _ocras_ helm but Droom slapped his hand away.

"I was going to say,"--the philosopher splayed his fingers and winced--"the name 'Thayn' is etymologically complex, but at some point it came to mean 'warrior' or 'hero'."

"Which is no doubt why she inherited it," Droom said. "But it also means 'keep your shogging hands off.'"

"Etymologically speaking?" Carn said.

Lukar guffawed.

Aristodeus's eyes flashed with barely suppressed anger.

Droom patted him on the shoulder. "Sorry, laddie. I shouldn't have spoken so harshly, but these things are all I have left of her."

The thud of footsteps coming from the front door had them all turning, and Thumil and Cordy staggered into the bedroom carrying a kilderkin between them, one of the eighteen-gallon casks Cordy's family got their name from.

Thumil was still in his uniform, though his red cloak looked like it had been slept in. His thinning hair had been hurriedly brushed, and his beard lacked its usual braids.

Cordy had made some effort: her blue dress was unwrinkled, and her golden hair and beard were immaculately plaited into fine braids bound with silver. Actually, it was more effort than she usually took, and she'd not even known Yalla. But she knew Droom, and loved him like she had her own pa, who had died of the wasting. She looked different, somehow: she had curves Carn hadn't noticed previously. It was an odd thing, but he'd never before thought of her as a woman.

"Good of you to come," Droom said. "That for me?"

They set the cask on the floor, and Cordy used it as a seat.

"For all of us," she said. "A toast to Yalla, and commiserations for this shogger's birth." She winked at Carn.

Thumil coughed and opened the satchel hanging beneath his cloak. "I thought, Droom, you might allow me to read a little something from this."

He handed Droom a book in a soft leather cover. Droom squinted at the title embossed in gold leaf on the front, shrugged, and passed it to Lukar.

" _Lek Vae_?" Lukar said. He looked at Aristodeus, who was leaning over his shoulder. "Isn't that...?"

"Maldark the Fallen's scriptures," Aristodeus said.

"The Book of the Way," Lukar explained, holding it out for Thumil to take back. "Thought it was out of circulation. Every last copy was burned after the Betrayal."

"All but this," Thumil said. "And one other."

"So, where'd you get it, laddie?" Carn said. "The Scriptorium?"

Lukar snorted. "They don't keep fiction in the Scriptorium."

Cordy leapt up from the kilderkin and thumped Thumil on the shoulder. "Ignore them and just read it. It's a good passage, fitting for the occasion."

"How would you know?" Carn asked. Cordy wasn't exactly known for being bookish.

"I read it to her on the way here," Thumil said. "I stopped by to pick her up, help her carry the beer."

"That the new beer?" Droom asked.

Cordy grinned with unabashed pride. "From the first batch. Thought I should test it among friends before the official launch."

"Shame you have to work later, Father," Lukar said, whipping off his eyeglasses and breathing on the lenses so he could clean them with the sleeve of his robe.

"One won't hurt," Droom said. "And neither will two."

"When you finish your shift," Lukar said. "We don't want you having an accident."

"Don't worry, Pa, I'll make sure to save you some," Carn said.

"You will?"

"Same as you saved me that mead."

Thumil riffled through the pages of his book till he found what he was looking for. "With your permission, Droom..."

Droom's expression changed to one of sober seriousness in an instant, and his massive shoulders slumped. "Aye, laddie. Read away." He closed his eyes and clasped his hands before him.

"'Strength and dignity are hers forever,'" Thumil read, "'and she looks well to the ways of her household and does not sup on idleness. Her children rise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her.'"

"Aye," Droom said, opening his eyes. "Aye, I do."

Thumil coughed. "There were other lines, too, scattered throughout, passages about mighty warriors smiting their foes, that sort of thing, but I thought this was the most fitting for today."

"That it was," Droom said. "And I thank you. Though a bit of smiting wouldn't have been out of place, not if I knew my Yalla." He turned to Cordy. "I wish you could have met her, lassie. She'd have liked you. You'd have had a lot in common."

"She was a strong woman," Thumil said.

"Indomitable," Droom agreed. Then to Aristodeus, "That word big enough for you, laddie?"

Aristodeus gave a pained smile. "Indomitable. She certainly was that. Irrepressible, too. Makes you wonder if there was any truth to the stories of the dwarf lords." He took in Carn and Lukar with a sweep of his gaze. "Because she certainly fit the description."

"Aye, she was a dwarf lord, right enough," Droom said.

"Isn't that what her ma claimed?" Lukar said. "Our grandma? A long line of descent, going all the way back to Arnoch?" He glanced at Carn with a barely suppressed smirk on his face.

"It's no joke, boy," Droom growled.

"Well, Thayn is a noble name, whatever the case," Aristodeus said.

Droom ignored him and picked up the scroll from the table. Stern as a herald announcing the outcome of one of the Council's interminable debates--which was always no outcome--he unfurled the scroll and started to read the names of every dwarf of House Thayn all the way back to the founding of Arx Gravis, which is where records began more than a millennium ago.

The list started with Carnac, the youngest, then Lukar, then Yalla herself. And then commenced the endless litany of names, occasionally interspersed with another Yalla--one for each generation. Lukar had examined the scroll a long time ago and deduced that the firstborn girl in every branch of the family was always named Yalla.

The sonorous drone of Droom's voice whittled away at the heavy dark threatening to engulf Carn. Little by little, the black-dog mood retreated to the edges of his mind, and the room was gradually bathed in light, not only from the twin candles on the table, but from the shimmering daylight coming through the window, reflected from the walls and walkways of the ravine.

By the time Droom reached the end of the list, where he pronounced the name of Lord Kranek Thayn with slow deliberation, Carn was back to his old self. Anticipation of the memorial was always worse than the reality, and now it was over he was starting to wonder why he dreaded it so much. But he swiftly quelled the question because he already knew the answer. It was a visceral knot he felt deep within his chest that tightened and twisted the more he tried to unravel it. Why a knot, he could never fathom. It should have been an empty space, a void left from never having known his mother.

"Good old Lord Kranek," Lukar said with evident relief Droom had finished. "It would be nice to think he really was a dwarf lord."

"Your ma thought so," Droom said.

Lukar shook his head. "The important thing is, you loved her, I loved her, and Carn... Well, you know what I think, brother. I tell you every year. She would have wiped the floor with you and beaten your arse raw with the flat of her sword." He softened it with a genuine smile, and his eyes were brimming with tears. "I wish you'd known her, Carn, but at least she knew you. She used to tell me she could feel you kicking inside her."

Carn knew he meant well, though it hurt like a knife through the heart. "Thank you, Lukar, and thank you, Thumil, for reading. And thanks for my present," he said, shoving Cordy off the barrel and hefting it into his arms.

Cordy rolled to her feet, as he knew should would. She'd been the best of them at the Slean. She could fall as well as she could take a punch--

Carn's head exploded in splinters of white. Pain lanced through his jaw, and he bit his tongue. He dropped the kilderkin on his foot and yelped as it bounced onto its side and rolled across the room.

"Sorry, Carn," Cordy said, shaking out her fist. "Was that too hard for you?"

Carn rubbed his jaw and shook the grogginess from his head. "Not at all, lassie. It can never be too hard. A woman of your experience should know that."

She raised her fist again, but there was a big stupid grin on her face.

"So," Thumil said, crossing to the kilderkin and lifting it, "an early morning taste of beer, then off to Grimark's pie shop for a spot of breakfast?"

"Oh, yes," Lukar said.

Aristodeus gave Thumil a tight smile, then said to Lukar, "We really should get started. I haven't got all day, and I need you to get me access to the Scriptorium."

"Let's stay for a quick birthday beer, at least," Lukar said. "And we can pick up a pie or two on the way."

Cordy lowered her fist and smothered Carn in a hug. "Happy birthday, Carn. Love you." She smelled of musk and something sweet, some kind of flowery scent. The softness of her breasts crushed against him made him feel suddenly awkward, and he held her out at arm's length.

"As long as you don't love me like I love my brother."

"Hate you, too," Lukar said.

Thumil carried the barrel into the kitchen, and while Cordy tapped it, Carn saw Droom to the front door and waved him off to work.

When he came back to the kitchen and the beer started to flow, he found Aristodeus leaning against the door jamb. At first Carn thought it was a show of petulance, because Lukar hadn't immediately jumped when he'd said so, but then he realized the philosopher's expression was more pensive than impatient. Aristodeus caught him looking and tried to disguise his anxiety with a smile.

"Laddie?" Carn said. "You look like you've seen the Sag-Urda monster."

Aristodeus closed his eyes and let out a long trickle of breath through his nostrils. "Do you ever wish you could change things in some way, Carn?"

Carn shrugged. "Aways. Ironbelly's ale for one. Horrible muck that tastes as though a goat relieved its bladder in a bottle."

"I mean, what is to come," Aristodeus said.

Prickles of ice formed all the way up Carn's spine. "And you know what that is?"

Aristodeus looked at him long and hard. Something like sadness drifted across his eyes. In the background, Thumil and Lukar were hazy blurs, raising their tankards in Carn's direction. Cordy handed him a beer. He took it in numb fingers.

And then he realized Aristodeus wasn't going to answer his question. Instead, the philosopher stepped back into the hallway, as if he wanted to be alone. But as Carn took his first swig of beer, and felt the lifting of whatever innominate dread had come over him, he heard Aristodeus mutter to himself:

"The future isn't set in stone."

It sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
SIX

As night fell the next day, Carn led his platoon from the barracks on the top tier of the city. They split into twelve groups of two and dispersed across the walkways and plazas for an hour's roaming patrol. On every level, all the way to the bottom of the ravine, other troops of Red Cloaks would be doing the same.

Levels were assigned by lots to keep things fresh, and tonight Carn had won the jackpot. There was nothing like being beneath the stars and the moons with no walkways overhead to obscure the view. It fired his imagination. One short climb up the zigzagging pathway cut into the chasm wall, and an entire world awaited: Aosia, so full of untapped mysteries, like the nightmare realm of Cerreth across the Farfall Mountains, and the civilization of humans that dominated the lands of Medryn-Tha above the ravine. And up there somewhere, inside his artificial mountain made from _ocras_ , was the mad sorcerer, Sektis Gandaw, the cause of Maldark's fall from grace, and the real reason for the dwarves' self-imposed exile. Maldark had been led astray, and his betrayal had brought Aosia to the brink of destruction.

Carn strolled with Kal toward where the walkway connected with the chasm wall, a mere few hundred feet from the lands above. His heart raced with the thought of all the things that might await him if he were to make a frantic dash to the lip of the ravine and flee across Medryn-Tha. It was the same childish fantasy he indulged every time he patrolled the first tier, and as on every other occasion, he quelled the thought with a sobering dose of reality. A dwarf leaving Arx Gravis was about the only thing that would incite the Council to action, these days. It was a transgression punishable by death.

When they reached the wall, they began a circuit of the ledge that ran about the perimeter. It had been craftily built by the Founders to blend in with the natural rock, and spanned the chasm at two ends with the narrowest of bridges. Water fountained from an artesian well bored into an overhang and joined the flow atop a sprawling aqueduct. As they passed beneath the arches, bulges shifted at intervals against the walls: Svarks in concealer cloaks, blending with the stone. Those that were assigned the task had a job for life, tucked away in the shadows and recesses of the upper level, ready to raise the alarm, ready to do by stealth what the Ravine Guard couldn't achieve by force.

"Evening," Carn said as he passed one.

There was no response. There never was. It was a point either of pride or duty, but the shoggers never spoke, least not to anyone outside their shifty outfit.

Kal said nothing either, until they reached the mouth of the tunnel that led to the mines.

"Gives me the creeps every time I come up here, Carn. It's too open. Too exposed."

Carn leaned a hand on the wall and peered inside the tunnel. Glowstones ran the length of its throat, receding into the darkness. It was the route Droom took to work most days.

Miners were the only dwarves who got to leave the ravine, but even they never set foot on the soil of Medryn-Tha. They had to remain underground the entire time. The Council wouldn't risk contact with the denizens above, and the chance of another deception. Because that's what history said it was, Maldark's betrayal: a deception of Mananoc, the Lord of the Abyss. Since that time, any action, it was felt, any decision concerning the affairs of the world, was fraught with peril. Maldark had been so convinced he was right, the dwarves no longer trusted their own discernment. If Maldark, the wisest of the ancestors, didn't know he was being tricked, how could the rest of them?

"You hear me, Carn? I said, it puts a creep in my crotch coming up here. And the idea of going through that tunnel to the mines... I don't know how your pa does it."

"It's what the Council wants you to feel, laddie."

Carn turned around and sat in front of the opening, feet dangling from the ledge. Down below, the soft light coming from the brightening glowstones bathed the ravine in a warmth that belied the crispness of the air. He reached behind and picked up a sliver of rock from the tunnel floor, then held it out above the drop and let go. The rock threaded its way through the spaces between walkways until he lost sight of it past the ninth level.

"Shouldn't do that," Kal said, slumping down beside him and flicking nervous glances over his shoulder at the tunnel. "You might hit someone."

They sat in silence for a long while, Carn lost in dreams of what lay outside Arx Gravis, Kal unable to settle.

"We still training with the weights when we get off?" Kal finally said.

"Not before breakfast and a quick snooze."

"No, then," Kal said. "Last time you said that, you were still snoring when the suns set, and then it was time for work again."

"Aye, but that was because some shogger switched my Ballbreakers for Ironbelly's. Turned my guts to rancid mush. Tell you what, I'll fix us some eggs and ham at my place, a quick snifter of mead, and then we can load up on kaffa before we hit the weights. Dead lifts, this time, and I want to see five hundred from you."

"Five hundred pounds?" Kal said. "You've got to be yanking my beard."

"Laddie, I frequently pull five hundred with just one--"

A wailing cry rolled down the tunnel behind them, rising in pitch and volume.

"What the shog?" Kal said, leaping up and drawing his sword.

Carn stood and hefted his axe to his shoulder. "That's the night warden's klaxon. Signal the men, then lead them after me. Send a runner to wake the Marshal."

Thumil would know what to do: he was the one who'd written the protocols. If the Svarks in the concealer cloaks hadn't already dispatched someone, Councilor Grago would be alerted, too, and he'd want his Black Cloaks on the scene. It would be better for everyone if Thumil arrived first and took control.

"You're not going..." Kal started.

But Carn was already off down the tunnel.

He'd only ever heard the klaxon in training before. No one had ever expected to hear it for real. It meant there was trouble in the mines. Real trouble. For if anyone sounded the alarm and there wasn't, there would be hell to pay.

Kal's whistle peeped behind him, and already he could hear the stomp of boots tramping across the walkway in response.

Carn's heart thudded wildly in his chest. In part it was from the running, but mostly it was from the thought that he was leaving the ravine for the first time.

The tunnel turned a bend and then opened onto a low cavern. A track led off into the distance; it was formed of iron rails and _ocras_ sleepers. Either side of it, the floor was elevated into platforms. Other tunnels joined the cavern from various points, each linked to a different location in the city. This was the depot Droom had spoken about, where miners going to work would enter the train that ferried them back and forth. Only, there was no train, presumably because it was at the other end, along with the night warden.

The klaxon's keening soared to a deafening pitch that echoed along the tunnel walls and spilled out into the ravine. With a quick look behind to confirm Kal was following, Carn jumped down onto the track and ran along it. He'd gone barely a hundred yards when the klaxon ebbed away and a point of silver shimmered up ahead. It was accompanied by a whoosh of air and a rumbling growl as it rapidly swelled in size.

The snub nose of a carriage came into view, speeding toward him. Gasping, Carn was momentarily frozen with the realization it was the train heading his way. Sparks flew from the tracks, and metal screeched. The train began to slow, but too little, too late. At the last instant, Carn sprang for the platform and rolled his legs out of the way. The snaking body of the train juddered and swayed amid a shower of sparks as it screeched to a halt.

Kal came tearing down the platform with four Red Cloaks in tow as Carn climbed to his feet.

"You all right, sir?" Ming Garnik said, sprinting ahead of the group.

"Fine, laddie, fine." Truth was, Carn was shaking from head to toe. A split second later and he'd have been a crimson spatter across the rails.

A silver panel in the side of the carriage slid open with a rush of air, and a bedraggled dwarf shambled out onto the platform.

"Rugbeard?" Carn said. "You're the night warden?"

"Am now, for all it's worth."

Night warden of the mines was a far cry from being the principle teacher of the _Chronicles_. It was a long way to fall.

Rugbeard swayed on his feet, then took a lurching step toward Carn. "Do I know you, son?" His voice was slurred, his eyes unfocused. They had a yellowish tinge, too, same as the skin of his face.

"Course you know me. Carn. Carnac Thayn. You taught me the _Chronicles_ as a boy."

"Never heard of him."

"And you made me my training weights, remember?" That had been years ago, when Rugbeard had set up his own forge so he could experiment with the metalworking techniques recorded in the _Chronicles_. He'd come up with a few innovations, not least of which was a set of iron plates of different poundages that could be added to a barbell. Apparently, that was how the Founders had trained for strength and power all those centuries ago. Knowing Carn had a passion for lifting, Rugbeard worked with him on the design and left him with the finished product.

"That was you?" Rugbeard said. Then a light went on in his eyes. "Carnac Thayn! Droom's boy."

"What's going on?" Kal said. "Was that you that set off the klaxon?"

"Cranked it, you mean." Rugbeard flexed his elbow and gave his biceps a firm rub. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slender metal flask, spun the cap off, and took three quick swigs. "Scared the shog out of me, it did."

"The klaxon?" Carn said.

The other four Red Cloaks were peering inside the carriage Rugbeard had stepped out of. They would never have seen such a thing before.

Rugbeard shook his head. "Thumping, from down in the shaft. Deep down. Rattled the headframe. Damned near caused a cave-in."

"Was it an earthquake?" Muckman Brindy asked, stepping away from the carriage. His fingers stroked the hilt of the sword sheathed at his hip.

"Thumping, I said. And footfalls. Heavy footfalls. There's something down there, I tell you, and I wasn't about to stick around and find out what it was."

"You're sure, laddie?" Carn eyed the flask as Rugbeard once more brought it to his lips.

"Oh, aye," Rugbeard said. "Blame it on the booze, why don't you? Ol' Rugbeard's pissed out of his brain as usual, and can't tell fact from fiction, is that what you're thinking? I tell you, I heard thumping; and if you don't believe me, go listen for yourself. You ask me, I reckon it's Shent, up to his old tricks again."

"Shent?" Kal said.

"The Ant-Man. Him from the _Chronicles_. Back when Sektis Gandaw made us dwarves to mine the _ocras_ he built his mountain with, he created ants the size of horses to guard the tunnels. Then he took a human and melded it with one of them, so it could keep the rest under control."

Carn remembered the tale from his youth. "But the Ant-Man left the mines centuries ago."

Rugbeard shrugged and took another swig. "So now he's back."

Carn wasn't convinced. "And he thumps so hard he can near-collapse the shaft?"

"Maybe." Rugbeard snorted and returned the flask to his pocket. "What else could it be?"

"Let's go take a look."

"I ain't going back there," Rugbeard said.

Kal and Dar Shoofly moved to block his retreat.

"Don't see you have much choice, laddie," Carn said. "You're the night warden. And besides, none of us have ever seen this train before, let alone had experience driving it."

"You didn't hear it, son," Rugbeard said. "Great booming thuds, they was. I tell you, I ain't going back there."

"Marshal on his way?" Carn asked.

Kal nodded.

"You want to wait here and explain to Thumil why you made us walk to the headframe, when we could have gone by train and maybe averted a catastrophe?" Carn said to Rugbeard. "Or perhaps there's nothing going on and you just imagined it." Which was as good as saying the night warden had sounded a false alarm. The consequences would be severe.

Rugbeard's jaw worked, as if he were considering his options. Finally, he must have decided returning to the headframe was better than the alternative.

"Come on, then," he said, leading the way to the rear of the train, where there was an identical carriage to the one he'd emerged from, only its nose pointed back toward the mines.

"Shoofly and what's-your-name?" Carn said.

The red-bearded dwarf came to attention. "Frobe Trinket, sir."

"Course it is." Carn partially remembered: Reassigned from Lok Tupole's platoon a few months back, along with a couple of others. Lok lost his command right after losing a stack of tokens on a circle fight, then tarnishing his platoon's honor when he stepped into the circle to claw back his losses. For all his valiant efforts, he'd earned a broken jaw, two broken arms, a fractured femur, and endured the humiliation of a baresark hacking his beard off with a blunt knife. "Wait here until the Marshal arrives. Tell him we've gone ahead and will send the train back."

"What is this thing, anyway?" Kal asked as they stepped inside the carriage. "I always thought the miners went to work in a goat-drawn cart."

"The lore of the faen is what it is," Rugbeard said. He seated himself before a console studded with winking crystals and began to toggle brass switches.

Behind him were three rows of benches. Carn, Kal, Muckman Brindy and Ming Garnik sat on the first two, and then the panel in the side of the carriage closed with a whoosh.

Rugbeard took a firm grip on a lever and eased it forward. A low, pulsating hum vibrated through the floor. The carriage shuddered and shook, and then they were moving.

Through the window at the front, Carn gawped at the sleepers speeding toward them, seemingly gobbled up by the train. The sleepers came on faster and faster until they merged into one continuous blur. And then Rugbeard pulled back on the lever, and the carriage juddered to a stop. He pressed a glowing crystal, and the side panel slid open onto another platform.

Rugbeard got out first and led them to an iron ramp that took them down into an underground chamber big enough to hold a small village. Rubble was heaped into a mountainous pile at the far end, while closer to them was a scattering of ore fragments, most of it _ocras_ embedded in chunks of granite. There were iron carts stacked with rock, some glistening with gold or pyrite. But it was the headframe looming out of the center that dominated the space, a tower of intersecting steel struts that reached almost to the ceiling a hundred feet above. At its top was a pulley wheel with a wound steel cable running diagonally down from it to another pulley at ground level. The base of the tower was housed in a brickwork structure with two doors on the side facing them.

Rugbeard led them inside, where the air was heavy with rock dust. There were benches around the walls, and glowstones hung from chains in the ceiling. The headframe ran through the middle of the chamber, a colossal framework of riveted metal. One end exited the ceiling, while the base entered a massive hole in the ground. And it was no ordinary hole: it had a collar of wrought _ocras_ , though how this feat of engineering had been achieved was anyone's guess. Certainly, it was a task beyond the dwarves of Arx Gravis, at least those from within living memory. It was hard enough to mine the ore from the granite. Indeed, it would have been impossible but for the picks and chisels of _ocras_ that had been handed down since the time of the Founders. These days, the best the dwarves could do was to cut the ore into blocks and sheets, and its uses were limited to reinforcing buttresses or bolstering the ravine's defenses against attacks that no one believed were ever going to come.

Suspended above the collar, accessible through the struts of the headframe, was a cage large enough to hold twenty dwarves, or half a dozen carts. It was attached to the braided steel cable that ran from the pulley at the top. To the side of the cage was a wedge of granite with a slot cut into the middle, and a single lever poking from it.

"You'll have to take the cage down," Rugbeard said. "Start at the bottom of the shaft and work your way up using the service ladders."

"You'd better hope we find something," Muckman said, "or you'll go from being a drunken sot with a shit job to just a drunken sot."

"Mind your manners, son," Rugbeard said. "And for your information, I ain't touched a drop since--"

"Since we met you off the train five minutes ago," Kal said. "You know the rule about drinking on the job."

"Laddie," Carn said, "he was in a panic, and it was only a drop."

"Yes, but how much did he put away beforehand, when he was supposed to be on duty?" Ming Garnik said.

"Then tell the Council to fire me," Rugbeard said. "See if I care. Things I hear down there, things I see, you couldn't do the job sober."

"And you're sure," Carn said, "what you heard wasn't just the grog talking?"

Rugbeard scowled. "Here, you'll need these." He passed them each an iron lantern with a shutter at the front to control the spill of light. "The miners hang them along the galleries when they work a seam."

He opened the cage's gate and ushered them inside, then took up a position by the granite wedge and pulled the lever.

Carn staggered as the cage lurched above the hole. Muckman cursed, and Kal was halfway to chastising him, when they were lowered into the mouth of the collar.

"Shog me," Ming Garnik said as walls of _ocras_ encompassed them.

For a few seconds, the only light was from the phosphorescent veins of green running through the precious ore, and then they were beneath the collar and descending the mine's central shaft in blackness.

Carn raised the shutter on his lantern, and dim light cut a dirty cone through the dark, reflecting off the iron rungs of the service ladders that ran from top to bottom. Following his lead, the others did the same. Beyond the glow of the lanterns, shadows pooled and wavered. If this was all the light the miners had to work by, they must have used a lot of lanterns, or maybe their eyes had adjusted to the gloom after so many years beneath ground.

Carn did his best to match what he was seeing with all that Droom had told him and Lukar about the mines over the years.

The cage rattled and creaked past the first level gallery and the drainage adit leading away to the left. Next, he glimpsed the hollowed-out ore stope at the end of the second and third galleries. Lower still, and the stopes were more varied: overhand and underhand, where the ore had been extracted from above or below in a series of steps. The only thing stopping the mine from caving in and filling the stopes with rubble was the strength of the surrounding rock, here and there supported by granite joists or rough-cut girders of _ocras_.

When they passed the seventh level, the stench of rotten eggs rose to greet them.

"That you, Carn?" Kal said.

"Laddie, it's you that drinks Ironbelly's."

The closer to the floor of the mine they got, the worse the smell.

"That water down there?" Ming said. He directed the cone of his lantern's light below, where it illuminated a murky pool. It had to be the source of the stench.

"That'll be the sump," Carn said. "Where liquid collects at the base of the mine. Looks like we've arrived."

The sump was still a good twenty feet below, and they were just passing yet another gallery. The wall of the shaft suddenly blurred and shifted, then something huge slammed into the cage. Carn fell against the side as the cage careened, and the others bundled into him. He clung onto a bar with one hand, his axe with the other. Whatever had struck them moved impossibly fast and streaked away to the opposing wall, blending with the rock like water cascading into a lake.
SEVEN

The cage dangled precariously above the sump, twirling at the end of its cable. A tortured, groaning sound came from above, and Kal glanced at Carn, eyes wide with dread. Ming and Muckman were staring open-mouthed at the ceiling of the cage, lanterns held aloft.

"The cable's fraying--" Ming said, even as Carn barreled into him. The cage door flew open, and momentum carried them both onto the floor of the gallery they had stopped level with.

Kal was right behind, dragging Muckman with him. They leapt at the very moment the cable snapped and the cage went plummeting below. Kal landed sprawling on top of Muckman, and then a crash, clang, thud and splash came from the shaft as the cage hit the sump pit.

"Shog, shog, shog," Muckman gasped.

Muckman had always boasted he'd seen action, Carn thought wryly, and now he really had; and there was no need chiseling his sword blade to prove it.

Carn rolled clear of Ming and got to his knees.

"What the shog--?" Ming started, but Carn shushed him with a raised hand.

A voice echoed down the shaft. By the time it reached them, it was hard to make out. It came again, this time louder: Rugbeard, calling to them. "You lads all right down there?"

Kal clambered to his feet and cupped his hands to his mouth to shout a reply, but Carn shook his head. Whatever had struck the cage was still there, maybe closer than any of them realized. It had merged with the wall of the shaft.

"What in shog's name was that thing?" Ming mouthed.

Carn held up a finger to forestall any more questions, then, back against the gallery wall, inched toward the edge of the shaft. He strained to hear anything, but Rugbeard's continued hollering from above was making it impossible.

At the foot of the mine, the cage was a mangled wreck, half-submerged in the sump. Its roof had been dislodged by the fall, and the side that had been struck by the creature was buckled as badly as if it had been hit by the train. Whatever it was, though, had been a mere blur of grey, as though the shaft wall itself had come alive and launched itself at the cage. Carn was familiar with the concealer cloaks the Svarks used at the top of the ravine, but this was something else. Something bigger, better, more effective. There was no telltale bulge in the wall below where he stood, and yet he'd seen the thing end up there and merge with the rock. Either it had moved while they recovered, or it was still there, perfectly camouflaged, ready to pounce again at any moment.

He backed away from the edge and closed the shutter of his lantern until only a sliver of light peeked through. Last thing they wanted was to draw attention to themselves, at least until they knew what they were facing. At his motion, the others did the same, and then he gestured for Kal to lead them farther back into the gallery.

Muckman brought up the rear, flicking looks behind, shadows closing in on his heels. He drew his notched sword, then turned to walk backwards, lantern held in his other hand.

Carn took over from Kal at the front. If he was right, each gallery should lead onto its own stoop, some of which were virtual caverns, if Droom was to be believed. At least there they should be able to keep farther from the walls, in case of another surprise attack, and there would be more room to swing their weapons.

With his lantern casting its dim light on only the five feet in front of him, Carn almost walked straight into a ladder leading down from the ceiling. Its iron rungs were rusted with age, and one or two were missing. Holding the lantern aloft, he peered up and saw that the ladder disappeared into a narrow shaft that led to the next level. It may have been an early route to the ore deposits deeper down, or perhaps it was for emergency access. Whatever it was, it might be just what they needed, because there was no way he was going to pit his team of four against the thing that had smashed into the cage. They had to get to the surface, then return in force.

"We going up?" Kal asked.

Carn didn't answer, and instead walked past the ladder and held his lantern out. Still nothing but the rough-hewn passageway, reinforced with timber struts. He risked opening the shutter fully, but there was no sign of a stoop at the end of the gallery. On the levels above, the stoops had been closer to the shaft, easily visible from the cage. Just their luck to end up where the seams of ore were set back further, as if they were harder to find the deeper you went.

"Yes, we're going up," Ming said. He took hold of the ladder, lantern clattering against the rungs as he climbed.

"Just hurry it up," Muckman said from the rear. He, too, opened his shutter to cast a broad cone of light back the way they'd come.

Carn couldn't blame him: fear of what lurked in the shadows overrode the need for discretion. And besides, who was to say how this creature sensed? Chances were, it could see in the dark, so his precaution may have played in its favor.

The truth of the matter was, Carn was out of his depth. He was as panicked as the rest of them. The only difference was, he was doing his best not to show it, which was presumably why Thumil had picked him for command.

"Go on, then," he said to Muckman. "Kal, watch behind, and I'll keep an eye up front."

Muckman sheathed his sword but kept his lantern on full glow, then took the first rung as Ming disappeared through the opening in the ceiling.

"You next, Kal," Carn said, once Muckman's head entered the shaft.

Before Kal could make a start, there was a sound like an avalanche. Muckman screamed and backed down the ladder. In his panic he let go of his lantern; it crashed to the floor and went out.

"Run!" Muckman cried, dropping the last few feet to the bottom then fleeing along the gallery. "It's got Ming!"

"Go!" Carn hissed, and Kal took off after Muckman.

Carn risked a glance up the ladder. Nothing but blackness. There was a sudden rush of movement from above, and then the clatter of metal on metal, which ended with a second lantern--Ming's--bouncing as it hit the floor, as dead as Muckman's.

Carn backed away, and when he'd cleared the ladder by ten paces, he turned and ran.

Up ahead, Kal suddenly veered to one side as a fist of rock burst from the tunnel wall. Muckman turned and started back toward him, but the fist withdrew, merging once more with the stone.

"Don't stop!" Carn yelled, surging into a sprint.

Kal didn't hesitate, and pressed on toward the greenish glow coming from the end of the gallery.

Muckman was shaking like a leaf. He made a grab for Carn as he passed, tried to hold him back.

"It's in the walls, sir. It's in the shogging--"

Carn kept on going, then looked back as Muckman screamed.

Fingers of stone sprouted from the floor and wrapped around Muckman's ankle. Carn charged and swung his axe. The blade shattered on impact, and the haft went flying. He grabbed Muckman's wrist, pulled with all his might, but another rocky hand emerged and took Muckman around the waist. Kal ran back, held Carn's arm and added his weight. Muckman let out a gurgling yowl. Blood sprayed from his lips. Bones crunched.

"Let go!" Kal yelled.

Carn continued to pull for a second, too shocked to realize there was no point.

"Let go," Kal said again, and this time Carn did.

The floor swelled into a mound around Muckman's broken body. A boulder emerged between the two grasping hands, and then a torso of rubble started to rise beneath it.

Carn and Kal turned and ran toward the green glow. Another twenty yards, and the gallery opened onto a cavern. Clusters of rocks scabbed the walls and ceiling, but predominantly the cavern was black and veined with luminescent green.

Behind them came the roar of an encroaching landslide, and without looking back they crossed the threshold into the cavern. Almost immediately, the rumble and rush of pursuing rock ceased. Carn swung his lantern round, and two rocky arms came up to cover the boulder-like head atop a gargantuan body that seemed sculpted from granite. Violet light seeped between its fingers. Instantly, the monster turned, and then liquefied as it bled through the gallery wall and out of sight.

"It's afraid of the light," Kal said.

Carn shook his head. "Just not used to it, is all. We're not out of this yet."

"Why'd it stop?" Kal said. "Even before you turned the lantern on it, why'd it stop?"

Carn looked round at the cavern. Granite rubble was heaped into tidy piles, and there was a cart filled with tools. Score marks defined patterns in the _ocras_ lining the walls: rectangles and squares. Stacked to one side were panels of the precious ore that looked to have been extracted in one piece. That was the thing about _ocras_ : it was so tough, it didn't break apart like most ore did if you cut it too big. The only thing that could scratch it, let alone quarry it, was more _ocras_.

With that in mind, Carn went to examine the tools in the cart. They were all forged from _ocras_ : pickaxes, chisels, hammers. Kal whistled his disbelief, and Carn understood why. No one could work _ocras_. The lore had been lost. The miners made no secret that they used _ocras_ tools to extract the ore, but that begged the question: who made the tools? The only thing that made sense was the Founders. The _Chronicles_ reportedly said that the first dwarves of Arx Gravis had benefited from the friendship of the faen, at least until the time of Maldark's betrayal. Maybe together they had found a way to work the ore. If that was the case, these tools, still used by the miners today, must have been hundreds of years old.

Carn selected an _ocras_ pickaxe, swung it a few times to gauge the balance. Not as heavy as his battle axe, but it would have to do. Realizing he still hadn't answered Kal's question, he stalked to the cave's entrance and looked out onto the gallery. All that remained of Muckman was a spatter of gore across the floor.

He listened for a long while, scarcely daring to blink in case the creature made another move. But the passageway was silent, and the only movement was the wavering light of his lantern, from where his shaking hand couldn't keep it steady.

"Maybe..." he started, backing away into the cavern once more. "Maybe it can't move through _ocras_ like it can rock."

Kal glanced around at the mostly black walls, floor and ceiling. "Makes sense. So, what do we do now? Wait here and sit it out?"

"Until what? We starve to death, or Thumil sends down a rescue party and we listen as they die instead of us?"

Kal swallowed thickly. "Thumil's no mug. He'll summon more Ravine Guard, and they'll have shields. If they can't handle it, Grago will send in the Svarks."

"Hah!" Carn said. "You really think those scut-sucking shoggers will do any better than us?"

"They've got _ocras_ armor, and some of them wear concealer cloaks."

Carn shook his head. Ordinarily Kal would have been right. Wait for reinforcements. Overwhelm the intruder with numbers. The only problem was, he wasn't sure they could. His axe had shattered, and while a war hammer might have done some damage to the creature, he wouldn't want to wager on it. If they stayed put and waited for help, it was likely a lot of dwarves were going to die, and there was an equally strong chance that, when it was over, when the reinforcements had no choice but to retreat, the thing would still be there, waiting for Kal and Carn to emerge.

Kal was watching him intently, face etched with the realization that his was but a false hope. With a sigh that landed his shoulders around his ears, he said, "This thing leaves the mines, the city's in danger."

Carn nodded. Thumil would work that out the instant he clapped eyes on it, the minute his Ravine Guard started dying. He'd have no choice: as Marshal, his role was to protect Arx Gravis, no matter what. He would blow up the mines, but even that might not stop it. If the creature wasn't destroyed in the blast, it had already shown it could pass through rock, and there wasn't enough _ocras_ in the ravine to prevent it from reaching the city.

"I have to try something," Carn said. "If it can't pass through _ocras_ , maybe the ore can harm it." He slapped the haft of the pickaxe into his palm.

Kal wandered over to the tool cart, set down his lantern on the floor, and started to rummage around inside.

"It's all right, laddie," Carn said. "I'll go by myself, maybe lead it off. No sense in risking us both."

"You calling me a coward, Carn?"

"A shogger, perhaps," Carn said, "but definitely not a coward. You don't need to prove your bravery to me."

Kal selected a long-handled hammer with an _ocras_ head and lifted it from the cart. He sheathed his sword so he could make a few practice swings with the hammer, and then he picked up his lantern and nodded that he was ready to go, whether Carn wanted him to or not.

"Your choice," Carn said. "But if that shogger comes at us, drop your lantern and swing two-handed."

At the entrance, Carn shone his lantern on the walls both sides of the gallery. Nothing but rough-cut granite, but that didn't mean a thing. A single step over the threshold, and the creature could emerge from the walls, ceiling or floor. If they were lucky, they would get one good swing, and then they'd be a pulpy mess over the floor, like poor old Muckman. Shog only knew what had happened to Ming.

"Want me to go first?" Kal asked, licking his lips.

Carn didn't even acknowledge the question. If he thought about what needed to be done, he'd not be able to do it; his resolve would melt away, and he'd cower in the cavern until he died from lack of food and water.

He stepped out into the gallery and aimed his lantern left and right. His heart pounded so hard, he expected to hear his chainmail jangle.

He took another step, then another. Behind him, he heard the scuff of Kal's boots following.

Carn glared at the walls, defying them to move. He risked a look behind. Kal hesitated just outside the cavern, lit by its green phosphorescence. His _ocras_ hammer shook so much in his grip, it was a wonder he hadn't dropped it. Just the sight of his friend so terrified, and the thought of some monster doing to Kal what it had done to Ming and Muckman, ignited something in Carn's veins. His own fear turned to anger, and he scoured the gallery up ahead with a glare that should have turned the rock to magma.

"Come on, shogger," he growled to himself. "Show yourself."

Some sense he didn't know he had alerted him, and he spun back. A head sprouted from the ceiling, and then two granite arms reached down for Kal.

Carn bounded to the wall, kicked off, and launched himself at the beast. In the very same motion, he swung the _ocras_ pickaxe with one hand. It struck a rough-formed wrist with concussive force. Rock shards sprayed the gallery, glanced off Kal's helm, and the hands withdrew.

"Run!" Carn yelled, landing in a crouch and wondering how the shog he had just performed such a feat.

Kal was off at a sprint, without a glance behind.

Carn stared straight up at the monster's granite head. Above empty sockets, where there should have been eyes, three unfamiliar symbols blazed across its forehead in violet flames.

For an instant he was transfixed by them, but then the creature started to drop down out of the ceiling, and he thrust his lantern in its face. It turned its head aside, and Carn ran.

When he reached the ladder, Kal was already halfway to the shaft in the ceiling. Carn glanced behind, but of the creature there was no sign.

He started up the ladder after Kal, expecting at any moment a hand of stone to come through the wall and crush him.

Up above, Kal retched. When he'd finished, he said, "Sorry, Ming," and then to Carn, "Heads up."

Gore and offal slopped down the shaft, spattering Carn's helm and cloak as it came. He growled and made no effort to soften the sound of his pickaxe and lantern clattering against the rungs as he climbed with them in hand.

Ming hadn't deserved this. Neither had Muckman.

"Keep going," he called up to Kal. He wasn't going to lose anyone else today, not if he had anything to do with it.

Kal emerged onto the gallery above and waited for Carn. There was another ladder a dozen yards to their right, leading up to the next level.

"Don't stop, laddie. Keep heading up." With any luck the creature would lose their scent, or at least be wary of them now, having felt the bite of _ocras_.

They ascended three more levels in the same manner, and Carn was starting to believe the creature had given up pursuing them. But when they paused for breath on the sixth gallery up, screams and shouts came echoing down the shafts above, punctuated by the chink of iron on stone. There was a thunderous thump, an answering crunch, and the whole mine shook and rumbled with its reverberations.

"It's reached the headframe," Kal said.

Carn froze with the realization of what that meant. It had bypassed them and gone after bigger prey--Thumil and the reinforcements. More than that, it was out of the mines and on the cusp of entering the city.
EIGHT

Fear flooded Carn's veins. Not fear for himself this time: fear for the people of Arx Gravis. If it was the creature's intention to harm the dwarves, or even if it was driven by blind bloodlust, there was going to be a slaughter.

He tore along the gallery and up the ladder to the next level. If he was right, there was just one more to go, and then they would be back at the headframe.

Kal's lantern and hammer banged against the ladder below as he climbed. His breath came in wheezing gasps. The air was stale and thin, and the climb toward the surface had been hard, but that wasn't the half of it. Kal was petrified, and yet he still came on. He knew what was at stake, and he took the oath of the Ravine Guard as seriously as Carn did.

Carn's fear was washed away by a surging wave of pride, but then the two emotions ran into each other, becoming something else, something more. He swelled with confidence, with purpose. It no longer mattered what the cost might be. In that moment, he knew exactly who he was, what he had to do.

As he reached the topmost gallery and Kal clambered up behind him, the clangor of battle had the ferocity of a thunderstorm directly overhead. The ceiling juddered with every pounding thud, and rock dust cascaded down. Metal rang against stone. Dwarves bellowed, dwarves roared, dwarves screamed. Orders were barked, words lost in the din. He thought he heard Thumil's voice in among it all.

The smaller access shafts stopped at this level. Now there was only the massive central shaft, with its two service ladders leading into the green glow coming off the _ocras_ collar. The braided steel cable that had held the cage hung slack down the center of the shaft, swaying and twirling. Shadows of movement flickered across the aperture, and the belly of the headframe loomed above them.

"Carn..." Kal said.

"I know, laddie. You don't need to say it. I'm going to need of a change of britches, too. But we're Ravine Guard."

Kal nodded and narrowed his eyes. He set down his lantern, and Carn did the same. There would be no more need of them up top.

"I'll go first," Kal said.

"A ladder apiece, Kal. We'll go up at the same time."

There was another scream from above, and something skittered across the opening and clattered down the collar of the shaft. Carn swayed out of the way and watched it plummet toward the floor of the mine: a shortsword, like the kind used by the Svarks. So, Grago's mob had arrived to defend the ravine along with the Red Cloaks. Had to give them credit for that, he supposed.

"Ready?" he asked Kal.

"Ready."

And together they started to climb.

As they entered the _ocras_ collar, Carn blinked until his eyes adjusted to the phosphorescent glow. The pickaxe in his hand clashed against the ladder, but the nearer he got to the top, the harder it was to hear above the tumult.

Thumil's voice blasted out, this time clear as day: "Fall back! Regroup!"

The command was answered by the crunch and stamp of a hundred booted feet, maybe more. Beneath it all, Carn heard the drone and whirr of the train coming in, no doubt bringing more soldiers to face the threat.

He reached the lip of the collar and poked his head up. The building that housed the base of the headframe was a chaos of activity. Red Cloaks and Black fled through the open doors while a cordon of them surrounded the monster. Bodies littered the floor, many of them mangled beyond recognition. Higher up the latticework tower running through the center of the room, Black Cloaks clung to struts and angled hand crossbows down, but whenever they fired, the bolts ricocheted off the creature's granite hide.

Carn and Kal exchanged glances then climbed into the room.

The creature had its back to them, turning its huge head to select its next victim from the Red Cloaks surrounding it. In the amber light of the glowstones, it seemed formed from magma. It was three times the height of a dwarf, and twice as broad. Although it had two legs and two arms, its features were ill-defined, as if it had been hastily slapped together from clay. Nothing the dwarves had done seemed to have harmed it in any way. The only injury it had sustained was from where Carn had struck it with the _ocras_ pickaxe, and even then it was a matter of a chink in the stone of its wrist.

The creature took a lumbering step toward the open doors, and at once the cordon around it tightened. Axes and hammers clashed against pillar-like legs. Blades shattered, hafts snapped, but the Red Cloaks didn't let up. They were doing their duty. They were giving their colleagues time to escape.

Without warning, the creature lost its solidity and started to melt into the floor. Only its feet and calves vanished, and then it swiftly re-formed. It spun a circle and tried again, and the same thing happened.

"What's it doing?" Kal said.

But Carn had already worked it out. " _Ocras_. The floor--the ceiling of the mine--must have a high density of ore." Of course it did. There was nothing stronger, and the miners would have left layers of it in the ceilings and walls to bolster the mines against collapse. It didn't mean there weren't cave-ins from time to time, only that they were less frequent than they might otherwise have been.

"So, it's trapped?" Kal said.

Carn shook his head. "Just limited, is all. But if it heads outside, there's precious little to stop it entering the city."

While the creature thrashed about, trying to find stone to merge with, the last of the Red Cloaks made it out of the building. The monster seemed to realize too late, and then charged straight at the doors. As it hit the surrounding wall, it liquefied and passed straight through, and screams swiftly followed.

Black Cloaks began climbing down off the headframe, but Carn was already sprinting for the doors. He burst through the one on the right, and Kal took the left.

Red Cloaks were streaming back toward the platform and forming up in rows. Most of them had shields, which were standard issue in the event of a major incident. The snub nose of the train formed a backdrop to the shield wall rapidly taking shape. More Red Cloaks poured out of the carriages onto the platform.

Then the philosopher Aristodeus emerged, stooping as he exited the front carriage. His bald head glistened orange, and in one hand he held a rod of black metal the length of his forearm. Beside him was Lukar.

Thumil's golden helm bobbed its way back through the shield wall as he went to meet the philosopher. Hurried words were exchanged between the two. Lukar joined in, and showed Thumil an open book which looked like one of the _Chronicles._ Rugbeard stepped down from the driver's seat and tried to snatch the book from Lukar.

The creature stooped to grab a fleeing dwarf by the cloak. Carn roared and charged, and Kal came with him. The monster started to turn, but Carn hit it with a thunderous blow of the pickaxe. Stone sprayed, and the dwarf broke free.

Kal's hammer crashed into a leg and took off a chunk below the knee. A fist slammed down at him, but Carn barged him out of the way. Kal flew into the Red Cloak and his hammer went clattering away across the floor. The dwarf steadied him and dragged him back.

"Go!" Carn cried.

Kal hesitated, but Carn bellowed again, and this time the two fled toward the massed dwarves in the shield wall.

A granite foot came down. Carn rolled beneath it. The ground shook as it struck, and a shock wave rolled through the cavern. The other foot narrowly missed his head, and then he was up, weaving in between kicks and stamps. He took a swing at its torso, chipped off rock, but the creature barely seemed to notice. Stony fingers reached for him. They were quick, far quicker than they should have been. Carn ducked and spun and hit out with the pickaxe, but this time he may as well have struck water. The monster poured itself into the ground and vanished--no _ocras_ beneath the rock here.

Carn gasped for breath. His eyes roamed the floor, waiting for the barest hint of movement. A deathly hush fell over the cavern. He looked back toward the platform.

Aristodeus was watching him intently, his metal rod aimed out in front. Lukar was tucked in behind the philosopher, glancing between his book and the cavern. Rugbeard was huffing and puffing, wiping sweat from his forehead and uttering curses. Thumil scanned the scene through narrowed eyes, and beneath him, at the foot of the ramp coming off the platform, upwards of a hundred Ravine Guard were packed together with the rims of their shields overlapping.

Footsteps behind made Carn turn back toward the housing at the base of the headframe. A dozen Black Cloaks came through the doorways and headed for the shadows of the cavern's walls. One of them muttered into a vambrace, either summoning more help, or reporting on the situation to his masters, maybe even to Councilor Grago himself.

Kal and the Red Cloak made it to the shield wall, and the front ranks parted to admit them.

Warily, Carn started to cross the cavern floor toward them, heart clamoring at every step lest the floor should erupt beneath his boots. It didn't help knowing the creature could be anywhere: in the walls, above the ceiling, under his feet. The ever-shifting eyes of the dwarves in the front rank of the shield wall showed that they felt it, too: the terror of being stalked by a foe that could pick and choose where it struck from, and when.

Shields parted for him as he drew near, but he remained where he was. Instead, Thumil, Aristodeus, Rugbeard and Lukar came down from the platform and worked their way to the front of the shield wall.

Aristodeus's eyes were glittering and unblinking as they continuously panned the cavern, his slender metal rod following in their wake. Its end was bulbous and tipped with crystal or glass.

Thumil clamped a hand on Carn's shoulder and looked him in the eye. He gave a single, curt nod that conveyed a hundred things: he was proud, scared, determined, relieved; and in among it all, he would be planning, strategizing, making the most of his resources. Is that why the philosopher was here? Had Thumil realized the danger early on and sought every avenue of help?

"It's a golem from Aranuin," Aristodeus said.

Lukar confirmed it with a tap of the page he had open. "The same section that mentions the Axe of the Dwarf Lords. When the city was founded, hundreds of these creatures attacked our people, and without the axe, we likely wouldn't be here today."

"Axe my arse!" Rugbeard said. "There ain't no axe in the _Chronicles_ , save for the golden one floating above King Arios's throne in Arnoch."

"For the last time," Lukar said, "it's the same axe. You're just trying to save face because you haven't read the _Chronicles_ as thoroughly as you like people to think."

"If you could both shut up," Aristodeus said, "these are issues that can be settled later. If there is a later. Axe or no axe, there's still a golem to be dealt with."

"And you know how?" Carn asked. "I mean, _ocras_ can harm it, as well as hem it in, but..."

Thumil wagged a finger at him. "Is there a tool repository?" he asked Rugbeard.

"In the mines."

Thumil rolled his eyes. "Fine, then I need volunteers to go down there. If we're going to beat this thing, we need more weapons of _ocras_."

"I'll go, sir," a Red Cloak said from atop the platform. He had a shield that was as tall as he was, and in his other hand he carried a massive mace.

"Good man, Grimwart," Thumil said. "Anyone else?"

A pustule of rock erupted in the middle of the shield wall, scattering dwarves as it sprouted a head and arms, and finally came to stand upon two granite legs.

" _Hevohk!_ " Aristodeus cried, bringing his wand to bear on the creature's forehead, where violet flames defined the three symbols.

A beam of brilliant white light burst from the tip of the wand. The golem staggered back and raised its arms to protect its face.

"Aim for the symbol on the right," Aristodeus said.

Spears were hurled from the shield wall, all glancing from the golem's stony flesh. A Red Cloak ran in, jabbed up at the head, but his shaft snapped. Black Cloaks stepped away from the walls, taking aim with their crossbows. Bolts struck stone and ricocheted harmlessly away.

The golem ducked its head out of the light and barreled into the dwarves in front of it. Screams went up, bones crunched under foot, weapons skittered away. The rest of the dispersed shield wall closed in all around, dwarves hacking and hammering with everything they had, but it was never going to be enough.

Carn forced his way through them, fighting for every step. "Make way!" he yelled. "Make way!"

With every inch of progress, magma streamed through his veins. His muscles swelled, his skin tightened. A chasm opened within him, and from it welled up springs of courage such as he'd never known. The words of a tavern song roared forth from his lips.

"I once knew a girl with a hairy chest, a hogshead keg instead of breasts."

The boom of his voice threw the dwarves in his way into confusion, and he surged past them.

"She tapped me a drink, and I gagged at the stink..."

The golem saw him coming and lunged.

Carn swayed past its hand and sprang for its knee. The instant his boot touched stone, he bounded and brought the pickaxe down, smack through the center of the symbol to the right of its forehead. The spike bit deep. Granite fractured, and as Carn fell, a chunk was ripped away. He hit the ground hard, flat on his back. His helm clanged against rock, and his vision swam. His pickaxe slammed against the floor and shot away, and the chunk of dislodged granite clattered to a halt beside his head. Looming over him, the golem was a wavering blur. Carn blinked rapidly to bring it into focus. It teetered, and he rolled aside as it toppled to the ground and shattered into a thousand pieces.
NINE

Cheers went up from the dwarves, but all Carn could do was close his eyes and lie back, trying to catch his breath.

"You did it, Carn!"--Kal.

"Splendid," he heard Aristodeus say. "There's always a grain of truth in legends."

"Just don't forget who found the story," Lukar said.

Fingers curled around Carn's wrist and pulled him into a sitting position. Another tug and he was on his feet, shaking the grogginess from his head. The first thing that came into focus was the glint of gold from Thumil's helm.

"You did well, son. I'm proud of you."

Carn stared at the Marshal blankly. He felt suddenly numb, as if all the fire in his blood had been doused with cold water. His energy was ebbing away, and the black dog pawed at the edges of his mind.

A shadow of worry flickered across Thumil's face. "You missed out my favorite line, Carn: the one that gives the reason for the stink coming off the lassie's nipples."

"Huh?" Carn said. "Oh, the song."

"Her kegs were filled with Ironbelly's, remember? Was it me or you that made that one up?"

"That was one of yours," Carn said with a grin that threatened to crack the plaster setting over his face.

Thumil clapped Carn on both shoulders, gave the cough he always gave when he was about to change hats, and then turned away to the Red Cloaks poking at the rubble that had once been the golem.

As Thumil moved off, barking orders, sending teams down into the mines to make sure they were secure, Aristodeus came to stand looming over Carn.

"Bravely done, Carnac. Definitely your mother's son. You could be great, truly great." The philosopher's tone was tinged with regret, as if it were a shame Carn would never live up to his expectations.

"What do you mean 'could be'?" Kal said, wrapping Carn in a bear hug. "Didn't you see what he just did?"

Aristodeus closed his eyes and drew in a long, slow breath. When he opened his eyes, they had lost some of their blueness, as if hoarfrost rimed them.

"What is it?" Carn asked. "You know something, don't you?"

Aristodeus made a fist, pressed it to his mouth. His brow crinkled with the effort of whatever he was thinking about. "I read patterns. Patterns in the past, in the present, both of which afford me glimpses of the future. With the right judgment, it is possible to avert some things and foster others. More than that I can't say, not without risking influencing events that may or may not play into the other side's hands."

"What other side?" Carn said.

"The same 'other side' that led Maldark astray and nearly brought about the end of all the worlds."

"Sektis Gandaw?" Kal said. "The mad sorcerer?"

"No, stupid," Lukar said. "The Deceiver. The Lord of the Abyss. Mananoc."

Carn snorted and shook his head. "Thank shog it's not the queen of the fairies, then. Come on, Kal, there's dead and injured dwarves to attend to. Oh, and laddie," he said to Aristodeus, "before I go, what was that with the symbols on the golem's head?"

"Letters in an ancient language," Aristodeus said. "The language of the faen. Golems are creations of the faen, inanimate sculptures of clay that are given life through lore. The letters--'KVH'--form the word ' _hevohk_ '. The faen's language is read from right to left, and it has no vowels in the written form. _Hevohk_ means 'life', but if you take away the letter 'H', you are left with 'KV'--' _vohk_ ', which means 'death'."

"Words of power," Lukar said smugly.

"Precisely," Aristodeus said. "And there's even more in a name, which presumably is why you dwarves attach such importance to them and recite those interminable lists of genealogy. Your ancestors thought a name was so important, they devised a means of stripping a dwarf of it. Totally. Absolutely. Irrevocably."

The idea caused Carn to shudder. A dwarf's name was sacred to him. It defined him, made him a person, and not just a bag of bones and blood. Because that's what Sektis Gandaw had persuaded Maldark the Fallen they were: nothing but slaves he had shaped from raw, dumb matter. No wonder Maldark had despaired.

"But why?" Carn asked. "Why take a dwarf's name?"

"It was only done to the worst kind of criminals," Rugbeard said. "Those we would execute these days."

Lukar scoffed and shook his head.

"When your population is in peril of extinction," Rugbeard said, "as was the case with the refugees from Arnoch when the city sank beneath the waves..."

"Oh, please!" Lukar said. "And you call yourself a scholar. Not everything in the _Chronicles_ is intended as literal history."

"Ex-scholar," Rugbeard said. "And the name-stripping story is more believable than the myth of the flying axe you set so much store by."

"That is not a myth!"

"Times were lean," Rugbeard told Carn. "Crime was rife. Bloody crime. And yet the Founders of Arx Gravis couldn't afford to lose a single dwarf. It was bad enough if someone was murdered. Doubly bad if you had to kill the killer too. But the name-stripping was deemed worse than death by just about everyone. It took away a dwarf's lineage. These nameless dwarves would have become pariahs of no social standing, living apart from the main populace, but at least they would have lived. Generations later, when the population was stable, the practice was banned."

Violent criminals, outcast from dwarven society. Carn started to get an idea of his own. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it again. He'd seen how these debates with Lukar went. He'd be a laughingstock, or simply snubbed. But he thought he was onto something, nevertheless. It would explain why the baresarks lived like they did, why they had no traditions or heritage, no roll call of family names.

He looked out toward the headframe instead of throwing his idea into the discussion. It looked like Thumil was commandeering the housing at its base as a field hospital. The injured were carefully carried inside, but the dead were simply covered in their cloaks and, for now, left where they had fallen.

"So, why isn't there any record of it?" Lukar said. "Besides the vague account in the _Chronicles_? Myth is wooly, Rugbeard. History is packed with details that can be verified. If name-stripping really happened, why is there no mention of who it was done to?"

Aristodeus slapped himself in the forehead in exasperation. "Because the names were taken out of time, you nincompoop! Or have you forgotten that your ancestors, the Founders of Arx Gravis, once benefited from the lore of the faen?"

"If there's no names," Rugbeard explained, "there would have been no record of them, even if there had been before the name was stripped."

"Which of course makes no sense," Aristodeus said, "while making perfect sense."

"Come on, Kal," Carn said. "I'd need a keg of mead to be able to keep up with this nonsense." He started to head out into the cavern to see if there was anything he could do to help, but then something else struck him, and Aristodeus seemed to be the best person to ask. "What if there are more of them? More golems in the mines?"

The philosopher glanced at Lukar and then back at Carn. "Judging by the passages Lukar showed me, I'd say there's a very real possibility that more will come, or rather, be sent."

"And what are we supposed to do if they attack the city?" Kal asked.

"Why do you think our ancestors had the Axe of the Dwarf Lords?" Lukar said.

"They didn't," Rugbeard said. "That's just a myth."

"Then how do you explain this?" Lukar held the open book beneath Rugbeard's nose. "I found this yesterday, something I've suspected was in the _Chronicles_ for quite some time. You see, there's more than just the mythical passages about Arnoch that mention the _Paxa Boraga_ --the Axe of the Dwarf Lords. This here is from the time of the Founders, and it mentions the axe in the context of incursions from Aranuin: golems, just like the one we've seen here today."

"Then the _Chronicles_ have been altered," Rugbeard said.

"How?" Lukar said. "Look at the page, the binding. It's all intact, all consistent. I'd say it's more likely you just missed it, while you were skipping the denser sections in search of good yarns with which to bolster your waning popularity."

Rugbeard's face reddened.

"Bit of a coincidence, don't you think?" Carn said. "That you should just stumble across a reference to golems in the mines, and then one happens to appear."

"Coincidences happen," Aristodeus said. "And no, there's no magical connection, if that's what you're implying. Sometimes I think dwarves will believe anything, so long as it isn't the truth."

"What's important to me," Lukar said, "is that if golems are real, then it stands to reason that the Axe of the Dwarf Lords is, too. The last mention in the _Chronicles_ is of the axe being lost in Aranuin when the Founders pursued the golems after a particularly nasty incursion. Apparently, no one returned."

Carn looked around at the Red Cloaks milling about the cavern, checking the fallen to see which ones to carry to the field hospital, and which to leave beneath their cloaks. Some wept freely. Most would have known each other. He should have been with them, not listening to Lukar, Rugbeard and Aristodeus spouting their nonsense. So what if their theories were true? It didn't help those who had died. Didn't help their wives and kids.

But a nagging thread of worry had woven its way into the back of his mind. He wished he could shrug it off, but it was already taking root.

Coincidence.

Despite what he said to the contrary, the philosopher didn't believe any such thing. There was design here. Unseen forces were at play. First the faen breaking into the Scriptorium, and now a golem, a creature made by the faen, entering the mines. What if Lukar was right, and there really was an Axe of the Dwarf Lords? If the golems were coming again in force, would the dwarves need to find the axe if they were to have any chance of surviving the onslaught?

Thumil's golden helm was bobbing back through the mass of Red Cloaks. Before Carn could lead Kal to go and meet him, a sniveling voice had him turning back toward Aristodeus, Lukar and Rugbeard.

"Explain to me, philosopher," Baldar Kloon said, "how it's all peace and quiet around here, then you show up and this happens."

"You think I had something to do with it?"

"Either that, or you knew what was about to happen," the Black Cloak said.

"What, and then came for a front-row seat?" Aristodeus said. "That really is the most ridiculous thing I've heard today."

And yet Carn couldn't help wondering if Kloon had a point. All that talk about seeing patterns, and yet when everyone else was starting to discern one, Aristodeus played the coincidence card. But why? What would he have to gain from being here when the golem attacked? If anything, his presence had been crucial. If the philosopher hadn't shared the secret of cutting out the letter and changing _life_ into _death_ , the creature might still be on the rampage. But all that did was make it likely the philosopher was a force for good, rather than the menace Kloon seemed to imply. Or was he? Clearly, Aristodeus knew a lot more than he was willing to let on.

"Either way, you two are coming with us," Kloon said, indicating for his men to arrest Aristodeus and Lukar.

"Now, don't be absurd," Lukar said, backing away.

Kloon grabbed him by the collar. "Absurd, is it, fatso?"

Carn punched Kloon so hard his head snapped back, and he pitched to the floor.

The other two Black Cloaks drew their swords.

Kal moved to intercept them.

"That's enough!" Thumil yelled, striding toward them.

The Black Cloaks hesitated, eyeing each other for what they should do next.

"Marshal," Aristodeus said, "there seems to have been a misunderstanding."

"I'll say." Thumil glowered at the Black Cloaks, and they visibly wilted.

"Pick Kloon up and take him with you. Councilor Grago will get my report on this incident, mark my words."

The Black Cloaks did as he told them and carried the unconscious Kloon up onto the platform and toward the train.

"Suppose you want me to drive the shoggers," Rugbeard grumbled, not even waiting for an answer as he shuffled after them.

"Diplomatic as ever, eh, Carn?" Thumil said.

"He grabbed my brother."

Lukar nodded his thanks. "I didn't know you cared."

"I don't," Carn said. "But it brought a tear to my eye when he called you fatso."

Lukar sucked in his gut. "Is it that bad?"

"Laddie," Carn said, "you're the scholar of the family, the font of all knowledge. You don't need me to tell you."

Lukar frowned and worried his lip. "Best lay off the pies, then."

"Right," Thumil said. "No need for you boys to hang around here." He clapped Kal on the shoulder and nodded his approval at Carn. "You did well, and you should get yourselves cleaned up. When I'm finished here, I'll need to debrief you before I make my report to the Council." He let out a long sigh, looking suddenly weary. Whether from the incident, or the prospect of another grilling by the Council, it was hard to say. "And Carn," he added, "don't forget Cordy's bash tomorrow night."

--The launch of the new beer.

"Sorry, Kal," Thumil said. "You're on duty, but life, as they say, goes on. It'll take more than a golem and the shogging Svarks to stop what she has planned. Kunaga's Ale House at suns down, Carn. Don't be late."
TEN

Kunaga was a legendary hero and a baresark to boot, a rare example of what the wild dwarves could become when they cooperated with civilization. The tavern was aptly named, Carn thought as he pushed through the ironbound door: you needed to be a hero to survive such a den of violence and iniquity as Kunaga's House of Ale. Either that, or a Ravine Guard. He and Thumil frequently came to the lower levels to unwind after a day's work, and though the locals didn't exactly like it, they had grown used to it and tolerated their presence.

Thumil was already on his third mead when Carn found him at the bar. Normally they would have come together, but tonight Thumil had insisted on helping Cordy set up for the launch of her family's new beer. The Kilderkins had been preparing for weeks and had arranged for a coordinated tapping of kegs in select taverns about the city. Most were on the upper levels, where her aunts and uncles did the majority of their trade. Her cousins took the middle tiers, and Cordy got Kunaga's, as near to the bottom of the ravine as a half-decent dwarf would dare venture. Still, Cordy didn't seem to mind. If anything, she'd already made herself at home.

She was down the far end of the bar, telling the landlord, Brol Farny, how to do his job. Farny was a scut and a shogwit, but he knew how to tap a keg and pour a flagon of ale without spilling a drop. Nevertheless, Cordy had him cowed like a tame chasm dog, and he was hooked on her every word, no matter how many times she repeated herself.

Thumil ordered a mead for Carn, and as the bar wench poured it and plonked it down on the counter, the Marshal raised an eyebrow and shook his head.

"I tried telling Cordy Kunaga's was too rough a shunt-hole for her to promote the family beer. It would have made more sense for her Uncle Gornon to set up here and give her some swanky tavern on the seventh."

Carn took a slurp of mead. "She listen?"

"What do you think?"

Cordy chose that moment to shove Farny out of the way so she could heft a keg of ale onto the counter. Farny started to cuss her out but bit his tongue when she turned a glare on him.

"Well, laddie," Carn said, "I have to say, she seems to have blended in rather well."

Thumil watched her with evident admiration. "Always said she had a trickle of baresark blood in her. Anyone so much as looks at her the wrong way, they'll be cleaning their teeth with a toothbrush up the backside."

"Aye, she was the terror of the Slean, that's for sure."

"Listen, son," Thumil said. He nodded to the serving wench, and she dipped down behind the bar, coming up with a double-bladed axe held in both hands. The blades gleamed from where they had been polished to mirror-brightness, and the haft glistened from a recent oiling. Thumil took it from her and lay it on the bar. "Consider it a late birthday present, seeing as you broke the old one. The thought of you with a spear or a sword is enough to make my beard molt."

"Thank you, laddie. I was starting to wonder what I'd use. My pa insisted on taking the _ocras_ pick to work with him this morning. Said they don't have enough to go around as it is."

Thumil took a long pull on his mead, then turned on his stool to watch the people coming in. It was still early, but Kunaga's was already filling up.

"Your brother helped me choose it," Thumil said. "Fresh from the forge. Lem Starkle's smithy. Best there is."

"I'll say. Must have cost a year's worth of tokens."

Thumil grinned as his eyes roved the ale house. He nodded at those he recognized, which seemed to be pretty much everyone tonight. "Let's just say Lem owed me a favor."

"And Lukar helped pick it out, you say? I'm surprised it wasn't a pastry cutter."

"Nearly was." Thumil grew swiftly serious and swiveled back round to face the bar. "I needed an excuse to get him away from his philosopher friend for a while, so I could find out what's going on." He dropped his voice to barely above a whisper. "The Council's spooked about the golem. More spooked than I've ever seen them. Grago's out for blood. He's swallowed that idiot Kloon's paranoia about the golem just happening to appear right after Aristodeus shows up. Kloon's recovered, by the way. You didn't break anything. Thought you might want to know."

"I'll have to work on my punch," Carn said. "Far be it from me to agree with that shogger, but Kloon does have a point."

Thumil shook his head. "No, there's something we're missing, something we can't see. I agree, Aristodeus knows more than he's letting on, but being behind the incursion? I don't think so. Neither does your pa, by the way. I hung around at the headframe till he came in for work this morning."

"You did? Don't you ever sleep, Thumil?"

"No time for sleep, with all that's been happening. Anyhow, your pa: he's known Aristodeus since before you were born. Said he can't stand the bald bastard, but that he basically means well. Lukar says more or less the same, though he stopped short of mentioning the lack of hair. Ostensibly, Aristodeus is here to help review your brother's thesis. You know what it's about, Carn?"

He didn't exactly. In one ear, out the other, whenever Lukar spoke about his research, which was all the time, except when his mouth was crammed full of food.

"Something about the relationship of myth and history."

Thumil nodded. "That's about what I could make out. He said he started out trying to prove there was no such thing as dwarf lords, no such thing as the lost city of Arnoch, but the deeper he dug in the _Chronicles_ , the more he persuaded himself otherwise. Now he has this obsession about the _Paxa Boraga_ , the Axe of the Dwarf Lords. He wanted me to put in a word with the Council about mounting an expedition to find it!"

"What makes him think you have any sway over those old codgers?"

Thumil didn't answer. He stared long and hard into his tankard before setting it down without drinking. "Want to know what the Council's doing about the golem?"

"I can guess."

"A sweep of the mines revealed no breach," Thumil said. "But then, a creature that can pass through granite wouldn't exactly need one. Aristodeus explained to them--"

"He was there? Baldilocks spoke with the Council?"

"Thick as thieves with them, he is," Thumil said. "Always has been. The Voice doesn't exactly like it, but there's a fair bit of resistance from some of the other councilors whenever the question of excluding Aristodeus is raised. Shog knows how old egg-head butters them up, but it must be good. It wouldn't surprise me if he's the link between Councilor Yuffie and the somnificus coming in from outside."

"Was Lukar with him?"

"At the Dokon?" Thumil nodded, and this time he took a drink. "Grago insisted. Had Kloon and his cronies fetch him. Problem was, the more Lukar told them what he'd learned about golems from the _Chronicles_ , the more Grago's eyes narrowed with suspicion. I'd say about half the Council were thinking the same thing: that your brother and Aristodeus had something to do with the incursion. Thank shog there's a smattering of brains among the Twelve, though. Dorley's a bookworm and knows Lukar from the Scriptorium. He made it clear what he thought of the idea. And Old Moary knows your pa, when he doesn't forget. He was actually quite assertive. And then, well, I've already told you what Lukar wanted me to put to the Council." Thumil shook his head, as if he couldn't believe the stupidity of it. "He only goes and addresses the Voice directly, tries to convince him the golem could be the first of many. He made the Twelve look at the..." Thumil trailed off as a burly dwarf with a salt-and-pepper beard approached.

"Heard about Ming and Muckman, Marthal," the newcomer said with an appalling lisp, "and all the otherth. I thould have been there."

Thumil rose from his stool and grasped the man's wrist. "And you would have, Stolhok, but everyone needs a day off now and again, even you."

"Captain Stolhok?" Carn said. "I didn't recognize you without the cloak and helm. I was starting to think you slept in them."

Stolhok was dressed in a plain brown tunic and britches, but he still had on his Ravine Guard issue boots.

"Lieutenant Carnac." Stolhok stepped back from Thumil and gave a nod of respect. "Thounds like you did well back there. How many did we loothe, Marthal?"

"Fifteen dead, twenty more seriously injured, and a fair few cuts and bruises. The Svarks lost a couple, too."

"Dark dayth, Marthal. Dark dayth."

Thumil clapped him on the shoulder. "Can I get you a drink, Stolhok?"

"Thank you, but no. Jutht came for the free one, and a tiny wager." He nodded to Thumil and Carn, then made his way to a round table where half a dozen dwarves were in the middle of a game of seven-card.

"Didn't know Stolhok was the gambling type," Carn said.

"You'd be surprised. Now," Thumil said, "where was I?"

"Lukar."

"Oh, yes. Your brother only goes and makes the councilors look at the passage he discovered in the _Chronicles_."

"The one Rugbeard said didn't exist?"

Thumil nodded and took a sip of mead. "And, of course, none of them were familiar with it. Lukar started interpreting the passage as a prophecy and floated the idea of an expedition to find the Axe of the Dwarf Lords. Having asked me to raise the issue for him, he went and brought it up himself, and the results... Well, he only has himself to blame."

"So, my brother was a laughingstock."

"Not altogether. I think they took the idea that there could be more incursions seriously. They want us to double the guard at the top of the ravine, and Grago's appointing a team of Black Cloaks to keep watch at the headframe."

"No harm in that," Carn said. "But they didn't approve of Lukar's expedition?"

Thumil snorted. "There's more chance of the Council going in search of the Sag-Urda monster than the Axe of the Dwarf Lords."

"And who could blame them?" Carn said. "I once knew a fisherman who claimed to have seen scaly bumps undulating through the water."

"Yes, well, if it's who I think it is, the only scaly bumps he saw were on the shaft of his dwarfhood after he tumbled with the same whore you caught the pox from."

Carn laughed, but he still felt bad about Lukar being made a mockery of. His brother was about as serious a scholar as you could get, and a word here or there from a member of the Council could see his reputation in ruins.

"Thing I can't stop thinking about," Thumil said, "is the look on Aristodeus's face while the councilors were laughing among themselves and Lukar was standing there flushed and flustered. All the time everyone was attentive, Aristodeus was as dismissive as they were; but when he thought no one was paying him heed, he was anything but amused. I'd say he was worried. Haunted, even."

Carn shook his head. The bald shogger was up to something, that's for sure. And if he wasn't, then he knew something he wasn't sharing.

"What about the faen that broke into the Scriptorium?" Carn said. "Are they taking that more seriously now?"

"Aristodeus spoke about that, but for all his alleged wisdom, he doesn't know dwarves. Or rather, he does, but he doesn't get it. The Council's response to everything is to tighten security and hope nothing else happens. You know how it is: one false move from them, one poor decision, and they think it'll be Maldark all over again."

"But even the Council must see it's getting silly," Carn said. "Lukar has been moaning about it for years, how the Council do nothing. He says the dwarf lords were the complete opposite: decisive, certain, and that if they hadn't been, they'd have lasted less than a heartbeat in the wild lands of Cerreth where Arnoch stood."

Thumil finished off his mead and ordered another. "The Council is just doing what it think's best to... you know."

"Keep things stagnant?"

"Safe. To keep the people safe. Make sure we survive as a race."

Carn shook his head. "Lukar says there's more to life than simply enduring. He says there's a whole world up there just waiting--"

"He's a scholar, Carn. What do you expect him to say? All that burying his head in books, he's hardly a guide to reality. But this golem: I had a long talk with your brother about it. According to the _Chronicles_ , he says, they were a frequent menace until the Founders went after them into Aranuin."

"Where they lost the Axe of the Dwarf Lords," Carn said. When Thumil scowled at him, he added, "You can't pick and choose which bits of the story you believe. Either it's all real, or none of it is."

"Well, your brother certainly believes in the axe," Thumil conceded. "He thinks we're going to need it. He's convinced there'll be more golems, and that it'll take more than _ocras_ mining tools to stand against them."

Carn's eyes strayed to the game of seven-card, where Captain Stolhok was raking a pile of tokens across the table.

Thumil spotted someone in the crowd, an old dwarf with a black hood obscuring his features who was leaning forlornly against the wall beside the entrance.

"It's Jerid Garnik," Thumil said. "Ming's pa."

"Oh, shog," Carn said. "You want me to--"

"No, son," Thumil said. "That's my job."

The Marshal downed his mead in one, then rose from his stool and made his way across the tavern to Jerid Garnik.

"I hope you two weren't talking shop," Cordy said, taking the opportunity to saunter over on the other side of the bar.

"During your beer launch?" Carn said. "We wouldn't dare."

She glared at him, but she was only playing. Behind her mask of anger, he could read concern in her eyes. For an instant, the facade dropped, and she softened her features with a smile that was half a frown.

"You all right, Carn? I mean, Thumil told me what you did, how you stopped that thing."

"Just got lucky," Carn said, sipping his mead. "Shame Ming didn't, or Muckman, or any of the others that didn't make it back."

Cordy leaned over the bar toward him. Her breasts pressing against the counter swelled above her dress, and Carn looked away into his flagon.

She slapped him on the arm. "You'll ruin your palate drinking mead first. Can't you wait a few minutes till the good stuff starts flowing?"

"I was thirsty."

Cordy rolled her eyes, then rested her hand atop his. "It wasn't luck, Carn. The same thing happened at the __ Slean, time and again. You were too fast for the rest of us, too strong."

Carn shook his head. "It was you that was the scourge of the __ Slean, lassie. They sing songs about you, even to this day." They didn't. He and Thumil did. In the early days, Thumil had taught them both combat skills, until he left to become Marshal; but he'd seen enough to know Cordy was a devil in a fist fight.

"Remember when they ganged up on you?" Cordy said.

"I remember you breaking Saw Shingle's nose for being the ringleader."

She laughed. "Seven of them had you down on the ground, kicking and punching."

Carn shrugged and took another sip of mead. Cordy curled her fingers around his flagon and forced it to the bar.

"Something happened to you, Carn. You changed. You threw them off and gave as good as you got. Better. I don't think they landed a single punch once you started to fight back. I'll never forget that moment. You practically danced around them, and everyone you hit went down and stayed down."

"It's what comes of being a miner's son," Carn said.

"No, it isn't. There's more to it, and you know it."

And she would never let him hear the end of it. Cordy had swallowed Droom's stories about Yalla being descended from the dwarf lords hook, line and sinker.

"It's in your blood, Carn."

"If it is, it does a good job of hiding itself."

The tavern door burst open and a baresark barged in. His barrel-chest was naked, inked with swirling tattoos. Rings adorned his nose, ears and nipples. His arms were thick and gnarled, and his tree-trunk thighs threatened to split the fabric of his filthy britches. He was a brute all the way from his crimson-dyed hair to his iron-shod boots.

He stood in the doorway and thrust his fists into his hips. "Heard there was free beer."

The hubbub died, and no one made eye contact with the baresark, in case it was seen as a challenge. Thumil looked up from his talk with Jerid Garnik. His hand strayed to his side, where his sword would have been hanging, if he'd been on duty.

Cordy stood up straight behind the bar and met the baresark's gaze unflinchingly. "There will be, when I'm good and ready."

"I'm ready now," the baresark said.

Carn winced. He knew Cordy wouldn't be able to keep her mouth shut.

"Well, I'm not," she said. "So either order yourself something from the bar while you wait, or get the shog out."

A wave of tension passed among the punters, most of them peering into their drinks and scarcely daring to breathe.

"You got balls, lady," the baresark said. "I like a woman with balls."

"I've heard about your kind," Cordy said, "but all I've got's these." She indicated her breasts. "If it's balls you want, I'm sure one of the lads will oblige for a token or two."

The baresark stalked toward the bar. "Maybe I'll just take what you've got."

Carn started out of his stool, but Cordy put a hand on his shoulder and kept him seated.

The baresark stank like gibuna dung mixed with a year's worth of sweat. He turned his blockish head to look down at Carn. "Excuse me for interrupting." His lips curled back as he grinned.

Carn drummed his fingers on the haft of the axe lying on the bar.

"Nice weapon," the baresark said, eyeing it greedily.

"What is it with you?" Carn said. "First balls, and now my weapon. People will talk, laddie."

The baresark's hand clenched into a fist. His grin grew tighter, more strained, and his cheeks started to redden.

"What'll it be?" Cordy asked.

Eyes locked to Carn's, the baresark said, "Ironbelly's."

Carn snorted, then pretended to have a cough.

At a nod from Cordy, the bar wench started to pour.

"On the house," Brol Farny said, coming over.

"Obliged to you," the baresark said.

Cordy muttered under her breath and went back to her barrel. The instant she filled her first flagon with frothing dark ale and held it up, the tension vanished, and the tavern devolved into cheers. One by one, dwarves started to line up for their free taster. Strangely, the baresark didn't join them. He simply leaned back against the bar, cradling his Ironbelly's, eyes roaming the room, but from time to time coming to settle on Thumil.

The door opened, and in came Bucknard Snaff, proprietor of Bucknard's Beer Hall. He exchanged a few words with Thumil, uttered condolences to Jerid Garnik, then made a beeline for the fresh keg Cordy was setting up.

Thumil patted Garnik on the back, then crossed the room to resume his stool next to Carn. The baresark pretended not to notice, downed his Ironbelly's, then got in line behind Bucknard. Whatever his problem, he clearly wasn't going to miss out on free beer.

Cordy handed control of the keg to Brol Farny and carried three frothing flagons over to them. Carn raised an admiring eyebrow. She hadn't spilled a drop.

"The way you've got Farny doing your bidding, anyone would think it was your tavern, not his," Thumil said.

"I've done all the hard work," Cordy said. "And do you seriously think most of these punters would be here, if not for my launch? I say let the dog work for his dinner, and let's go find ourselves a table."

"We'll be lucky tonight," Carn said, but even as he looked around to prove his point, an old greybeard rose from his chair and indicated they could have his table.

"Beer not to your liking?" Thumil asked, hurrying over before someone else got there first.

"Nothing wrong with the beer. Appreciate it, lassie," the greybeard said to Cordy as she pulled out a chair. "Just can't say I like the company all that much." He shot a furtive look toward the baresark, who was camping out by the keg and drinking more than his fair share.

As the old man left, Red Cloaks started to file in, coming off the twilight shift. None of them were regulars at Kunaga's, but Thumil had apparently put the word around about Cordy's launch. He acknowledged each of them with a nod, and one by one they stopped to commiserate with Jerid Garnik. Pretty soon, though, there was a snaking train of red leading all the way across the room to the beer Farny was doling out.

Bucknard made his way over cradling a flagon of Cordy's beer.

Cordy stiffened and rolled her eyes. "Come on, then, out with it. What's the verdict?"

Bucknard was the Kilderkin family's greatest rival, so his appraisal wasn't likely to be good. Carn braced himself for Cordy's inevitable backlash by taking a swig of beer. It went down the wrong way, and he sputtered and almost coughed it back up.

Cordy winced and looked like she was about to cry.

Carn tried to reassure her with appreciative grunts. She knew how much he liked the beer from his birthday sampling, but she was on edge with the launch and taking things in the worst possible way. He swilled what was left in his mouth. It was rich and hoppy, with a texture like velvet, and he'd smite anyone who said otherwise.

"Well, Cordana Kilderkin, I have to say..." Bucknard paused theatrically.

Cordy's fingers tightened around her flagon.

"I'm going to have to up my game," Bucknard finished.

Cordy's eyebrows flew up into her hairline. "What did you say?"

"Congratulations, my dear. I do hope you'll consider supplying my taverns."

"Really?" Cordy looked from Carn to Thumil. Moisture glistened in her eyes. "But--"

"Good beer is good beer, never mind who makes it. And besides, Cordana, your pa and I might have been rivals, but we were friends first. Now, those aunts and uncles of yours might be a bit stuck up, but with you on board, I'm willing to forgive them that. Congratulations on the launch, and when you've sobered up after, I hope you'll come see me and take my order."

Halfway to the door, Bucknard stopped and turned back to Cordy.

"By the way, what's it called? It's usual to give a beer a name when you launch it."

"My Aunt Nutha wanted to call it 'Ravine Gold'," Cordy said, "but no one agreed with her, save for Uncle Hoag, and he doesn't have much of a choice."

Bucknard wrinkled his nose at the name. "And you? What did you think it should be called?"

"I didn't have a clue," Cordy said, "until after last night."

Thumil leaned forward. "Last night?"

"What you told me about Carn, how he took down that golem. To my mind, that makes him a bit of a hero."

"Only a bit?" Carn said.

"Got to leave room for the shogger part of you," Cordy said. "So, I got to thinking what I'd call the beer, if it were down to me, if I could name it in his honor."

Carn let out a loud hoot, which had everyone in the tavern looking his way.

"I thought about what Droom said, about Yalla having the blood of the dwarf lords and passing it on to her sons..."

Bucknard shook his head at Thumil, and Thumil shrugged in return.

"So, I came up with 'Arnochian', you know, after Arnoch, the lost city of the dwarf lords."

"I like it," Bucknard said. "Kilderkin's Arnochian Ale."

"But my aunts and uncles will never go for it."

"Nevertheless," Bucknard said, "that's the name that'll be going on my order sheets. Good night, all." And with that, he stepped outside, and the door closed behind him.

"Drink up, lads," Cordy said. "There's plenty more where that came from."

Carn did as he was told, then collected up their tankards and went over to the keg so Farny could refill them. The baresark muttered something under his breath, but Carn just offered him a big, toothy smile. He half hoped the shogger would take a swing at him, give him an excuse.

"What's he say?" Thumil said, when Carn carried the drinks back to the table.

"Nice arse, I think. Came out as mostly a grunt, though. I think he's shy and playing hard to get."

Cordy thumped him on the arm as he sat. "Shush, you silly shogger. He might hear."

"Don't mind if he does," Carn said, far louder than he needed to.

"But I do," Thumil said, staring into his drink. "I'm a lot older than you, Carn. The excitement would kill me. Is he looking our way?"

Carn turned his chair round, not caring that the legs scraped and screeched against the flagstones. "No, he's more interested in his own boots right now." With just as much noise as before, he came back round to face the table. "That's the thing about baresarks: they're like dogs. All you have to do is stare them out, let them know who's boss."

"And you know this how?" Cordy said.

"I watch the circle fights. You can always tell who's going to win from the pre-bout eyeballing."

"Well, let's just hope you're right," Thumil said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a book with a floppy leather cover. It was the same book he'd read from on Carn's birthday. Thumil grew intent on something he'd found to read, and it was as if a wall had suddenly enclosed him.

"He's been doing that a lot lately," Cordy said. "Reads that shogging book in bed at night, then first thing on waking."

"Does he now?" Carn said. "And how would you know?"

Thumil glanced up at her, but swiftly returned to his reading.

"One of his whores told me," Cordy said. "I run into them from time to time."

"Not at work, I hope," Carn said.

Cordy went to slap him again, but stayed her hand. "Want me to get you another?"

"May as well bring a tray over, lassie; save all the toing and froing."

Cordy headed back to the bar and barked out some orders to Brol Farny, then waited for him to fill a dozen flagons on a tray.

Carn was momentarily transfixed by the way her close-fitting blue dress hugged her hips. Through its thin fabric, he could make out the ridges of muscle running either side of her spine. She craned her neck, caught him looking, and his face prickled with shame. She was his oldest friend, his mate from the Slean, more a sister than anything else. But if she was offended, she didn't let on. Her eyes glistened in the orange light coming off the hearth, and one corner of her mouth curled in a half-smile.

"Want to know where I got this?" Thumil said, breaking the spell of the moment.

Carn glanced at the book Thumil was waving at him. "No."

"Dythin Rala, that's where." Thumil pinched the bridge of his nose and blinked rapidly. "Shog, this beer's strong. I should have learnt my lesson the other night."

"What's that you're saying?" Cordy said, setting a tray of tankards down on the table. "You talking about that book again? It'll rot your brain, all that nonsense about peace and love."

"Is that what Maldark was into?" Carn said, helping himself to another beer.

"That, and one shog of a big hammer for smiting anyone who disagreed with him," Thumil said. "I've half a mind to get one myself."

"So, the Voice reads banned books, and now the Marshal of the Ravine Guard does, too," Carn said. "No wonder things have been going from shitty to worse."

"Ah, but why was it banned?" Thumil tucked the book away in his pocket and took a slurp of beer.

"Because Maldark shogged up," Cordy said. "Everyone knows that."

"Nothing to do with the book," Thumil said. "Maldark shogged up because he believed the mad sorcerer. He betrayed some god or other, handed them over to Sektis Gandaw as a power source so he could unmake all the worlds."

"God, my tits!" Cordy said. "Rugbeard used to say it was a giant snake Maldark gave to Gandaw."

Carn let out an unbridled yawn. "Lassie, you're obsessed with giant snakes, something you have in common with our baresark friend over there."

"My point is," Thumil said, "that the scriptures had nothing to do with Maldark's betrayal. Dythin Rala believes the same. The only reason the _Lek Vae_ is banned is because of over-caution."

Carn finished his beer and took another. Without looking up, he started to sing:

"I thank you, my lassie, my two-token whore,

Your kisses were really much better before,

You took out your teeth, and you stymied your tongue,

And opened sore legs to a dwarf who's well-hung."

Thumil chuckled and joined in, and Cordy started to keep a beat by bashing her empty flagon on the tabletop.

"With a huff and a puff and a heave and a ho,

I'll give you my heart, if my dwarfhood you'll--"

The baresark lumbered into the table. There was a fearsome clash and clatter as flagons flew, spilling beer all over the floor. Around the tavern, dwarves looked up, eyes darting nervously.

Thumil just sat there, drenched in Arnochian Ale. He just happened to be sitting the wrong side of the table.

Carn reached for his new axe, but Cordy put a restraining hand on his arm.

"Oops. Sorry about that." The baresark patted Thumil on the cheek. "No harm done."

"You insolent shogger!" Thumil said, pushing up from his chair.

The baresark shoved him back down and kept him in place with a meaty hand on his shoulder. With the other, he grabbed hold of Thumil's beard.

"What did you say?"

Thumil licked his lips. "I said--"

Cordy was on her feet in an instant. "He was being polite, turd brain. It's what I'm going to say you should be worried about."

"Really?" the baresark said. He yanked out a clump of Thumil's beard and threw it in her face, then ran his hands over his crotch. "You ain't gonna say nothing when I fill that gob with my--"

Thumil launched himself out of his chair, but the baresark backhanded him across the floor.

"That the best you got, old man?" the baresark said, advancing on Thumil as he struggled to rise.

Carn snapped his fingers. He didn't even bother to get up. When the baresark spun to face him, he said, "No, laddie. I'm the best he's got."

Thumil found his feet and put out a placating hand. "It's all right, Carn. He's just had a bit too much to drink. No harm done."

The baresark ignored Thumil and bared his teeth at Carn; half of them were missing, and those he had were yellow and filed to points. He narrowed his eyes and glared.

Carn folded his hands in his lap and glared back.

Off-duty Red Cloaks started to fan out around the baresark. Cordy clutched her empty tankard like she meant to do some serious damage with it.

Captain Stolhok stood from the card table and came to Thumil's side. "Want uth to thling the thlogger out, Marthal?"

The baresark broke eye contact with Carn and turned a furious circle, daring any of the Red Cloaks to have a go at him.

Carn chose that moment to stand. "Right, that's enough, scut-face. Sling your hook. Go on, shog off."

The baresark whirled back to face him.

Carn raised an eyebrow.

The Red Cloaks pressed in closer.

Stolhok said, "Jutht give the word, Marthal."

The baresark took a faltering step toward Carn then looked away. With a muttered curse, he strode to the door, wrenched it open and slammed it behind him.

Carn plonked himself back down in his chair. "Like I said, no different than dogs."

"It was me he was scared of," Cordy said, slapping her tankard from hand to hand.

"You think a dozen or so Red Cloaks might have had something to do with it?" Thumil said, returning to the table and slumping into his chair.

Carn gave Stolhok and the lads a thumbs up. Stolhok crossed to a window and peered outside. Satisfied, he signaled the others to stand down, then went back to his card game.

"We should get going," Thumil said. "All the excitement's about done me in."

"Oh no you don't," Cordy said. "This is my launch, remember? Anyone who can walk out of here is insulting my family brew."

"In that case," Carn said, "I'd better venture to the bar and see how many kegs you've still got back there."

When he returned to the table with a fully laden tray, Carn had to suppress a pang of jealousy. Cordy was sat on Thumil's lap, arms around his neck. Her forehead was pressed against his.

As Carn set the tray down, Cordy leaned away from Thumil and said, "Poor old man. He's quite shaken up."

"Now that I doubt," Carn said. "He's just pretending, so he gets the sympathy hug. You want to be careful, Thumil. Cordy's half your age. Not sure your ancient ticker could take it."

Thumil patted Cordy on the arm, and she slid off his lap and into her own chair. "You'd be surprised what this old boy can do." He reached for a flagon and raised it to his lips. "Drink you under the table, for one thing."

"Oh, aye?" Carn said. Then to Cordy, "Lassie? You in?"

He lost count of how many beers they put away somewhere after the third tray. When Brol Farny informed them they'd drunk the last of Cordy's brew, the tavern had already emptied out. Thumil's head was on the table and he was snoring. Cordy was finishing off his beer for him. Carn considered going to the bar for some mead, but he couldn't feel his legs.

"Want me to fetch you some kaffa?" Farny said.

Carn squinted at him, trying to bring him into focus. "Probably a good idea, laddie."

Cordy belched and wiped froth from her beard. "Thing about quality ale," she slurred, "is that you don't get a hang--"

Her head hit the table so hard, the empty tankards jumped and rattled.
ELEVEN

Next thing Carn knew, Farny was shaking him awake and holding a steaming cup of kaffa under his nose. His guts roiled, and the floor pitched. He tried focusing on the door, but it swayed from side to side.

Thumil was already finishing off his second cup of kaffa, and Cordy was sullenly sipping her third.

"Fresh air," Carn said, lumbering to his feet and clutching the table for support. He shook his head at the kaffa Farny was still proffering.

"We'll go with you," Thumil said.

Outside, they looped arms and shuffled off into the dark. The glowstones were dimmer toward the bottom of the ravine, where they were all but neglected. Many were so caked in grime, they shed no light at all. The sky between the walkways was black as coal. Occasionally, starlight twinkled, but even that seemed somehow farther away than normal, and feeble.

By the time they sighted the steps encircling the Aorta, Carn wished he'd drunk that kaffa. Cordy and Thumil were practically dragging him, and his legs felt as though they had been crushed beneath a ton of rock.

Heavy footfalls told him something wasn't right. Thumil gasped, and Cordy swore under her breath. They let go of his arms and he stumbled. Sounds of a scuffle. A thud and a whoomp.

"Get your hands off him!" Cordy yelled.

A slap, and she grunted.

Carn reeled on his feet. A flurry of movement in front. His head exploded in a blaze of white. Shards of pain ripped through his brain. He pitched to his arse, and his axe clattered as it hit the ground. Almost immediately, his vision cleared, and it felt like he'd not touched a drop.

The baresark from the tavern was looming over him, fist raised for a follow-up. Behind him, another wild dwarf had Thumil in a headlock, and a third was strangling Cordy.

The fist came down at Carn. He rolled, snagged the baresark's ankle and flipped him onto his back. The shogger hit with a thud, and Carn was on top of him, bashing his head from side to side with punch after punch. Froth spilled from the baresark's lips. His eyes rolled up into his head, and he began to howl. With unnatural strength, he shoved Carn off, and then he was on top. Carn grabbed his wrists, but the baresark's head cracked into his brow. Pain flared. Carn nutted him back, then twisted out from under him.

He caught a glimpse of Thumil elbowing his baresark in the ribs and slipping free of the headlock. Cordy kicked hers in the fruits, but when he didn't let go of her throat, she poked him in the eyes.

Carn cracked his baresark a solid punch on the nose, split his lip with a second. The shogger responded with a savage roar and a flurry of bludgeoning blows. Carn bobbed and weaved around them, then leaped for the baresark's neck, head-locked him and slammed him into the ground.

Thumil was spun from his feet by a haymaker. He tried to get straight back up, but the baresark kicked him in the jaw.

Cordy thumped and clawed and thrashed and bit, but nothing she did made the baresark release its throttling grip. Her movements were getting weaker, and the blood had all but drained from her face.

Carn's attacker snarled and came up with a knife in hand. He lunged, but Carn swayed around the blade and elbowed him in the face. Blood sprayed from a pulped nose, but the baresark barely registered the fact. He delivered a vicious stab, but Carn rolled beneath it and kept on rolling till he reached his axe. He rose on one knee, blocked a slash of the knife, then stood and smacked the baresark in the temple with the flat.

Thumil was up. He'd seen the danger to Cordy, and flung himself at the baresark strangling her, but the one attacking him yanked him away and lifted him overhead.

Lightning ripped through Carn's veins. The baresark accosting him aimed a dagger thrust, but it suddenly looked to be moving through treacle. Carn swung his axe, and it sliced through flesh and bone. In a spray of blood, the baresark's arm flopped to the ground, still clutching the dagger.

Carn spun and hurled the axe. It whistled through the air toward the baresark about to throw Thumil, and hit him in the stomach. The baresark doubled up, and Thumil fell on top of him.

The one-armed baresark growled and took a swing with his remaining fist, but Carn ducked beneath it and thundered a punch into his jaw. The baresark's head snapped back, and he fell.

Immediately, Carn barreled into the one throttling Cordy, bowling them both over. Cordy hit the ground hard and rolled clear. Carn landed on top of the baresark's back, got an arm round his throat and squeezed.

From Carn's right came the sound of pounding feet. There was a grunt and a scuffle, and Carn looked to see Thumil on the back of the baresark that had been winded by the axe, pounding its ears with open palms.

In the distance, whistle blasts peeled out. The Red Cloaks were coming.

Cordy propped herself up on one elbow, free hand rubbing her bruised throat. Her eyes widened at something behind Carn. He turned his head to see, not relinquishing his stranglehold. The one-armed baresark was lumbering toward him. Blood was still gushing from the stump of his elbow, and his chest and legs were bathed in crimson. But his eyes were wild, and froth spewed between the gaps in his teeth.

The baresark Carn had hold of roared and tried to get to his knees. Carn tightened his choke, muscles straining.

Thumil's baresark threw him off, grabbed him by the collar and punched him in the face.

One-arm charged like some unstoppable demon.

Seeing the danger, Carn put everything he had into a sharp, powerful twist. Sinew snapped, bone cracked, and the baresark beneath him grew still.

Carn surged to his feet and powered into One-arm, swung him round, and slammed him into the wall of the Aorta again and again. The shogger kept roaring and thrashing with his remaining arm, but soon the roars turned to gurgles, and then he slid down the wall, painting it red, and slumped to the ground.

Footfalls echoed across the walkway. Two Red Cloaks came from the direction of Kunaga's, another two from beyond the Aorta. Still more were coming down the steps from the level above.

Carn turned around, seeking out Thumil and his assailant and fearing the worst. What he saw, though, was Cordy stepping away from the pair, leaving Carn's axe buried in the back of the baresark's skull. The wild dwarf still delivered a few weak punches, as if his brain hadn't yet worked out he was dead, but then he toppled to one side, and the axe tore free as it hit the ground.

A dark shape separated out from the shadows of the Aorta and ran down the steps toward the next level. Carn started after it.

"Nobody move!" a Red Cloak yelled. And then, "Oh my shog, Carn!"

"Kal?" Carn said. "What kept you?"

The dwarf with Kal--Gruffick Darn?--went to help Thumil up.

Thumil's face was a mess, but he still managed to steady himself on his feet. "Thank you, Harby."

Carn could have sworn it was Darn. It must have been the poor light. Either that, or the grog corroding his brain.

Within moments, a dozen Ravine Guard surrounded them, and more were still coming.

"Clean up here," Thumil told Kal. "And burn the bodies. Last thing we want's a blood feud with more of the shoggers."

Carn went to check on One-arm. He'd intended only to knock him senseless, but the baresark was dead from loss of blood.

"You need a surgeon," Kal said to Thumil.

"Nonsense. Just a few cuts and bruises. You all right, Cordy?"

She rubbed her throat. Already, a purplish bruise was blooming there. "Never better," she croaked.

Thumil drew Cordy into an embrace. "Grab your axe, Carn, and let's get back to mine for a nightcap."

As Carn stooped to pick his axe up, someone started clapping from the mouth of an alley. He peered into the dark but couldn't see more than a shadowy outline.

"Carnac Thayn, what's in a name?" a lilting voice half-sang.

Carn started toward the alley, but Thumil called him back.

"Don't worry about him, Carn. That's just Stupid."

"Stupid?"

"The local idiot," Thumil said. "Surprised you haven't run into him. Some of the patrols catch him scavenging for food from time to time. The Voice must have taken pity on him, because I've been told to leave him alone. Dythin Rala's even invited him to the odd function for light entertainment--you know, juggling, clowning about, that sort of thing."

A dwarf emerged into the ailing light of the glowstones. He was dressed in a patchwork jacket and britches, a tall, crooked hat perched atop his head. His eyes held an unnatural sparkle as they studied Carn.

"Some names are best forgotten," Stupid said. "Carnac Thayn, the one we will blame."

"That's enough, Stupid," Thumil said. "None of us is in the mood."

"Won't be no moods, if you lose your head, Marshal," Stupid said. He turned his eyes on Cordy. "Look who's going places: Cordana Kilderkin. No head, no choice, makes yours the voice."

"You heard the Marshal," Carn said.

"And I'm going, I'm going. See how I go." Stupid backed into the alley. Just before the dark swallowed him, he said, "You must forget in order to find the truth of who you are, Carnac Thayn. Beware the wiles of Mananoc."

And then he was gone.

"You think he's involved?" Kal said.

"Wouldn't matter if he was," Thumil grumbled. "No one's to touch him, or it's my head on a plate, which I guess is what he meant." He clapped Kal on the shoulder and started up the steps.

"What did he mean?" Carn said. "What's that old demon Mananoc got to do with anything?"

"Don't go there," Thumil said. "I've heard more sense from a goat's arse than Stupid's lips. Nothing but riddles and paradoxes. Don't waste your time trying to fathom anything he says."

_You must forget in order to find the truth of who you are_... Just thinking about it hurt Carn's brain. Maybe Thumil was right, but that didn't stop the vague sense of worry scratching away at the base of his skull. Forget what? Who he was? Something he knew?

Cordy brushed the back of Carn's hands with her fingertips. "Did you see that Black Cloak fleeing the scene?"

"Aye, lassie, I saw." The Svarks had eyes and ears everywhere, but fleeing like that...

Cordy cast a worried look after Thumil. "What's going on, Carn?"

"I wish I knew. Come on. I think I could use that nightcap."

The three barely spoke a word as they made the arduous climb up the Aorta's stairwell. Carn found himself counting, just so he could remind himself there was a finite number of steps. Cordy was panting and wheezing, every now and again pausing to clutch her throat. It could be the baresark had damaged her windpipe. If he hadn't already done it, Carn would have killed the shogger for hurting her. He'd kill the whole damned lot of them, every last baresark stinking up the foot of the ravine, if they dared touch her or Thumil again.

It was gusting up a storm by the time they reached Thumil's home on the fourteenth level. The neighboring houses were squat blocks of deeper darkness against what was left of the night; the glowstones on the walkway shed just enough light to pick out their outlines.

Thumil opened the front door and ushered Cordy and Carn in first. "Give me a moment," he said, shutting the door behind him. He fumbled about in the dark of the entrance hall, muttered a curse as he dropped something, but finally managed to get a spark to take in his tinderbox. He transferred the flame to an oil lamp using a taper, and soon the hallway was bathed in a flickering glow and long shadows.

"Come through to the hearth-room and I'll get a blaze going." Thumil went in ahead of them and froze in the doorway.

Carn peered over his shoulder. The furniture had been overturned, and Thumil's belongings were scattered all over the floor.

Cordy pushed past them into the room. She let out a long whistle. "Always said you were a messy bastard, Thumil."

He glanced at her, and their eyes locked. Something was shared between them, but Cordy turned away and set about picking things off the floor.

"Leave it, Cordy," Thumil said. "I'll do it in the morning."

"Check the rest of the house?" Carn suggested.

Thumil nodded, and together they went from room to room. It was the same everywhere: complete and utter carnage.

"They take anything?" Cordy asked when they returned to the hearth-room.

Thumil shrugged. He seemed too stunned to care.

"Want to come back to mine, Thumil?" Carn said.

Again, that shared look with Cordy.

"No, son, but thank you. I'll be all right here. I doubt whoever it is will come back."

"Well, I'm staying with you," Carn said.

Cordy righted a divan and sank down onto it. "Me, too. You still good for that drink?"

Thumil retrieved a cask and some tankards from among the mess in the kitchen. "You have to think it's a warning," he said, coming back in and handing out drinks. "I mean, all my tokens are still in the bedroom chest, my weapons, my golden helm. It's a piss poor burglar that would miss all that."

"Who would want to warn you?" Carn said. "And why?"

Cordy took a sip of her drink. "What is this? It's helping my throat."

"Taffyr's Golden Honey Mead," Thumil said.

Carn gave an impressed look at the tankard he was clutching. "Might as well see what I missed out on for my birthday." He wet his lips and ran his tongue over his palate. The mead was sweet and bitter at the same time. He took a swig. And it had a kick like a ravine goat. No wonder Droom had kept it for himself.

Thumil shook his head as he surveyed the mess on the hearth-room floor. "This has the feel of the Svarks about it."

Cordy glanced at Carn.

"You didn't see the figure in the shadows of the Aorta, did you?" Carn said.

Thumil frowned. "What figure?"

"A Black Cloak," Cordy said. "Ran down the steps as soon as Kal and the others showed up."

"Did he now?"

"You been upsetting Grago?" Carn said.

"No more than usual. But I might have shown Baldar Kloon up a little the other day."

"That scut?" Carn said. "He wouldn't, would he?"

Thumil took a slug of mead. "I wouldn't put it past him. Don't you go doing anything stupid now, Carn. Let me handle it. Grago's an arse, but he's a lawful one. I'll have a word with him, see what can be done."

"You think this Kloon was behind the baresarks as well?" Cordy asked.

"Let's hope so," Thumil said. "Otherwise what happened tonight might just be the start of worse to come. Those shoggers get fired up again, there'll be blood."

"Fine by me," Carn said. "They want blood, I'll give them blood. If they've got an ounce of sense, they'll learn from what happened tonight. Three of them, I put down. Not too shabby, eh?"

"Actually," Cordy said, "it was two. I got the last one."

"True enough, lassie. But it was my axe."
TWELVE

All that talk of blood led to Carn dreaming of blood: rivers of it, pouring down the walls of the ravine, dripping from the walkways and turning the waters of the Sag-Urda red. He woke with a start and reached for his axe. It was there beside him on the floor.

On the floor?

Where the shog was he?

He blinked, eyes adjusting to the dawn light bleeding through the shutters. Of course: Thumil's.

The divan Cordy had slept on was empty, save for the blanket that had covered her. Someone had tidied the room. Cordy, no doubt.

He thought about making himself a kaffa, but when he passed Thumil's bedroom door and found it shut, he decided not to risk waking him with the noise. The faint sound of snoring came from within. The Marshal needed his rest after last night. Carn knew him of old: the instant he woke, Thumil would be off to the Dokon to report what had happened.

No, Cordy had got it right when she'd tidied up and left them to sleep. She was a good lass. Actually, the more he thought about it, there was no one better.

Carn let himself out and strolled back to the Aorta so he could make the descent to the Sward two levels below. When he arrived home and set his axe down in the hallway, the house was empty, save for Aristodeus sitting at the kitchen table with Yalla's _ocras_ helm in front of him. The philosopher was so rapt examining it, he didn't even look up.

"Kaffa?" Carn said, crossing to the hearth and filling the kettle from a keg of water.

Aristodeus jumped out of his seat. "Don't do that; you startled me!" His blue eyes sparkled fiercely, but then dulled to grey in an instant. He let out a sigh and lowered himself back into his chair. "I'm so sorry, Carn."

"Nothing to be sorry for, laddie. Just bruises. Nothing that won't heal. Lukar not up yet?" It would be a miracle if he was.

"I mean, I'm sorry about your pa."

"What's he done now?" Carn started to make a joke but saw something in the way Aristodeus was looking at him. A fist clenched his heart, and he backed up against the hearth.

Aristodeus stood and approached. His movements were awkward, as if he were out of his depth. "There's been an accident at the mines."

"No," Carn said. "No, no, no."

"The gallery Droom was working in collapsed. At least twenty were injured, but your pa..."

Carn sank down onto his haunches.

"I'm truly sorry, Carn." Aristodeus crouched in front of him. "For this, and for what is to come. Believe me, I am working night and day. If I can find a way..." He held a hand up, fingers quivering, as if he were trying to grasp something intangible.

Carn looked at him blankly. He was aware the philosopher was trying to tell him something, but he could think of nothing but Droom. A yawning chasm rose up to swallow him. Aristodeus was speaking again, but his words were muffled and came from a long way off.

"Forgive me. I've said too much already. Just know, whatever happens, I am trying to fix things, Carn. I will see you through, one way or the other. You are far too valuable to lose."

"Lukar?" Carn said. He felt the burn of tears welling at the corners of his eyes. "Does Lukar know?"

Aristodeus turned back to the table, his gaze lingering on the _ocras_ helm. When he replied, he sounded distracted, thinking about something else. "He's gone to the mines to help bring your pa home."

"How?" Carn said. "How did you hear about it?"

"They sent a runner."

"And you were here... in the guest room?"

Aristodeus traced the lines of the engraved "Thayn" on the helm. "Of course not. I never like to impose. I let myself in and out, same as always. If you must know, I've been making enquiries, about the golem, about your brother's obsession with the Axe of the Dwarf Lords, and about this helm."

"That's my ma's. Who said you could touch it? My pa?"

The philosopher returned to his chair and drew in a long, slow breath. "You have to understand, Carn, difficult times are upon us. We must be prepared."

"For what?"

"Everything. I don't expect you to understand, but this is a pivotal moment."

Carn wiped the snot from his nose. "More of your patterns?"

Aristodeus nodded, then fished about in his robe for his pipe. He popped it in his mouth, realized he hadn't filled it, then took it out again and wagged the stem as he spoke.

"I'll be honest with you. More than patterns. Glimpses. Snatches of the future. But which future is still to be determined."

"You know a dwarf called Stupid?" Carn said. "Because you sound a lot like him."

The widening of Aristodeus's eyes betrayed that he did.

"What does he mean," Carn said, "that some names are best forgotten?"

The philosopher's mouth hung open. "Is that what he told you? What else did he say?"

"That I had to forget in order to find the truth of who I am."

"Forget," Aristodeus muttered, "to find the truth." He glanced at Carn. "Of who you are, or what you will become?"

"And that is?"

Aristodeus closed his eyes. He rested one hand atop the _ocras_ helm, and with the other he put his pipe back in his pocket. "Anything I say to you, any careless word, could play into the enemy's hands."

"What enemy? This has to do with the golem, doesn't it? And the faen who stole the _Chronicle_."

Aristodeus grimaced.

Carn pushed himself to his feet. "What enemy?"

"Who do you think it is your precious Council has been afraid of all these centuries?"

"Maldark the Fallen. They don't want to make the same mistake he did."

Aristodeus shook his head. "Beyond Maldark. What was the reason for his fall?"

"Sektis Gandaw."

"Beyond him. The root of all deception, the Lord of Lies."

"Mananoc? That's your enemy? A myth?"

"I thought the same as you, for a very long time. But things change. Knowledge grows." The philosopher cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. "People change."

"I don't need this," Carn said. He turned back to the hearth and snatched up the kettle. "I just want my shogging..." His hand trembled, and he had to set the kettle down with a clang. "I just want my kaffa. Is that too much to ask?" His lips quivered, and hot tears rolled down his cheeks.

Aristodeus half rose from his chair, but Carn held up a hand. "Don't."

"One more thing," Aristodeus said, sitting down again, "then I'll say no more. Promise me you'll do nothing rash. If Lukar asks you to do anything, come to me first."

"Shog off."

"I mean it. I'm trying to help him. Guide him, so he doesn't get blindsided. Everything is in flux, but the future I've seen... it doesn't end well. Not for you, not for him, and not for Arx Gravis."

"And what about the future my pa spoke about? The one the faen prophesied?"

Aristodeus rolled his eyes.

"He said that through me and Lukar our people would become like the dwarf lords of legend."

"Dead!" Aristodeus said. "Isn't that what happens in the story? The Destroyer slaughtered them all, and the city of Arnoch sank beneath the waves, never to be seen again."

That wasn't what Droom had meant. He'd said hope would arise from his boys. Only, it was hard to see how. Carn knew what he was: a half-decent brawler with an appetite for ale. And Lukar was little better, only his appetite was for things to stuff his face with. About the only good thing about them both was Droom, and now he was gone.

"I'm not listening to any more of your nonsense," Carn said. "I'm off."

"Where are you going?"

"To the mines? To a tavern? How the shog should I know? But I'll not spend another second in your company."

"Then I'll leave." Aristodeus stood and turned to go, but at the same instant the front door banged open and footsteps came down the hall.

"Sit back down," Carn told the philosopher. "And keep out of it. This is family business."

Carn went out into the hall and stared as the tail end of a procession passed into the hearth-room. Rugbeard was at the back, and he turned to look at Carn with red-rimmed eyes.

"I'm sorry, son. Really, I am."

Carn made his way down the hall as if he were still in his nightmare, every step like wading through a canal of blood. He wanted to say something to Rugbeard, felt as though he was the one that should be doing the consoling. In the end, all he could manage was a pat on the old dwarf's shoulder, and then he entered the hearth-room.

Four miners stood up from the stretcher bearing Droom that they had just set down on the floor. Lukar was there, too, back to the door. He was staring into the cold hearth. He'd not even taken the time to get dressed. He had on his night robe and slippers, caked over with a layer of dust from the mines. He turned slowly, as if he were dreading doing so. His eyes met Carn's, and his chin began to tremble beneath his beard. The lenses of his spectacles had steamed up.

"Carn?" he said. "Oh, Carn."

Carn crossed the room and embraced him. Lukar shook and shuddered as he sobbed. Carn felt the pressure to cry building up within him, too, but something blocked the tears from falling as freely as his brother's--anger, fear, dread... he couldn't tell which. And then he knew. Knew what it was that had him choking on his own grief: it was abandonment he was afraid of. The fear of being alone. He would never have believed it before today, but it was something his ma had left him: a gaping void, into which he would have pitched long ago, had Droom not been there to hold him.

He clung to Lukar even tighter, and the tears began to flow. They were all they had left now: two brothers, like chalk and cheese.

"It's all right, Carn," Lukar said, holding him out at arm's length and sniffing back snot. "It's going to be all right." He set his jaw and did a good impression of pulling himself together. "You've still got me, brother. We have each other."

Carn nodded, wiped away his tears, but they continued to stream down his cheeks. He turned away, looked down at the stretcher. They had covered Droom with a tarp.

"You want to see him, son?" one of the miners asked.

They all looked distraught, and most were caked head to foot in rock dust.

Carn shook his head, felt Lukar's hand on his shoulder, reassuring him it was all right not to look.

"Apparently," Lukar said in a shaky voice, "some of the miners heard more thuds, deep down, just before the..." He teared up again, and a miner finished for him.

"Shook the whole mine, they did. Never heard the like."

Rugbeard, leaning against the wall beside the door, looked at his feet as he said, "I have. It was the same thing as before. I only hung around after the night watch because they was one lad short. I might be an old drunkard, but I can still work a seam. Only wish they'd given me the eighth level, instead of Droom. Then your pa might have come home without needing to be carried."

Rugbeard looked around as Cordy and Thumil bustled into the room. Thumil was in his nightshirt, his hair an unkempt mess, and Cordy was still wearing the dress she'd had on last night. The purplish marks left by the baresark's fingers stood out on her neck.

Cordy made a beeline for Carn and hugged him. Her tears soaked into his shirt, but his own were all dried up. He felt numb and could barely bring himself to pat her lightly on the back.

Thumil embraced Lukar, and then caught Carn's eye. He'd been crying, too, by the look of him, but there was something else. Thumil wasn't just sad; he seemed regretful, as if it were somehow his fault. Carn wanted to ask him what it was, but before he could muster the words, Thumil turned away and knelt beside the stretcher.

When Aristodeus popped his head into the room, Lukar went straight over to him and began to talk in animated frenzy. Aristodeus nodded in agreement with whatever he was saying, but every now and again flashed a look at Carn.

"Thumil came to get me," Cordy said, "after the Red Cloaks woke him with the news."

Carn eased himself past her and edged toward the door.

"I tell you," Lukar was saying, "we're running out of time. We need the axe."

Aristodeus shook his head. "It was an accident. A cave-in."

"No," Lukar said. "They heard thumping in the deep." He turned to the miners. "Tell him."

Thumil stood, and the miners all looked at him, as if awaiting permission to speak.

"First things first, son," Thumil said. "We need to take care of your pa."

When Lukar started to object, Carn said, "Brother, it's too fresh. Pa's gone. Let's see him to his rest, eh, laddie?"

Lukar closed his eyes and nodded. "I'm sorry, Carn. I just..."

"Carnac is right," Aristodeus said. "Take care of your pa, then take care of each other. Don't worry about me. There's no need to keep taking me to the Scriptorium. There are plenty of other things I still need to do."

"Glad to hear it," Cordy said. "But if it's all the same to you, we'd like to be alone with Droom now."

Aristodeus nodded and started to back out of the room. To Lukar, he said, "Is it all right if I borrow the _ocras_ helm for a bit. I want to run some tests."

"Of course," Lukar said, but he was already passing among the miners who had carried Droom home, shaking each by the hand and nodding his thanks.

"Don't lose it," Carn said.

Aristodeus flashed him an irritated look, but then he was gone.

"There's something I'd like to read," Thumil said, plucking his book from the pocket of his nightshirt. Cordy must have been right: he probably slept with it.

Lukar nodded, and everyone linked hands and formed a circle around the body of Droom Thayn, née Screebank. Arx Gravis would never see his like again, Carn felt sure of it.
THIRTEEN

They held the pyre for Droom on a plaza at the very top of the city, close to the tunnel he'd passed through on his way to the mines most mornings. A light drizzle had dampened the wood and sent up more smoke than they would have liked. Some dwarves muttered about the sooty clouds being seen above the ravine, maybe drawing unwanted attention from the denizens of Medryn-Tha, but Carn insisted they go on, and no one had a mind to refuse him.

It was a good turnout, and even a couple of the councilors were in attendance--Old Moary, who had known Droom all his life, and apparently even delivered him from his mother's womb; and Councilor Dorley, who had come out of respect for Lukar, with whom he had collaborated on a paper or two. A platoon of Red Cloaks was there too. Droom had served with the Ravine Guard briefly, before exchanging his helm and war hammer for a miner's lantern and pickaxe.

As the last of the smoke plumed into the overcast skies, Rugbeard presented Carn with a bottle of Taffyr's Golden Honey Mead.

"My contribution to the wake, son."

Carn thanked him and passed the drink to Cordy to take care of. It reminded him too much of the birthday present he'd never received.

Rugbeard gave Lukar a clothbound book with a rigid cover. "The rest of them are waiting for you back home. A complete set of the _Chronicles._ I copied them myself. Took me close to fifty years. This here's the volume you keep harping on about. The one you've been studying."

"You wrote out the complete _Chronicles_?" Lukar said, already flicking through the crisp, yellowish pages. "By hand?"

"How else would I do it?"

"But this is too much. Thank you, Rugbeard. I don't know what to say."

"Just read them, son. Read them proper-like."

"Wait a minute," Lukar said. He was scanning a page over and over. He jabbed at it with his finger. "There's no mention of golems here. No mention of the Axe of the Dwarf Lords being lost in Aranuin."

Rugbeard cocked his head. "Like I said, someone must have tampered with the original. The only mention of the _Paxa Boraga_ is in the legends of Arnoch in volume one, when the axe went down with the city. Still, I could be wrong. As everyone keeps telling me, the booze has probably rotted my brain, and these old eyes don't see as good as they used to. If you do decide to sneak out of the city and look for the axe in the bowels of Aranuin, I'll give you a clue: it'll be the one with the twin golden blades that shine like the suns and returns to your hand when you throw it."

"Are you mocking me?" Lukar said.

"Course I'm not, son. You take care now, the both of you."

Carn peered over his brother's shoulder at the page as Rugbeard made his way through the funeral crowd.

"You can't just insert a passage in the _Chronicles_ ," Lukar muttered. "Do you have any idea how old the originals are? It would stick out like a sore thumb."

"Maybe the faen altered it," Carn suggested. "When he broke into the Scriptorium."

"Oh, really?" Lukar said. "And brought with him some aged parchment, faded ink, and waxed thread to stitch it?"

Carn shrugged and looked around for Cordy's take on it, but she had moved away while he was talking to Rugbeard, and was deep in conversation with Thumil. He shrugged and had another stab himself. "Don't the faen have some fancy lore they use, some kind of magic?"

"Just because you loved Pa dearly," Lukar said, "doesn't obligate you to believe every word he said. Those were children's stories he used to read us."

Carn was about to contradict him. "What about the faen who broke into the Scriptorium?" he was going to say. "The wand it had, and the disk?" Surely they constituted lore as tangible as the pies Lukar liked so much. But something changed in his brother's demeanor. Lukar sighed with what sounded like resignation; or perhaps it was grief, pure and simple. For once, he didn't seem to have the will to argue.

Lukar rapped his knuckles on Carn's head. "We're grown up now, Carn. Big boys." His cheek twitched, and his eyes brimmed with tears. "And now I fear we are orphans."

Carn pulled him into a hug. "I know, laddie. I know."

He felt Lukar's distraction and looked up to see Aristodeus lurking at the edge of the plaza. The philosopher had a bulging canvas bag over one shoulder. At first, Carn thought there was a boulder inside it, but then he recalled Aristodeus taking the _ocras_ helm.

"I'm sorry, Carn," Lukar said, breaking away from him. "I agreed to meet him after the pyre."

"He can't leave you alone for one minute? Even for Pa's funeral?"

Lukar was already walking toward Aristodeus, but he threw back over his shoulder, "He just wanted to tell me what he's been up to... with Ma's helm. I won't be long. I'll see you at the wake."

As the rest of the attendees dispersed, Carn saw Cordy leaving along with them. Maybe she'd lost sight of him in the crowd, but she didn't even wave--and she had his mead! Thumil, though, made his way over. He was resplendent in his golden helm and red cloak.

When he saw Carn watching Cordy's departure, Thumil explained, "She's got to set up the booze for tonight. Her entire family's helping out. Your pa was greatly loved. Now, tell me, son, what have you got planned between now and then? Don't know about you, but I could use a pre-wake drink, and it's been awhile since the two of us had any alone time."

"You mean without Cordy?"

"Don't get me wrong, Carn, I love Cordy dearly, but when all's said and done, she's not a bloke."

"You might want to tell her that. She seems to forget sometimes." Save for when she got all dressed up the night of her beer launch. She was definitely a woman then, and a fine looking one at that.

"What do you say to lunch at Grimark's, and maybe a mead or two at Bucknard's after?"

Carn sighed. "I don't know, Thumil. I'm not good company right now."

"You mean you were before? Come on, son, there's things I need to talk with you about. Don't worry, I'm buying. No point me stashing all those tokens under the bed if I don't get to use them once in a while." He slung an arm over Carn's shoulder and led him toward the walkway. "Goat and mushroom pie, and one of those new-fangled vegetable thingies, washed down with a bottle of red."

"Wine?" Carn said. "Have you lost your beard, laddie?"

"It's all the rage."

"On the seventh level, maybe. Among the councilors."

As it turned out, Grimark wouldn't take the tokens from Thumil. Droom used to pick up pies there on a regular basis, and as a customer he was going to be greatly missed.

Seeing as it was on the house, Thumil ordered himself two pies and a pile of shredded greens. Carn had just the one, but besides picking off the crust, he hardly touched it. The wine was insipid, but Thumil seemed to like it, swilling it under his nose and making all the right appreciative noises.

"How's it feel now, being just you and Lukar?" he asked when he set his glass down.

"Don't know," Carn said. "It's..."

"Too early to say? Too raw? I know, son. I know all about that. I ever tell you about how I lost my folks? Oh, it was a long time ago, but you never get used to it. You see, Arx Gravis hasn't always been as safe as it is now. Back before you were born--before your ma and pa were married--we had our share of incursions. The worst of them came from the region around Mount Sartis. Don't look so surprised. Hardly anyone knows the details, outside the Council, the Black Cloaks, and whoever happens to be Marshal. I think they'd rather keep it an even tighter secret, but if the Marshal of the Ravine Guard is in the dark, he can't very well be prepared for every potential threat, can he?

"The Voice back then was, shall we say, on the progressive side. He argued persuasively that it was time to cast off the shackles Maldark's betrayal had forced us to wear. Plans were afoot for more settlements; and then came an even more audacious proposal. Some scholar or other, not dissimilar to your Lukar, drew the Voice's attention to the passages in the _Chronicles_ about the dwarf lords harnessing energy from volcanoes for their crafting, their work with _ocras_ , and shog knows what else. Without going to the people, the Council set the project in motion, and all the sappers and soldiers they sent were sworn to secrecy. Well, it was the first and probably the last time the Council thought they could steer a course out of the ravine and back into the world above."

Carn found he couldn't meet Thumil's eyes. Instead, he was fixated on the ruby wine in his glass. He swilled it around, and as he studied the ripples, his heart began to thud in his chest. For an instant, he gazed once more upon the reflection he'd seen in the Scriptorium window the day of the break-in: his own blood-soaked face staring back at him with anguished eyes. No, not anguished: frenzied, like a baresark's, only worse. Eyes consumed with madness and rage.

"... must have disturbed them when we started to engineer the lava vents," Thumil was saying.

Carn looked up and tried to show that he was following the story.

"Goblins," Thumil said. "Thousands of the shoggers. Slaughtered our people on site at Mount Sartis, then made their way here and started pouring down the lip of the ravine. If it hadn't been for your ma, Carn, and how she rallied the Red Cloaks..." He raised his glass to his lips, went to take a sip, but paused. "My pa was in the fore of the battle. So was my ma. Back then, more of the womenfolk were in the Ravine Guard, but after the attack, the Council realized we couldn't afford to lose any more, not if we were to survive as a race. You knew that, right? Course you did: your ma was Marshal long before I was."

Carn met his eyes then. "She was?"

"Droom didn't tell you?"

"He told us she trained the Ravine Guard. He never said she was in charge."

Thumil took a sip, then another, and then he drained the glass. "Guess he had his reasons. Knowing your ma, she told him not to speak about it. Folk wanted a ceremony to honor her for what she did that day, but she wouldn't have it. She blamed herself, see. Blamed herself for the people we lost. Instead of accepting a medal, she resigned her commission.

"I was only starting out in the Ravine Guard at the time, but I still remember. I wanted to blame her too, because it wasn't just my pa the goblins killed. When my ma saw him fall, she lost it, they say."

He poured himself another wine, spilling drops over the side of his glass from where his hand shook so much.

"She fought her way to him, but it was already too late. And then she went down, too. They found her body lying over Pa's, still trying to protect him.

"I wasn't even out of basic training, so I was posted on the seventh level, in case the goblins reached the Dokon. When they told me, the only thing I felt was anger. I blamed everyone I could, and no one as much as your ma. But when she came to me--when the Marshal of the Ravine Guard came to me, a lowly nobody--and wept for my ma and pa, and for everyone else she'd lost that day, I held her and hugged her and knew in my heart she was a great woman. A great, great woman."

Carn was spellbound. While he couldn't take his eyes off Thumil, his imagination was running wild, conjuring images of battle, of valor, of blood, death and glory. He tried to picture the woman in Durgish Duffin's painting, armored, bloodied, but ripping into the enemy like a goddess of war, doing everything she could to save her people.

"So," Thumil said, "I know what it's like to be orphaned. Cordy does, too."

"Aye," Carn said. "Aye, she does that." Her pa had wasted away before her very eyes. Her ma had sacrificed everything in a vain effort to nurse him back to health, and when he'd finally given up the ghost, she had followed soon after. It was said she'd died of exhaustion, but everyone knew it had been a broken heart.

"And, no matter how much time passes," Thumil said, "I'm still an orphan. No family of my own. No brother, like you have. I used to wonder if I'd die alone, with no heir to leave behind."

"Don't be silly, Thumil. I'm sure some old trollop will have you. If you pay them enough tokens, maybe one of Bucknard's whores?"

Thumil laughed, but it wasn't his usual deep belly-laugh. "Son, I've never visited a whore in my life, and I never will. But seriously, you're young and well-liked, Carn. You'll bounce back from this. The key is learning how to make your suffering count for something, how to offer it up for a higher cause."

Carn wrinkled his nose, and when Thumil reached into his pocket for the _Lek Vae_ , he groaned and rolled his eyes.

"You want to read this, Carn. I tell you, it's changed me. For the better, I hope."

"Maybe one day, laddie, but not today." And probably not the next day either, or the one after that.

Thumil returned the book to his pocket and gave an embarrassed smile.

"But I should tell you," Carn said, "nothing in that book of yours is going to convert me from beer to wine."

The conversation turned to Maldark, and how the scriptures had shaped him, how he'd failed to live up to them in the end. But gradually Thumil steered them onto discussing the golem incident, and the faen breaking into the Scriptorium. When they had exhausted all avenues of speculation and come up as confused by the events as ever, about all they could agree on was that the incidents were connected.

What was most baffling was Rugbeard's insistence that the _Chronicles_ had been altered. The _Chronicles_ were so long, not a scholar alive could boast knowing everything they contained, and yet Lukar had a special interest in anything that related to myth and how it impacted upon history. If he was convinced the passages in question were genuine, then they almost certainly were. Yet Rugbeard disagreed, and he knew the _Chronicles_ better than all the current crop of scholars put together.

"It seems to me," Thumil said, "the real issue is what the contentious passages contain. I went to the Scriptorium to see for myself, but your brother has that particular volume out on loan."

"All I know is what he told me," Carn said. "Repeated incursions by golems, that led to the Founders pursuing them into Aranuin. Apparently, the Founders had brought the Axe of the Dwarf Lords with them from Arnoch."

"And they lost it in Aranuin," Thumil said. "That much I got. But do the _Chronicles_ really say the Founders were refugees from Arnoch? I don't remember the stories saying there were survivors."

Carn shrugged. "I thought that was the point. With the death of the dwarf lords, the age of myth came to an end, paving the way for the age of history."

"There's something I'm not seeing," Thumil said. "I've a nagging feeling these passages are the key to what's going on, a portent, a warning."

"Or a deception," Carn said. "If Rugbeard is to be believed."

"Then they're better off left alone, ignored. Or does that make me sound like a councilor? I don't know, Carn, it's beyond me. I must be getting old. I certainly feel it after these past few days. And with what I'm learning from the scriptures,"--he slapped the book in his pocket--"with how I'm beginning to change, I'm starting to think I'm not cut out for the Ravine Guard anymore."

"Well," Carn said, pouring what was left of his wine into Thumil's glass, "with the way you guzzle this hemorrhoid juice, you do have to wonder."

"Want me to buy you a beer instead?" Thumil said, already waving Grimark over.

"It'd make my day if you ordered one for yourself, too."

"Two beers, Grimark," Thumil said. "You have Arnochian?"

"Shog's that?" Grimark said, wiping his hands on his apron.

"Ballbreakers all right, Carn?"

"Have to be."

When Grimark shuffled away to fix the beers, Thumil said, "Don't tell anyone I said this, least not till I've made up my mind, but I'm thinking of stepping down as Marshal. I'm considering leaving the Ravine Guard."

"Hurry up with that beer, Grimark," Carn called out. "You're what? I tell you, Thumil, the sooner you use that book of yours as latrine paper, the better."

Thumil held up his hand. "No, Carn, it's not the book. Well, maybe partly it is, but there's more to it than that. I've been meaning to tell you for some time, but I've been taking an interest in other things, you know, how the city runs. Not only what needs to be done, but what could be done. And then there's the other matter I was wanting to talk to you about." He met Carn's eyes and steepled his fingers on the tabletop. "There's no easy way to say this. Believe me, I've been trying to come up with one for weeks. The thing is, Carn--"

The door flew open, and a Black Cloak burst in. He clapped eyes on Thumil, panting heavily, as if he'd run at great speed and for quite some distance.

"Marshal Thumil Stonemage." The Svark dropped to one knee and bowed.

"You don't need to bow to me, son," Thumil said. "I'm not Councilor Grago. We don't go in for that kind of kowtowing in the Ravine Guard."

"Sorry, sir, it's what I was told to do. Councilor Grago sent me. Dythin Rala passed in the night, sir. The Voice is dead."

Grimark set the tankards down on the table with successive thuds. "What did you say?"

The Black Cloak stood. "What I have to say is for the Marshal's ears only."

"Then sod off outside and talk," Grimark said. "It's my pie shop. I'll shogging well listen to whatever I like."

"Grimark, please," Thumil said.

"I'll sod off for you, Marshal, but not for his kind." Grimark shot the Black Cloak a glare as he made his way back behind the counter.

"You, too," the Black Cloak said to Carn.

"No," Thumil said. "Anything you say to me can be said in front of Lieutenant Carnac."

"If you say so, sir. Your presence is required at the Dokon."

"Once I've finished my lunch."

"Now, sir. Without delay."

Suddenly, it seemed Droom's wake was a matter of insignificance, whereas moments before it had been the talk of the ravine. Carn felt the smoldering coal of resentment burning in his chest. He took a slurp of beer to dowse it, then said, "Didn't you hear the Marshal, laddie? Now shog off and let us finish our meal in peace."

"Marshal," the Black Cloak said, "I implore you--"

"You hear that, Thumil? He implores you."

Thumil pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Svark..."

"Varn, sir. Svark Turl Varn."

"Svark Varn, it's usual for the incoming Voice to meet with the Marshal of the Ravine Guard after his inauguration, not before. Or are you telling me the new Voice has changed tradition already? Who did Dythin Rala nominate? Please tell me it wasn't Grago."

"You, sir," the Black Cloak said.

Thumil's jaw hung slack, and Carn spluttered out a mouthful of beer.

"Him?" Carn said. "You're shogging with us, right?"

Thumil apparently didn't think so. He stood as though he were going to his own execution and nodded grimly to Varn. "I'm sorry, Carn. You know I wouldn't miss Droom's wake for anything, but in this I have no choice."

"Mind if I have your beer?" Carn said, reaching across the table for it.

"No, no, not at all," Thumil said. "I'll do my best to join you later, if I can. Give my apologies to Lukar. Oh, and tell Cordy... Just tell her."

Varn held the door open for him, and Thumil left without a backward glance.

"What was that all about?" Grimark said, wandering over to the door and peering out after them.

Carn shook his head. "Shogged if I know."

But he did know. Not just that Thumil had been made Voice, but that Droom's wasn't the only loss he'd have to grieve this day. It was one thing being mates with the Marshal, but quite another fraternizing with the leader of the Council. Right then, the only person he wanted to be around, the only person who could possibly understand how he felt, was Cordy, but she was busy preparing for the wake.

He downed his beer in one, did the same with Thumil's, then held the empties up to Grimark and ordered himself two more.
FOURTEEN

The day of Thumil's inauguration as Voice, Carn was on duty with Kaldwyn Gray. The seventh level plaza garden had been chosen for the ceremony, and rows of bleachers had been erected in the circular glade at the heart of a winding maze of shrubs and trees. The evening air smelled of honeysuckle and roses, all tended and pruned to perfection by the Council's gardeners. Through the foliage, the looming walls of the Aorta that housed the Dokon provided an austere backdrop to the proceedings. The chatter of insects and the chirping lullabies of the garden's multitude of birds underlaid the hubbub of expectant voices, not only from the dignitaries filling the bleachers, but from the Ravine Guard dotted throughout the maze in pairs, and the thousands of citizens of Arx Gravis gathered upon every tier of the city for the walkway parties that were shortly to commence. About the only people not talking were the Black Cloaks, a dozen of them in full view behind the thrones lined up facing the bleachers, and no doubt dozens more lurking out of sight.

Carn and Kal made a slow tour of the perimeter and took up their allotted positions either side of the colonnaded pathway that led from the Dokon. The suns had all but gone from the darkening sky, leaving a thin trail of red edging the walkways above.

Carn upended his axe and rested his hands atop the haft as he surveyed the seated crowd--the ministers of every tier of the city, along with their families, senior officials, representatives from the major guilds, and the entourage of each of the councilors themselves.

In the front row, as Thumil's sole guest, was Cordy, as close to family as he had. She caught Carn's eye and surreptitiously raised her fingers in a wave. She was even more radiant tonight than she'd been at the beer launch. Her dress was the blue of a cloudless sky, and her golden hair and beard were braided with silver bands. The other women on the bleachers looked drab in comparison, and they knew it, judging by the furtive looks they kept sending her way.

Kal gave a low whistle and winked at Carn. "You sly old goat. I saw you looking."

Heat flooded Carn's face, and he shifted his gaze above the seating. The light coming down from the top of the ravine altered as Raphoe took to the sky. Steely half-light gave way to shimmering silver that spangled the ravine walls and limned the overhead walkways.

Perfectly on cue, the _ocras_ door of the Dokon ground slowly open and two Black Cloaks marched out onto the colonnaded pathway, with the eleven current members of the Council of Twelve processing behind. At their rear, garbed in the red cloak and golden helm of the Marshal of the Ravine Guard, came Thumil, and behind him was the Chamberlain of Arx Gravis, a pristine white robe draped over his arm.

Something dark flittered through the silver light bathing the bleachers. Gasps went up, and Red Cloaks advanced from the fringes of the maze. It was only a bat, seeking out an evening meal, and after a few moments of relieved sighs, the onlookers focused their attention once more on the councilors as they took their positions behind the thrones, leaving the one in the middle for Thumil.

Carn couldn't see his friend's face from where he stood behind, but he still felt a swell of pride at Thumil's bearing as he removed his golden helm and handed it to the Chamberlain. Next, Thumil unclasped his red cloak and exchanged it for the white robe the Chamberlain was carrying. He put the robe on over his mail hauberk, britches and boots. Symbolically, he needed to retain at least some of his Marshal's uniform until he'd chosen his successor. For now, he would be both Voice and Marshal, but only for a day or two. Holding both positions at once was considered too much power. If he didn't give up one or the other, the rest of the Council would make the decision for him, which was one reason, Carn supposed, for Councilor Grago having control of the Black Cloaks: it was a balance to the Voice's hegemony.

Once Thumil had donned and straightened his white robe, he signaled the other councilors to be seated. Immediately, the Black Cloaks behind the thrones drifted closer.

Thumil remained standing as the Chamberlain gave a short speech introducing him, and then the newly appointed Voice of the Council of Twelve stepped toward the bleachers and recited the oath of office: to put aside personal interests and to serve the greater good of the city; to guard tradition; to ensure fair distribution of tokens; to encourage debate among the Twelve, but to have the final say where a decision could not be reached; to conduct himself with dignity, fairness, and impartiality at all times; and to always act collegially with his fellow councilors, and never unilaterally, so as to avoid the errors of the past, when Maldark the Fallen had betrayed the whole of Aosia to Sektis Gandaw.

Carn thought the oath was unfair to the Fallen. According to the tales Droom had read him as a child, Maldark regretted his betrayal, and helped avert the catastrophe he had set in motion. Afterward, Maldark had vanished from the world. Some say he sailed the Sea of Weeping until he reached the Abyss; others that he made his way to the Vanatusian Empire, determined to work out his penance.

Storytellers loved their embellishments, but one thing was always made clear by the morality tale of Maldark: despite all he had done to make amends, the dwarves had never forgiven him. Never forgotten. Indeed, the whole structure of Arx Gravis society was a safeguard against repeating Maldark's errors, against ever again falling for the deceptions of Mananoc.

A polite round of applause followed the oath, and Thumil stood patiently until it ended.

"Thank you. And thank you all for the support and respect you showed me during my time as Marshal. I will make an announcement about who is to succeed me tomorrow, but this evening, if I could crave your indulgence for just a short while longer, there is something else I would like to share with you. I can think of no better time than my inauguration as Voice of the Council of Twelve to announce my intention to marry."

Kal flashed Carn a look and mouthed, "Marry? Thumil?"

Carn's galloping heart made the connections before his brain. He was numb from head to toe as Thumil extended a hand toward the bleachers and Cordy rose from her seat and came toward him. Even when Thumil embraced her, it hadn't truly sunk in; but then Cordy glanced at Carn over Thumil's shoulder, and her eyes glistened with tears of joy mingled with tears of sadness, of regret, of shame.

Carn threw down his axe--the axe Thumil had bought him for his birthday--and strode from the glade.

"Carn!" Kal called after him.

Gasps went up from the bleachers. The thud of feet came from behind.

"Carn, we're on duty," Kal said, taking his arm.

Carn shrugged him off and kept walking.

Kal didn't follow, but he said, "Oh, shog, Carn, I'm sorry."

Had it been so obvious? So obvious what he felt for Cordy? How could it have been? He'd not even suspected it himself until his birthday, and he'd assumed that was on account of the drink and her dress. But tonight, with how she looked in the moonlight, dazzling like a diamond in a coal bunker, he realized it had always been there, disguised with thumps and kicks and ribbing. And with the realization had come the hope that she felt the same, that finally the veils that obscured what they really were to each other were falling away.

_Idiot._

_Shogwit._

Had he been completely blind?

But Thumil was twice her age, maybe more. How could she even...

He didn't want to go there. Couldn't. He just kept on walking until he reached the steps winding about the Aorta and started to make his way down.

And what was Thumil thinking, humiliating him in public? Why hadn't he said something before? Or was that what he'd been trying to talk about at Grimark's when the Black Cloak's arrival had interrupted him? Even so, it was a betrayal, a deception. How long had it been going on? How long had the three of them been going out places together, and all the while there was some hidden agenda between Cordy and Thumil? It hurt to the core. Acid tears welled in the corners of his eyes. Every muscle in his body clenched so much, he shook, and he almost lost his footing. When he reached the eighth level, he paused to gather himself, sucked in deep, long breaths, then started for the steps to the ninth.

A rustle of movement behind. An arm about his neck. Cold steel pressed to his throat.

"What's up, shogger?" Baldar Kloon hissed. "You think I wouldn't come for you, after what you did? Well, I got news for you, scut-face. There's no Marshal protecting you anymore, and you're gonna pay for--"

Carn slammed him back against the Aorta wall. Kloon grunted and dropped his dagger, which clattered from the steps and fell below. Kloon went for a chokehold, but Carn elbowed him in the ribs, then crashed his head back into Kloon's nose. He spun and swung his fist, but Kloon swayed aside and swept Carn's legs from under him. He landed heavily on his back, head hanging out over the drop. Kloon leapt on him, hammering blow after blow into his face. Briefly, Carn didn't care. He soaked up the punches, almost reveling in the ensuing dizziness. What did it matter? What did he have to lose? But then he caught sight of Kloon's animal eyes, the spray of spittle that accompanied the whuff he put into every blow. Kloon was an evil runt, and like the rest of the Black Cloaks, he thought he could act with impunity. Worse than that, he was a cocky little scut, just begging to have someone put him in his place.

Carn set one foot against a step and heaved Kloon onto his back. He got a hand around Kloon's throat, choking him, and with the other pounded him in the face again and again. When Kloon went limp, Carn climbed off and stood.

Kloon's eyes were swollen to slits, and his mouth was a bloody mess. His breath rattled, and he moaned as he drifted in and out of consciousness. Finally, his head lolled to one side and he stilled.

Carn knew he should call the Ravine Guard, get Kloon to a surgeon. He stepped over the body and looked down at the level below in case a patrol was passing. When he saw nothing, he cupped his hands around his mouth and prepared to shout for help, but something struck him in the back of the knee, and he stumbled down a step and twisted his ankle.

Before he could recover, Kloon leapt to his back and started clawing at his eyes. With a roar, Carn grabbed him at the groin and neck and hoisted him overhead. Metal glinted as Kloon produced a second knife and slashed wildly at Carn's face. Carn turned his head aside, and the blade grated against the collar of his chainmail. A fraction higher, and it would have sliced his jugular. Kloon twisted, and stabbed again, this time aiming for the neck. Carn shook him, yelled at him to stop, but that only made Kloon more vicious. Stab after stab he rained down, most of them hitting armor, one or two gashing Carn's forearms.

Carn threw him then, down the steps, but Kloon was lithe as a cat and landed on his feet. He bounded up three steps and launched himself at Carn, blade glittering amber in the light of the glowstones. Carn swayed aside and punched him in the head. Kloon shrieked, and his knife spun away over the side. He hit the steps so hard, he bounced. Carn saw the danger and lunged for him, but Kloon's legs scissored over his head, and he flipped into the chasm.

Carn threw himself down on his stomach and watched Kloon fall. He stretched out a hand vainly, as if he could still catch him. The knife hit the ninth level first, then Kloon struck the walkway with the sound of pulped fruit.
FIFTEEN

Carn knew he should have gone straight to the Ravine Guard, but instead he hurried all the way down to the fourteenth level. He didn't know what else to do. A Black Cloak had been killed, and even if he was given a chance to defend himself, it wouldn't turn out well. Those shoggers were untouchable, and they had as many connections and privileges as the councilors they were sworn to serve. And so he let himself into Thumil's house, got the hearth fire going, and seated himself on the divan to wait.

The floor was stacked with crates, bags and boxes, and it didn't take a genius to work out what they were. It was customary for the Voice to remain in his own home, albeit with visible security from the Red Cloaks, and invisible from the Black. But those designated would be watching over the newly appointed Voice at the inauguration and the party after, before taking up their posts. If it had been any other way, Carn wouldn't have made it past the courtyard garden. He glared bitterly at the things piled up in the hearth-room. They weren't an indication that Thumil was moving out. Cordy was moving in.

He lost track of time as he waited. Outside, the glowstones were at full tilt as Raphoe's glare lifted away from the ravine. Boisterous sounds of revelry came from the walkways, mostly from a distance, but occasionally drunken stragglers would pass by the windows.

Finally, he heard the front door open, and muffled voices out in the hallway. Then louder, more urgently, he heard Cordy say, "Did you leave the hearth burning?"

The door to the hearth-room inched open and a Black Cloak stepped inside. He set eyes on Carn and half-drew his shortsword, but Thumil appeared behind him and put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"It's all right, Svark. He's a friend."

"Carn?" Cordy said, poking her head round behind Thumil.

"I should talk with him alone," Thumil said. He planted a kiss on her cheek.

"I just wanted to say..." Cordy tried to meet Carn's eyes, but he looked away. "Maybe I should sleep at my place tonight, Thumil. I can bring the rest of my things over in the morning, then straighten up here."

Thumil nodded that he agreed, then said to the Black Cloak, "Escort her home, and keep watch outside."

"My Lord Voice." The Black Cloak disappeared through the doorway with Cordy.

Thumil turned back to the entrance hall and issued commands to what must have been other Black Cloaks out there. The front door slammed shut, and then he returned to the hearth-room carrying Carn's axe.

"That should keep them busy." He crossed the room and leaned the axe against the divan. "I think you forgot something in your hurry to leave."

Carn stared at the opposite wall, focusing on one spot until it swirled in his vision.

"Would you like a drink?" Thumil asked.

There were cobwebs in the corner above the hearth. They looked like they had been there for years, but that would no doubt change now that Cordy was moving in. She was a stickler for cleanliness and wouldn't be able to abide even a lingering speck of dust.

"Look, Carn," Thumil said. "I tried to tell you, but--"

"You still the Marshal?" Carn asked.

"For now. I'll be announcing Gul Mordin as my successor in the morning."

"That goat shagger?"

"That's enough, Carn. I know you're upset. You have every right to be. But you're still Ravine Guard, and you'll show Marshal Mordin the same respect you've always shown me."

"Until now," Carn said.

Thumil sighed and looked around for somewhere to sit. Finally, he tugged off his white robe, revealing the chainmail and britches beneath. He perched himself on the edge of the hearth and set about removing his armor.

"How long?" Carn said.

"Me and Cordy? You have to believe me, nothing happened until--"

"Spare me the details, laddie. Just tell me when it was decided you two were an item."

"Three, four months."

It was like a knife in the guts. "That how long you took me for a shogger?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Thumil said. He grunted as he pulled his chainmail over his head and dumped it on the floor. Underneath, his gambeson was sweat-stained and filthy, but at least it had the ring of honesty to it.

"Oh, I'm ridiculous now, am I?"

"Yes," Thumil said. He pushed himself to his feet. "Yes, you shogging well are. It doesn't matter what you think of me, but you are my friend, and you always will be."

Carn snorted.

"And Cordy feels the same."

"Course she does. She has to agree with you now, doesn't she? You're the Voice, and soon to be her husband."

"Oh, come on, Carn, don't be a shogger. Cordy loves you. I know that, she's always known that, but you were just too blind to see it."

"Shog you."

"No, shog you. This is my house, and you'll hear what I have to say. That woman worships the ground you walk on, Carn. She might be rubbish at showing it, but what do you think it was, all that punching you in the face and insulting you?"

"Spiteful?"

"You gave as good as you got. It's just how she's made, is all. Cordy's not good at showing affection. Truth be told, she gave up on you, Carn. She thought you saw her as just one of the lads."

"I did. So did everyone."

"Not me."

Silence fell heavy between them. Carn reached for the haft of his axe, ran his fingers over it. Part of him wanted to take it outside, sling it from a walkway, but it was a good axe by any stretch of the imagination. And another part of him couldn't help thinking it was a gift of friendship that, if once thrown away, would be the snuffing out of all that had gone before. He wasn't ready for that. He'd already lost too much.

"You ready for that drink yet?" Thumil said, on his way to the kitchen.

He returned a short while later with two tankards of mead. Carn accepted one, but just stared into it.

"You want to tell me what happened between you and Kloon?" Thumil said, seating himself on a crate opposite the divan.

"How did you...? The body, of course. I was going to report it, but..."

"But Kloon was a Black Cloak," Thumil finished for him. "I understand that. The Ravine Guard would have had no choice but to turn you over to the Svarks. It's just the way things are done."

"But you could put a stop to that."

"Aye, as Marshal I could. Protecting my own. But I'm not going to be Marshal come morning."

"No, you're the shogging Voice. You can do whatever you like."

Thumil shook his head. "It doesn't work like that. The Voice doesn't get to make decisions or change things; he's the one to toe the line, the defender of tradition. If I start interfering with the work of the Black Cloaks, Grago will pass a motion, and I could very well be removed from office. Worse, maybe. Do you know how many Voices have been assassinated since the time of the Founders?"

"Yes, and every one traced to the Svarks. I tell you, Thumil, those scuts have got to go."

"No, Carn, they haven't. A while ago I might have agreed with you, but Dythin Rala taught me how they are necessary."

"He approved of the Black Cloaks?"

Thumil chuckled. "Approved might be stretching it a bit far, but he certainly saw how they were essential to the governance of Arx Gravis."

"How did you know it was me?" Carn asked. "Am I being watched?"

"Not as far as I know. But it's early days yet, and I've not even had my first meeting with the councilors since being inaugurated. But as far as me knowing it was you, I didn't. I just put two and two together. I humiliated Kloon. You punched his lights out. I was told Kloon was somewhat unbalanced, vindictive, that he'd slit his own mother's throat if he she refused him her titty to suck on. You know the sort."

"No, I don't. I thought he was just a shogger."

Thumil shook his head. "Thing is, hardly anyone besides a baresark would have a go at a Black Cloak, and only a very few would have a hope of beating one. What with our history with Kloon, and you storming out of the ceremony, it didn't take a lot to guess who was behind his death."

Carn nodded to himself, threading together the logic of Thumil's thinking. "He attacked me."

"I'm sure he did. You might be a meat-headed scut-sucker, but you're no killer, Carn. Certainly no murderer. Don't worry, son, I'll hand over the truth of things to Mordin and make sure he leaves you alone. As for Grago and the Svarks, I'll need some time to sound things out, learn the ropes, but they'll not touch you openly, not if the Marshal's got your back."

"Mordin," Carn scoffed.

"Who else did you think I'd pick? You? Carn, you're the best of the Ravine Guard physically, but being Marshal's not just about winning fights."

"Yet you trusted me with command."

"Of a platoon, yes. Somewhere for you to cut your teeth. But you're not ready for the big job. Maybe you never will be."

"Not like you, eh? Or my ma?"

Thumil sighed. "You're still young, Carn. A hundred and sixty. I'm twice your age and then some. I wasn't always this brilliant, you know." He attempted a smile, but it was as false as his friendship had been.

"So, over me, you appoint Mordin, a dwarf well known to be partial to goats and young girls."

"Girl, Carn. It was a girl. Bethyn Barlow, and she was ninety-six at the time."

"And how old was Mordin? Five hundred? Six?"

"Four hundred and twenty, give or take. Much older, and his dwarfhood wouldn't have been up to the task. Trust me, I'm not even at my fourth century, and I know."

"Bet Cordy loves that," Carn said.

Some of the forced humor left Thumil's eyes. "That was disrespectful, Carn. To both of us."

Carn felt his cheeks burning. Droom would have been ashamed of his son behaving like this. "Sorry," he muttered. "I'm being a shogger. I wish I knew how to handle this better, but I don't."

"Then let me give you a clue," Thumil said, nodding at the untouched mead in Carn's hand. "Drink up."

Carn set his tankard down on the table beside the divan and stood. "I'm sorry, Thumil. I can't do this." He grabbed his axe.

"Going home?"

Carn shook his head. "I'm supposed to be working. I should pick up my shift, and work extra to make up for it."

"No," Thumil said. "Definitely not. With this Kloon business hanging over you, I want you to take some time off. Not only that, but your pa's just had his pyre, for shog's sake. Take a break, Carn, at least until I've had a chance to clear things up with Grago."
SIXTEEN

When Carn left Thumil's house he had no destination in mind, he just went down. As he passed the sixteenth level, he felt the brief tug of home, but what would be the point? Who was there? Not Droom anymore, and Lukar would no doubt be poring over books with Aristodeus.

Rather than cross the walkway to the Sward, he continued to descend the steps of the Aorta, deeper and deeper into the ravine, until finally, at the twenty-first level--the last bastion of civilization, as it was jokingly called--he found himself climbing down the same iron ladder to the bottom that he had come up the day of the break-in.

The sounds and smells of the street parties celebrating Thumil's inauguration had been the same on each level he passed: laughter, music, the odd snatch of frayed tempers; pipe smoke, ale, the cloying aroma of incensed braziers. But on the twenty-second level, the floor of the ravine, it was different. The gibber of gibunas--and the stench of them--undercut the festivities and stood out as a testament to the savagery of the people who dwelled at the bottom. Which was baresarks mostly, and those who had squandered all their tokens on ale and had no means of earning any more. And then there were the barge-folk, who made a living ferrying supplies to the paltry businesses, legal and otherwise, that lined the banks of the canals.

The music here was different, too: not the calming quartets of the upper levels, or the shanties and bawdy tunes of those further down. It was hard and percussive, a perpetual din that punctuated the roars of laughter and the screams that would never be answered.

Passersby gave him hard stares and exchanged hushed words among themselves. Others shouted obscenities, and some looked ready to cut him up into pieces and feed him to the gibunas. He set his jaw against the hostility. It was to be expected down here, more so because he still had on the helm and red cloak of the Ravine Guard.

Carn had sneaked down to the ravine bed several times in the past to watch the circle fights. He'd wanted to see for himself what the baresarks were capable of. He'd been awed at how well they could take a punch, how seriously they could be injured and yet keep on coming; but their skill was severely lacking. Against most regular dwarves, the baresarks could rely on savagery, brute strength, their uncanny resilience, and always come off best. But he'd been wondering for some time how they would fare against him. He'd almost gotten his answer the other night, when Kloon's hired thugs had attacked him, Thumil and Cordy. Those baresarks had been tough enough, but he'd triumphed in the end. Only, it hadn't been a pure test of strength, dwarf to dwarf. Weapons had been involved, and Carn had yet to meet anyone who could best him with an axe.

He followed the jeers and cheers of the fight crowds through narrow streets that cut between the canal-side warehouses and rundown tenement buildings in the Sag-Urda district. As he approached the arena, permanent structures gave way to stalls selling sausages, turkey drummers, skewered goat meat and all manner of pies. Further in, and the beer tents were doing good business. Once or twice he picked up the pungent whiff of somnificus, which everyone knew was freely available on the twenty-second, where the Ravine Guard didn't dare patrol.

A gibuna came rampaging through the crowd, knuckles scraping the floor as it loped along using its spindly arms and squat legs. People screamed and yelled as it snatched a pie from a stall. The crowd around Carn scattered, leaving him face to face with the creature. It turned crazed yellow eyes on him, and gave him a fang-filled leer, but the instant he raised his axe, it fled, bounding from stall to stall and leaving carnage in its wake.

"Should've shogging killed it," a filthy dwarf with a matted beard and greasy apron said, scratching his arse and sniffing his fingers. "It's what you're paid for, ain't it? Scutting Red Cloak bastard."

Carn shoved roughly past him. When the shogger kept on cussing him out, he willed himself to keep on walking. He wasn't here for putting scum like that in their place. Nor was he here to cull gibunas. With the shock of learning about Cordy and Thumil still consuming him, and the fallout from the fight with Kloon, one thing, and one thing alone, had brought him to the arse end of Arx Gravis. There was nothing keeping him from it now: no Droom to worry about him; no Cordy to tell him he was being a shogwit; and no Thumil to reprimand him for bringing the Ravine Guard into disrepute.

He pushed his way through the loiterers, drunks and streetwalkers to the arena, unfastening his red cloak as he went and dropping it in the gutter.

He was here to fight.

The arena was a huge oval surrounded by stacked crates that had come off the barges. Carn removed his helm and left it atop one of them. The flickering glow of braziers illuminated the space within in patches of orange. The oval encompassed half a dozen chalk circles, around the edge of which stood baresarks with wooden shields, to ensure the combatants didn't step outside the lines. Several bouts were in progress, each to win the right to challenge the undisputed champion in the raised central ring that stood upon its own purpose-built platform. The perimeter of the ring was a trench for the baresarks containing the combatants to stand in, so that the audience could see over them.

It was to the central ring that Carn made his way, ignoring the grunts and thuds, gasps and screams from the fringe fights. Blood sprayed from one of the circles and spattered his beard as he passed. He wiped it off. It was nothing unusual.

The crowd around the platform were pumping their fists and chanting over and over: "Kunaga! Kunaga!" It was the name of the legendary baresark, and a mark of respect to the reigning champion. Currently, that was a big bastard called Kallos the Crusher, on account of his shovel-sized hands that could snap a dwarf's windpipe, and frequently had.

Kallos was strutting his stuff, flexing and growling, every now and again roaring at the crowd and soaking up the roars they gave in return. He was naked, save for a blood-soaked loin-cloth. His head was clean-shaven, smooth as an egg, but his beard was braided into three thick ropes and bound with leather. The tattoo of a fractured skull with blazing fire-pits for eyes adorned his thickly muscled chest, and when he turned, he gave the crowd a look at the bare-breasted strumpet inked on his back. He was half a head taller than any dwarf Carn had ever seen, and half again as wide. Muscle upon muscle was how he would have described Kallos: ridged, dense, armor-plated. But it was his eyes that were his most intimidating feature: black holes without the slightest shred of white. Either his pupils were dilated from too much somnificus, or they were the eyes of a demon: soulless and empty as the Void.

A raucous cheer went up from one of the fringe circles, and an announcer called out the winner: "Jaym the Unstoppable! Jaym the Brutal!"

"Jaym the Real Champion!" someone heckled.

Carn scanned the crowd till he found the culprit: a skinny runt with a straggly beard and hair, who had a notebook in hand and was going from dwarf to dwarf, taking bets.

"Then send him in here with me!" Kallos bellowed. He pounded his chest with meaty fists, and the crowd around the central ring began to yell "Kunaga!" even louder than before.

A red-bearded dwarf pushed his way through the onlookers. He wasn't as tall as Kallos, but he was broader, a real brute of a baresark. He was foaming at the mouth, and his eyes were crimson with rage. The blood of his most recent opponent spattered him head to foot.

"You called?" said the newcomer.

"No, Jaym," the scrawny dwarf taking bets said, hurrying over and grabbing his arm. "Not now. We wait, remember. Goad him, threaten him, mock him, but timing is everything in this game." He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.

"I want him now!" Jaym roared, striding toward the raised circle.

"Oh, yeah?" Kallos said. "Then come and get it."

Cheers went up from another circle, and the winner was announced as Hagrock the Invincible.

"Now that's the fight you want to see," the scrawny dwarf yelled to the people, turning a circle to see who wanted to place a wager. "Hagrock versus Kallos! The fight of the century!"

Dwarves swarmed around him, handing over tokens, and Jaym, all but forgotten, slunk away into the crowd.

Hagrock's invincibility obviously didn't extend to his left ear. It was hanging by a thread as he made his weary way from his circle to the central ring. He looked utterly spent to Carn, drenched in the blood of his vanquished opponent--and a fair amount of his own. Like all baresarks, he was brawny and fairly muscled, and his torso was a canvas of mismatched tattoos. About his most arresting feature was his teeth: they were capped with rusty iron points. Judging by the gore that spattered his mouth and beard, it looked as though he'd been making good use of them.

Those gathered around the platform supporting the central ring jeered as Hagrock took the three short steps up. The baresarks in the trough around the fight circle parted so he could leap across, then they closed the gap behind him.

The combatants met in the middle and touched knuckles, then stepped back till they were up against the wooden shields on opposite sides of the ring. That was the cue for the fight to begin.

Kallos moved to claim the center of the ring, and Hagrock seemed content to let him have it. As Hagrock circled him like a predator, Kallos pivoted in place to track his movements. Hagrock picked up his pace, his growls and his rage increasing with the speed of his steps. He was working himself up into the frenzy baresarks were known for. Ordinarily, his opponent would have done the same, but Kallos looked as though he couldn't be bothered.

Hagrock grew rabid. Froth flew from his mouth. He bared his lips, showing his gruesome metal teeth to full effect. His eyes rolled up into his head, came down bloodshot.

And then he sprang.

Kallos caught him by the throat and slammed him into the ground, held him there as Hagrock thrashed and spat and shrieked. The shriek became a gurgle, and then a wheezing moan. Calm as anything, Kallos knelt over him, throttling him with measured force from one hand. Pinkish drool trickled from Hagrock's mouth. His leg twitched once, twice, and then he was still.

"Is that it?" someone in the crowd cried out when Kallos stepped away from the body.

It was murder, pure and simple. But it was also commonplace. Circle fighting was illegal all over the city, but down here at the foot of the ravine, who was there to enforce the law? Besides, a lot of tokens were won or lost on such fights, and it was common knowledge Councilor Yuffie was among those who benefited most from these brutal displays, so it was no wonder the Council turned a blind eye.

"Who's next?" Kallos roared, raising his arms aloft and doing a circuit of the ring.

"I'm game," Carn called out.

Kallos glared down at him from above the heads of the baresarks in the trench. "Who the shog are you? Something that dribbled its way out of a gibuna's arse?"

The crowd laughed, and there was much shaking of heads.

"What's your name?" the scrawny dwarf said, weaving his way through the onlookers and scribbling in his notebook.

"Carnac."

"No, no, that won't do. What you need's something to get the audience riled up, just preferably not something like 'Invincible.' Poor old Hagrock really believed that he was. Come on, think of something, and be quick about it before Kallos remembers my man Jaym."

Carn struggled to think of some moniker that wouldn't make him sound a shogger. He could see the sense in Kallos's. You only needed to look at what he did to Hagrock's windpipe to reckon "Crusher" a good choice. Then he remembered Lukar, and what he'd said their names meant. Aristodeus claimed Carnac translated as 'Executioner', which was half-decent, but Lukar's interpretation was even more suited to purpose.

"Butcher," Carn said to the runt with the notepad.

"Like it. All right, people, who'll give me five-to-one on Carnac the Butcher wiping the floor with Kallos? No one? Ten-to-one, then? A hundred?"

Dwarves started waving tokens at him, and the fight was on.

Carn took the steps up and crossed over into the circle.

"No armor," one of the baresarks in the trench said. "Same goes for the axe. You can get them back on your way out."

Hoots of laughter followed. Clearly, they didn't think he would be going anywhere after the bout. Ever again.

Carn removed his mail hauberk and padded gambeson and dumped them in the trench. His axe he passed to a baresark.

Ignoring Kallos, he limbered up and stretched his muscles. By the time he'd finished some press-ups and squats, he had a good pump on, and there were appreciative gasps from the crowd. When he looked round to acknowledge them, people averted their eyes. No one gave him a virgin's chance in shogland of lasting any longer than Hagrock. If anything, they felt sorry for him, and the grim atmosphere that descended over the arena was more akin to that of an execution than a fair fight.

Kallos had already backed up against a shield, impatient for the bout to be over with. Up close, his bulk was even more massive. His muscles took on the appearance of granite, and he looked immovable as a mountain. Orange light reflected from his bald head, and the skull tattoo on his chest seemed to come alive in the flickering glow.

Any other time, Carn's heart would have been a deafening boom in his ears, but the black dog mood had followed him down from the seventh level, stayed with him at Thumil's, and then turned into a hound of despair that left him with nothing to lose. If anything, he was calm. Too calm to draw upon the reserves that had always seen him through the bouts at the Slean.

He touched his back to a shield, and the fight was on.

Carn was expecting Kallos to take the middle again, as he'd done against Hagrock, but instead the Crusher charged. Carn slipped aside just in time, and Kallos's fist smacked a hole in the wood of the shield behind.

Carn circled away, but Kallos turned and swiftly closed him down. Every time Carn stepped one way, Kallos had the move covered. He was a master of the fight circles, a veteran. And he had never been beaten.

Kallos threw a jab, but it was a feint, and Carn walked straight into a hook from the other hand. He stumbled across the circle, ears ringing. Kallos was a blur closing in on him. Carn tucked in behind his arms, but an uppercut took him in the ribs, and all the air burst from his lungs.

He hadn't expected this: a display of boxing skill from a monster like Kallos. It was a complete contrast to the way the Crusher had handled Hagrock.

A sledgehammer blow split Carn's guard and rocked his head back. He reeled against the shield wall. Kallos came on with a cross, a jab, a looping hook. All found their mark, and Carn rolled across the shields, barely keeping his feet. Blood ran down in front of his eyes. He wiped his face to see, but Kallos hit him in the guts. Carn tensed just in time, made a wall of his abs. Kallos swung for his stomach again, but he may as well have struck rock. He looked momentarily bewildered, and then unleashed punch after punch at Carn's guts, as if he had a point to prove. Carn made no attempt to block or dodge. Instead, he soaked the blows up, allowing the force of each to drive him back against the shields and dissipate. Hit after hit he took to the midriff, thanking shog for all the work he'd put into his sit-ups.

Sweat sprayed off Kallos's head, ran in rivulets down his torso, and yet still he pounded away as if he were tunnel-visioned by Carn's ability to withstand his body blows. Finally, Kallos stepped back for a breather, and Carn launched himself off the shield wall. He caught Kallos on the jaw with a right hook, followed it up with a left to the ribs. Kallos got off a jab, but it lacked power and stiffness. Carn ducked in close and delivered a right to the nose, splitting it open in a spray of gore. Kallos roared, his eyes rolled, and then the rage was upon him.

He shoved Carn back, pounding him like a hunk of meat, blow after blow after blow. Carn blocked some of them, but they still hurt like shog, and numbness started to seep into his arms. He tried to push back, but Kallos was too heavy, too strong. He kicked out at a knee, but Kallos caught him by the ankle and flipped him. Carn fell cleanly and rolled to his feet, but Kallos was there waiting, and smashed a fist into his face. Carn swooned and stumbled, and Kallos hit him again--an uppercut to the jaw that sent him sprawling.

The crowd roared, and Kallos lifted his arms in victory.

Slowly, painfully, Carn scrabbled at the ground, shook his head, and stood with a wobble and a waver.

He expected Kallos to pass comment, gloat, give him a moment to recover, but for the second time in the fight, the baresark surprised him. Kallos charged back in, but rather than throw any more punches, he swept Carn up in his arms, hoisted him overhead, and brought him crashing down against a raised knee. It was a move designed to break his back, but Carn twisted and took the brunt on his arm. Even so, his arm would have broken, if not for the thick muscles he'd built with the weights Rugbeard had made him.

Kallos flung him to the ground. Pain jolted along Carn's back all the way to his skull. Kallos flew at him, knees first, but Carn rolled aside. Kallos grabbed him by the hair and yanked him back. Carn backhanded him in the face and broke free.

They circled each other warily now, but if anything, Kallos seemed to grow more enraged with every blow Carn landed. It was what baresarks did: excelled on physical punishment. Hit them with everything you had, and they would keep coming back stronger.

Kallos stopped circling and lunged. Carn tried to back away, but his legs were jelly and he stumbled. The Crusher got a hand round his throat and squeezed. Carn gasped, started to choke. He could feel his face reddening, same as Hagrock's had. Soon it would turn purple and he'd black out, if Kallos didn't snap his neck first.

He closed his fingers around Kallos's wrist and gave a squeeze of his own. At first, nothing happened, but he found the joint and focused his pressure there. Kallos tightened his stranglehold and Carn's vision blurred. His breaths came in wheezing trickles and darkness started to close in. Frantic, Carn put everything he had into one last effort. Something popped in Kallos's wrist, and he let go. He swore and punched Carn so hard in the face it pitched him to his arse.

And again Carn got up. This time he made a show of it and goaded the Crusher on.

Kallos caught him with a hook to the cheek. Carn staggered, then invited him to try again. Kallos snapped his head back with a jab, then thundered a cross into his temple. White pain blazed behind Carn's eyes and drove the black dog back to the corners. Lightning blasted through his skull. Fire flooded his limbs.

Kallos swung for him again, but Carn bobbed his head out of the way. Suddenly, the baresark looked slow and cumbersome.

Carn slipped a jab and drove an uppercut into Kallos's ribs. Bone cracked, and Kallos fell back clutching his side. With a bellow, the baresark took his rage up another notch, and he tried to grab hold of Carn, who deftly stepped aside. The Crusher was a lumbering oaf now, it seemed, and yet the reality was quite different: Carn was moving faster. He was sure of every step, every punch, and he could see what Kallos was doing before he did it.

Hook followed hook, all of them dodged. Kallos tried setting up with a jab, but Carn countered with one of his own that split the skin above the baresark's eye. Kallos swung a wild haymaker, but Carn danced round him and delivered a chopping blow to the back of his neck. The baresark hit the ground with a thud. He started to rise, but Carn kicked him in the ribs, and he slumped down. He started up again. This time, Carn let him find his feet, then stepped in and poleaxed him with a vicious uppercut. Kallos teetered backward, steadied himself, took a step forward, and collapsed.

"That's for my pa, shogger," Carn growled as he staggered across the ring to reclaim his chainmail and gambeson.

The roaring of the crowd, the applause, was like a hive of hornets in his skull. A throbbing ache pulsed through his head, and every limb felt heavy and swollen. Needles of pain lanced between his ribs, and his eyes were puffy, closed to slits.

The baresark he had given his axe to emerged from the trench and returned it with a nod of respect. Carn set it down while he got his armor on, then snatched it back up and strode from the ring.

The scrawny dwarf was waving his notebook at him and calling out, "Come and see me. I can make you a ton of tokens, Butcher."

Carn ignored him, ignored the well-wishers, ignored them all.

He'd proven himself, but what had it achieved, save for a world of hurt and a deepening of the emptiness that had followed Droom's death? It was an ever-widening breach that had gotten worse with the loss of his friends--of Cordy and Thumil--and no amount of slugging in the fight circles could close it up again.

He pushed his way clear of the crowd and found a beer tent. The first flagon lessened the pain some. The second all but killed it. But he didn't stop there. He drank and he drank and he drank.

The last thing he recalled was stumbling across the embankment by the Sag-Urda, enraptured by the orange glow of the braziers spangling its surface. Whores flaunted themselves at him, then cursed him when he didn't respond. Their voices gave way to the siren call of the lake, summoning him, urging him to end it all and throw himself in. He took one faltering step toward the shoreline, then another, but his legs gave way and he fell face first in the dirt.
SEVENTEEN

Carn. Carnac Thayn. Up soldier. Come on, Lieutenant, get your lazy arse up and out of here."

_Thumil?_

Hands grabbed Carn's shoulders, gently shook him, rolled him over. His head lolled to one side. Red flared behind his eyelids, stung him deep in his throbbing brain.

"Thank shog," he heard Thumil say. "Thank shog I found you."

Carn cracked open an eye. Try as he might, it wouldn't open further, and when he raised his hand to feel, the skin around his eye was puffed up and raw.

"Quite a fight you put on, apparently," Thumil said. "It's all over the city. Everyone's talking about it."

"That how you found me?" Carn muttered through swollen lips. He turned his head so he could look up at Thumil, but all he saw was a blur of gold, and pinpricks that might have been eyes.

"You stupid bloody shogger," Thumil said. He leaned down and got his arms beneath Carn, drew him into a hug.

"Does this mean you have to arrest me? Or aren't circle fights illegal anymore?"

"Shog that." Thumil was weeping openly now. "If Yuffie's above the law, we might as well all be."

Carn tried to laugh, but it nearly split his swollen lips. "You don't believe that."

"No, I don't. But I believe in you, old friend. I believe in you."

Thumil wrapped a damp cloak around Carn's shoulders and propped him up in a sitting position; it smelled of must and something worse.

"Your cloak, Carn. I found it in the gutter. I assume you didn't want to make yourself a target down here. Shog knows what you've done with your helm. No doubt there's a baresark somewhere using it as a piss pot."

A chorus of gibbers caused Carn to turn his head. The movement slung agony through his skull. He could make out hazy shapes hanging from the base of the ravine wall across the way.

"Gibunas," Thumil said. "They were just starting to get brave when we showed up. A while longer, and you'd have been breakfast."

"We?" Carn said. His heart started hammering. Had Cordy come, too?

He forced open his other eye and scanned the embankment behind Thumil. Gradually, a score of Black Cloaks came into view, and farther back, what looked like an entire platoon of Ravine Guard formed a line looking back toward the streets.

He returned his gaze to Thumil, who was wearing his golden helm and red cloak. Probably it was the last time the new Voice would don his Marshal's uniform before handing over to Mordin later in the day.

The thought reminded Carn of what he'd lost: not just his pa, but his oldest and best friends. He could tell Thumil thought otherwise, but you had to be realistic. Thumil was marrying Cordy. More than that, he was now the Voice of the Council. He wouldn't have time for friendship, and even if he did, he would need a better caliber of friend than a fallen lieutenant of the Ravine Guard.

Carn lay back down on the hard ground and pulled his cloak about him. The something worse he had smelled was piss, he was sure of it, but he was beyond caring. "Go, Thumil. Leave me down here. There's nothing for me up top now."

"Son, there is," Thumil said. "There always will be."

Carn felt himself fading, but then he saw a stretcher being lowered down from the walkway above.

"I'm not going to have a choice, am I?"

"No, you're not."

As the stretcher touched down and a couple of Black Cloaks rolled Carn onto it and strapped him in place, he said, "I love her, Thumil. Always have. I just never knew it till now."

Thumil lay the axe he'd given as a present on Carn's chest as the stretcher began to rise. "I know, son, and I'm all right with that. You're my friend, and I trust you with my life."

"Cordy must never know," Carn said.

"She won't. And you and I will never speak of it again."
EIGHTEEN

During the first few days of Carn's recovery, Lukar might just as well have been absent. He was sequestered in his study, poring over the copies of the _Chronicles_ Rugbeard had given him, comparing and contrasting them with the originals, which he brought home from the Scriptorium one at a time. Aristodeus came and went, obsessing over Yalla's helm as much as Lukar obsessed over the passages in the original _Chronicles_ that mentioned golems and the Axe of the Dwarf Lords--which were conspicuously absent from the copy Rugbeard had made.

Lukar gave Carn a summary of his findings each night before he went to bed. He was starting to think Rugbeard had deliberately missed out the passages concerned, though why Rugbeard would do that, no one had any idea. Aristodeus was apparently less than convinced. If anything, he was trying to steer Lukar in a different direction, claiming he couldn't be sure he was reading the patterns correctly. But whatever the truth about the contentious passages, they formed a scholarly mystery, which for Lukar was like a taunt to a baresark's manhood.

Grimark was good enough to drop off a pie every morning. He'd heard about the circle fight and wanted to support the local hero. Carn had the feeling Grimark dropped off more than one pie, but by the time Lukar delivered it to his bedside, that's all that was left.

After three days cooped up indoors he'd had about all he could stand and staggered down to Bucknard's for a mead. When he returned home, Thumil was there waiting for him with an entourage of Red Cloaks, and one or two Svarks lurking about outside.

"I want you to be my best man at the wedding, Carn," the Voice said. "I know that might not be possible for you, but I wanted to ask you all the same."

The request chafed, but what could Carn say, other than yes? It wasn't Thumil's fault, the way things had turned out. Nor was it Cordy's. He only had himself to blame.

"What's Cordy have to say on the matter?"

Thumil chuckled. "Told me the wedding was off if you refused."

"Then I must accept," Carn said. "It would be my honor."

And he meant that. Decisions had already been made. The die had been cast. There was no point regretting what was past, what might have been. And pain was something he was going to have to learn to live with.

Thumil left the ring with him--the ring destined for Cordy's finger--and then he was off, his personal guard trailing after him.

The day of the wedding a Red Cloak arrived at the house to escort Carn. The man was vaguely familiar--he had an enormous shield and a mace--but it was only when Carn asked the fellow's name and got the answer, "Grimwart", that he remembered him as the Ravine Guard from the mines, the one who'd volunteered to go below and retrieve more _ocras_ tools to use as weapons.

"But everyone calls me Duck," Grimwart said. "On account of this." He hefted his mace and made a playful swipe. "When I start swinging, the lads shout 'Duck!' Over time, it grew into a nickname. Guess I got used to it, and it stuck."

"Good of Thumil to send you, Duck, but I can look after myself."

Carn had on his chainmail and his freshly-washed red cloak, but he hadn't bothered replacing his helm. What was the point? Once the wedding ceremony was over, there would be no more need for it. He was done with the Ravine Guard. Shog knew what he was going to do instead, but anything had to be better than working under Marshal Mordin. Not only that, but he felt a door had closed on that part of his life now that Thumil had been made Voice.

"Thumil didn't send me," Duck said.

"Then who?"

Cordy's house was on the seventeenth level, a stone's drop from Carn's. It was surrounded by Red Cloaks, but Duck got them through the cordon. He led Carn to the hearth-room and waited outside.

Cordy was seated on a stool, the hoops of her underskirt falling away from her hips toward the ground in widening circles. An unlaced corset covered her torso but gave her breasts room to breathe. A team of local lassies fussed about her, curling her hair into ringlets, plaiting her beard and tying the slender braids with golden thread. A dress more pristine than Thumil's white robe hung from a stand in front of the hearth. It had to be made of pure silk, and was embroidered with subtle traces of silver. Her exposed skin had a radiant, pinkish glow, her nails were lacquered with ivory, and her cheek bones and eyes had been accentuated with delicate highlights and daubs of color.

Carn was too breathless to announce himself. He simply stood there, drinking her in, until one of the lassies doing her hair noticed him and gasped.

Cordy looked round, and her austere beauty was transcended by a smile of genuine warmth that made her unbearable to look upon. She dismissed her helpers, and once they had gone outside, she gestured for Carn to approach.

He closed the door behind him and, instead of making a beeline for her, made a slow circuit of the room, pretending to study the framed pictures on the walls showing her ma and pa, the original design of the family beer label, and Cordy herself as a baby. The last was an early work of a pupil of Durgish Duffin, the artist who'd painted Yalla for Droom.

"So, you've met Duck," Cordy said, tracking his progress around the room while she laced up her corset.

"He was at the mines, when the golem attacked."

He glanced her way, and Cordy bobbed her head, as if she hadn't known.

"He's my appointed bodyguard." She chuckled--a bright, tinkling sound. "Thumil insisted."

"He never asked me."

"Would you have done it?" Cordy asked. "Would you have protected me?"

Of course he would have. Without question. And he knew, in his heart of hearts, he still would. But she didn't need to know that. He left her question hanging and turned to face her, resting his hands on his axe haft as he twirled the head on the floor.

"What's this about, Cordy?"

She dipped her eyes briefly, then stood, gathered the hoops of her underskirt, and stepped toward him. She put her hands on his shoulders and leaned in close, nestled her cheek against his. The scent of her was strong in his nostrils--sweet musk that inflamed his senses. Gently, he took her arms and pressed them to her sides.

She sighed and turned her head away. "I do love him, you know. More than anything."

Carn nodded to himself. He knew she loved Thumil. They both did.

"Really love him, Carn." She spun back and fixed him with an unfaltering stare that begged him to contradict her. "In every way."

He let his eyelids fall shut, and nodded again, this time for her benefit.

"I felt the same about you, Carn, for a long time. Ever since the Slean. Thumil saw it back then and wondered why you never seemed to notice. I thought you were just playing hard to get, but then I started to wonder, too. I always thought we would be together some day, like my ma and pa. Like Droom said he and Yalla were. You were my hero, Carn. Funny thing is, I think you still are, and maybe always will be. But a woman can only take being unnoticed for so long. And Thumil... Thumil noticed me."

Carn's eyes bled tears, no matter how hard he tried to fight them back. A single silvery streak tracked down Cordy's cheek in sympathy.

"I was blind, lassie. Still am in some ways. By the time I realized you were a woman..." He winced, expecting her to hit him, but when she smiled, letting him know she understood, he realized just how surely that boat had sailed.

"I love you, Carnac Thayn," Cordy said, reaching out to touch his cheek. "And Thumil does, too. We're all orphans now, the three of us, and we're all so bound up with each other, we're family. I sometimes think not having you in my life would be like losing a lung."

He knew the truth of those words, only in his case, it was his heart he stood to lose.

"Thumil thinks we can get through this," Cordy said. "That one day we can all be friends, the way it was before."

"I'd like that," Carn said. "But now that he's the Voice..."

"That won't be forever. He's made it clear he doesn't intend to die in office like Dythin Rala. He just wants to fix things a little, make Arx Gravis a better place, and then, who knows, maybe we'll grow our own hops and start our very own brewery. And you could go into business with us. Just think how perfect it could be."

Did she know? Had she read his mind and seen that he planned to leave the Ravine Guard?

"Cordy," he started, then cleared his throat so he could go on. "Cordana Kilderkin--is Thumil taking your name, by the way?"

"He shogging well better," Cordy said, "or I'll rip his fruits off and feed them to him for breakfast."

Carn laughed, but there was no joy in it.

"Cordana Kilderkin," he said again, "I can't imagine a time when you and I will not be friends. I've been an arse and a shogwit, but the other night Kallos the Crusher knocked a spark of sense back into my noddle. I love you and Thumil both, and I will defend your marriage with my life. You have my word on that."

Cordy backed away to her stool, sank into it and began to weep. She was relieved--he could see that from the slump of her shoulders, the rhythm of her breaths--but not half as relieved as he was to be able to slink out of the room and make his way to the nearest ale house before the ceremony began.

Carn met Lukar and Aristodeus on the fourteenth level, and together they made their way along the main walkway to the ridge skirting the ravine wall. It was a sprawling platform of granite that extended out from the rock face enough to hold a small village. The only building it boasted, though, was the oast house that formed the backdrop for the wedding ceremony, a circular, two-story structure with a conical roof. Beyond it, fringing the ravine wall, were the hops that would be brought to the oast house for kilning. Row upon row of bines wound their way up strings suspended from overhead trellises.

It was as good a place as any for a wedding, but Carn suspected Thumil had chosen the location as a concession to him. Rumor had it the Council had wanted the ceremony to take place at a vineyard on the seventh.

Lukar wore a crumpled jacket atop his black scholar's robe. He'd run a comb through his hair and beard, but the blustery breeze had already undone the good work.

Aristodeus didn't have to worry about the wind, and he'd made even less effort with his clothing than Lukar. He still had on the same white toga he always wore. The odd thing was, it never picked up a stain, never stank of sweat. Which told Carn he either had spares, or he was a stickler for washing them whenever he was out of the way. The philosopher certainly had to do something, the amount of times he'd come and gone since showing up on Carn's birthday. Where he went, how he got there, were as big a mysteries as the never-fading whiteness of his toga.

More Red Cloaks than he'd ever seen assembled in one place were formed up in phalanxes across the length of the ledge, both front and back. Guests had to pass through them to get in and endure their watchful eyes once the service began. Black Cloaks moved among them like rats through grain. Councilor Grago himself was directing them.

"How many would you say that is?" Aristodeus said. "Three thousand? Four?"

"Red Cloaks?" Lukar shrugged. "I'm not going to count them, if that's what you're asking."

"Closer to five," Carn said. "Virtually the whole Ravine Guard." In a crisis the dwarves could muster ten times that number. Everyone was required to train at the Slean from their youngest days, just in case they were needed. "There'll be a handful on patrol at the top of the ravine, but for events like this it's a full turnout. Same with the Black Scuts, by the looks of things. There's bound to be a few on skulk duty elsewhere, but for now it's pretty much all eyes on the wedding."

"Is it now?" Lukar said.

Aristodeus flashed him a look.

"Let's just hope the baresarks don't get emboldened," Lukar said with a forced chuckle. "Last thing we need is to come away from the wedding and find they've raped and pillaged their way through the lower levels."

Carn shook his head, but he didn't miss the furtive glances that passed between his brother and the philosopher. Aristodeus started to mouth something to Lukar but stopped when he saw Carn noticing.

"Seats at the front?" Lukar asked.

Recognizing Carn, the Red Cloak on duty waved them through.

"Just me," Carn said. "Best man's prerogative. You two will have to find your own spots. Meet me after, at the banquet."

He left Lukar and Aristodeus talking and made his way between the ranks of Ravine Guard and through the press of guests inside the cordon.

The site marked out for the ceremony was a simple enough affair, which suited both Cordy and Thumil. A granite dais had been set before the oast house, around which were stone benches for the guests of honor: the Council of Twelve, missing only Grago, who was still directing the Svarks, and obviously Thumil himself; Marshal Mordin, who Carn acknowledged by thumping his chest in salute; the Chamberlain, and the motley-clad dwarf, Stupid, who looked as out of place as Carn felt. Stupid watched as Carn seated himself next to Mordin, madness or unfathomable sadness in his eyes.

Why Stupid was there at all was anyone's guess. Why he should be numbered among the guests of honor was beyond comprehension. Maybe Thumil was obligated to show him the same deference Dythin Rala had. Likely, it was a mystery passed on from Voice to Voice.

Thumil arrived soon after Carn had settled himself on his bench. He wore a simple white robe, all trace of the dwarf who'd been Marshal as gone as the tufts of hair that he'd been losing lately. The back of his head was riddled with patches of baldness that would have given Aristodeus a run for his tokens.

Thumil had a brief exchange with the Chamberlain and proffered his copy of the _Lek Vae_. The Chamberlain frowned, then gave a reluctant and world-weary nod. When he stood and moved with Thumil to the center of the gathering, he glanced at the page marked with a white ribbon.

"Carnac Thayn," someone hissed in his ear.

It was Grago, leaning over his shoulder.

"I never forget a name, same as I never forget my Black Cloaks. They are like family to me. Kloon was like family to me. You, of all people, should know how it feels to lose family."

A hush fell over the crowd pressed up against the cordon of Ravine Guard. Grago broke off from whatever else he was about to say and seated himself among the rest of the Council.

All around the ledge, red cloaks fluttered as the wind picked up. Clouds scudded across the sky that could be seen through the gaps in the overhead walkways. For an instant, the shine of the twin suns was occluded. Thumil gave a worried look above, but visibly relaxed when the clouds moved on and the proceedings were once more bathed in patches of golden light.

Carn forgot all about Grago as he set eyes on Cordy emerging from between two phalanxes. At first he thought she'd come alone, but then he glimpsed Duck stepping into line with his comrades. Cordy entered the space in front the oast house and took Thumil's hand.

She was immaculate in her white gown. The gold ties in her hair picked up the sunlight and glittered. The corset beneath her dress drew her waist in so tight, Carn could have encompassed it with his hands. It only served to set off the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts. Her tow hair cascaded in ringlets that fell into the golden braids of her beard; and the skin of her face, of her chest and shoulders above her dress, had the sheen of satin, the texture of olives.

It was enough to test a dwarf's loyalties, but Carn's were forged in iron. Droom was his model in that, and he always claimed he got it from Yalla. Friendship before self was the simple way of summing it up. No matter how hard it was. No matter the cost.

A warm glow ran beneath Carn's skin--not the burning heat of envy he'd felt when Thumil had first told him; not the scorch of lust. He recognized it for what it was: the beginnings of acceptance, a taste of the happiness his friends could have, if they were free from their guilt at his loss.

Thumil turned and nodded, and Carn stood, fumbling in his pocket for the ring. When he had it in hand, he went to Thumil's side, and the three of them faced the oast house. Before them, the chamberlain opened the _Lek Vae_ and began to read.

The reception in the Dokon was a staid affair, offset only slightly by the jaunty airs from a string quartet. Twenty or so round tables had been set up in the Council Chamber, at which special guests were seated. The Council of Twelve sat aloof from them at their debating table, with Cordy and Thumil in the center.

The food was barely passable--roasted beef from Councilor Crony's farm at the foot of the ravine, swede and carrots from the second level allotments, and Grimark's shredded greens, which Thumil had taken a liking to. Wine from Councilor Castail's family vineyard flowed freely, but Carn caused a stir when he requested beer instead. Fortunately, Cordy had anticipated the need and had arranged for a few kegs of Kilderkin's Arnochian Ale to be there just in case.

Carn sat at a table with Lukar. Aristodeus wasn't included on the list of banquet guests, but if anything, the philosopher had seemed relieved. He had more work to do with the _ocras_ helm, but when Carn pressed him about the nature of that work, all he would say was "Precautions." It didn't go unnoticed, though, when Aristodeus left the ledge on the fourteenth, that he didn't go alone. The motley fool, Stupid, went with him.

By his third tankard, Carn ceased to care about the glares Grago occasionally sent his way, and was more than happy listening to Lukar droning on about the disagreements he was having with Aristodeus. Apparently, the philosopher was now of one mind with Rugbeard, and considered the mentions of the golems and the Axe of the Dwarf Lords in the _Chronicles_ a later interpolation at best, and a dangerous fake at worst. Lukar was adamant any later interpolation must have occurred after Rugbeard made his copy, which struck him as ludicrous and incredibly difficult to manage, given the way the parchment and ink were a perfect match for the rest of the volume. The alternative posited by Aristodeus, he said, was even harder to accept: it would have required nothing short of a magic wand to effect such a seamless alteration in the brief amount of time the book had been missing from the Scriptorium.

"What if the faen exchanged it for a pre-prepared fake?" Carn said, beckoning a server for another refill.

"I've already considered that," Lukar said. "But it makes no sense. You said there was an empty space on the shelf, where the book was missing. The faen fled the Scriptorium but subsequently returned, and the space was filled. If he already had the fake on him, why would he leave and come back?"

"Maybe he forgot it?" Carn said lamely. He nodded his thanks to the server and took a sip of beer. "Or maybe Jarfy disturbed him, and next thing he knew, I was on the scene. He fled, then doubled back to make the switch."

Lukar considered his words for a moment, then dismissed them with a shake of his head. He diluted his wine with water from a jug and drank a little. "If there's a simple answer to a problem, it's usually the right one. No, it's all very well coming up with these fanciful theories, but why is no one but me willing to accept the obvious? The _Chronicles_ have not been tampered with. I'm probably the only scholar in centuries to focus on the threads of myth that occur in the historical passages. Other than me, I suspect only Rugbeard has read all the pertinent parts. You've seen the state of him, Carn. It's no secret his brain's been pickled in alcohol for the best part of a hundred years. It stands to reason there are errors in his copy. That's what Aristodeus and I have been doing these past few days: searching out discrepancies between Rugbeard's version and the original. Do you know how many commas he's misplaced? Changes the entire meaning of a sentence at times. And how a dwarf can introduce homonym errors in a verbatim copy just beggars belief."

"So, Rugbeard's a piss head? That's your theory?"

"Until you come up with a better one," Lukar said.

"And it's no coincidence a faen just happens to show up and borrow the very volume of the _Chronicles_ that contains the passages in question?"

"Exactly what Aristodeus says. Want to know what I told him? Let's apply this scientific method you keep harping on about, I said--some half-baked philosophy he's always invoking. Let's follow up on the clues in the _Chronicles_ and see for ourselves if the axe is there, in the depths of Aranuin."

"You wouldn't," Carn said. "You wouldn't dare leave the city."

"And risk exile? Believe me, I would if I thought I'd find the Axe of the Dwarf Lords. I'd happily live out the rest of my days in a cave on the surface if I got to achieve that dream."

"You're joking."

Lukar's look said he was dead serious, but then he let out a peel of shrill laughter that drew raised eyebrows and one or two frowns from the debating table. He poured more water into his wine glass and took a swig.

"Don't you like the wine, Lukar?"

"It's a bit strong."

Now it was Carn's turn to frown. Too strong? Lukar's tolerance of alcohol was as legendary as Droom's ability to drink scalding hot kaffa.

Suddenly, Lukar clamped a hand over Carn's forearm. Their eyes met for a moment, and then Lukar dropped his to the tabletop. "I should have done better by you, brother. Then you might not have fallen when you did."

"What do you mean?"

Lukar indicated Carn's face, which, while the swelling had gone down, was still yellow with fading bruises. "You could have been killed. You nearly were, in spite of winning the fight."

Carn set down his tankard and put his hand atop Lukar's. "That was nothing to do with you, laddie."

"Oh, it was. I should have been there for you after Pa died, but I was so caught up in my work. My obsession with the axe. I kept thinking, if only I could complete one more line of inquiry, I'd be able to take a break and spend time with you, but something else always came up. I nearly lost you, Carn. You're all the family I have left."

"And you're all the family I have," Carn said. He lifted his hand to touch his brother's cheek. "It's me that's been a shogger, not you."

"But I'm the eldest," Lukar said. "I should have been there for you."

"You're here now, Lukar. And I'm here for you."

Thumil waved him over to the debating table, and Carn sighed. Last thing he wanted was to join the councilors in some circular political debate, because that's about all those codgers were good for. Except maybe Yuffie. He could probably spin a good yarn or two, but the mere fact he was implicated in the somnificus trade was enough to label him a scut in Carn's book.

He made his apologies to Lukar and fixed a smile on his face as he approached Thumil. Cordy rose and embraced him. Thumil did the same from the other side, and then walked Carn around the table, introducing him to each and every one of the councilors, all of whom already knew him from the debriefing after the break-in. He guessed Thumil was making an attempt to include him, and he was thankful for that, but just because a good dwarf was now head of the Council didn't mean the rest of them weren't a bunch of tedious old shoggers.

By the time the small talk was exhausted, and Carn's face hurt from smiling, all he wanted was another flagon of beer and a good heart to heart with his brother. But when he got back to their table, Lukar was gone.
NINETEEN

Carn didn't stay long after Lukar left the wedding banquet. He used his injuries from the circle fight as an excuse and set off down the Aorta.

Lights were still on in the Scriptorium when he passed it, but that was nothing unusual. Scholars were strange creatures who would wake in the middle of the night with an inspiration they just had to follow up on straight away. He knew that well from the number of times Lukar had awoken him by slamming the front door on his way out. It was probably Lukar in the Scriptorium now, acting on his compulsion to eke out every last bit of information on the _Paxa Boraga_ , even if just to prove to Aristodeus he was right. Because that's what his brother would do, rather than make good on his plan to go in search of the axe. Intellectually, Lukar might have been considered something of a maverick, but physically he was as adventurous as Droom had been. About the only risk Lukar was likely to take would be tasting the latest concoction to come out of Grimark's oven.

Carn was tempted to knock on a window to see if his brother really was there, but he quickly changed his mind. Lukar had cleared off without even saying goodbye, and just when the two of them were finally starting to speak as brothers should. Shog him. Let him stay up all night reading books, but Carn was going home.

Only, when he reached the twelfth level, he stepped off onto the main walkway and headed toward the Slean.

How could he sleep? Not only was his mind still awhirl adjusting to the marriage of Thumil and Cordy, and not only was he starting to feel abandoned by his brother once more, but he was sick of the sight of bed. His injuries might have looked bad to others, but already the pain had subsided and the stiffness had left his joints. He needed to train, get his mind off things, and who knows, maybe prepare for another bout in the circle. Agonizing as it had been, such raw combat had the makings of an addiction. He could see why Kallos had kept going for so long. King of the hill, who the others had to overthrow if they were to make a name for themselves. Well, now that king was him, unless he never set foot in the circle again. But what would they do if he didn't? Label him a coward? As he was starting to see it, there were worse ways to make tokens, if he was going to quit the Ravine Guard.

He left the main walkway at the sprawling market plaza. The stalls were all shut up for the night, and besides a scavenging pack of chasm dogs--wild mutts that could climb as well as a ravine goat--it was eerily quiet. A narrow walkway beneath an aqueduct took him in among cobblestone dwellings, where here and there hearth fires cast a homey glow through the slats of window shutters. From there, he switched back out over the ravine, taking the humpbacked bridge to the immense square platform that housed the Slean.

It was a squat, five-sided building made from blocks of granite. Each side boasted its own entrance arch--the Slean was never closed, as dwarves were encouraged to train as and when they could. These days, most didn't bother, unless they were in the Ravine Guard, in which case sparring, at the very least, was mandatory. The Black Cloaks had their own facility, hidden away in some undisclosed place set back in the ravine walls.

When he passed beneath the arch on the side he approached from, amber glowstones winked on inside. It was a neat trick attributed to the Founders of Arx Gravis, who had been the ones to build the Slean.

The interior was one vast space with climbing ropes and ladders, heavy bags filled with sand for punching and kicking, chalked-out circles for sparring, all manner of weapons, targets for crossbow work, spools of chain for lifting and dragging, and a wall for rock-face fighting practice. But it was to the lifting area that Carn made his way; that was where he kept the weights and bars Rugbeard had made for him.

He'd had Brann Mikil, the carpenter, knock him up a wooden lifting platform after getting complaints he was chipping up the floor with his dead lifts, and it was there he removed his cloak and chainmail so he could train bare-chested.

Carn limbered up, stretching out the knots in his muscles. He then worked up a sweat with some shadow-boxing, to burn off the alcohol from the banquet. Next, he put in half an hour's bent-pressing, rocking a loaded barbell to his shoulder, gripping it dead center, and leaning away till he held it overhead in one hand. He worked both sides, increasing the weight by adding Rugbeard's iron plates. When he reached two hundred pounds, he felt ready for the real work he'd come to do and started to load the bar up for his first set of dead lifts. Barely had he picked up his warm-up weight of six hundred pounds, when a Black Cloak stepped through the archway opposite and strode toward him.

"You're needed at the Dokon. Now."

"Laddie, if they want a singer of bawdy songs for the post-banquet party, Thumil's your man." Carn dropped the barbell with a concussive thud and the clang and clatter of iron plates.

"The celebrations are over. This is serious."

With a sigh, Carn grabbed his gambeson and put it on. "Let me guess: Grago?" The shogger was out for revenge for Kloon.

The Svark shook his head. "The Voice sent me. I'm his designated bodyguard."

"Then shouldn't you be guarding his body, rather than snooping about the Slean?"

"He needed you found quick, and no shogger in the Red Cloaks had a clue where you were."

"But you did."

"It's what we do."

"You mean," Carn said, scooping up his chainmail and struggling into it, "you have a network of creeps who were already watching me?"

The Black Cloak chose not to answer. "Come with me," he said, turning on his heel and heading back toward the arch he'd entered by.

"And who's going to put away the weights?" Carn said.

He caught sight of his red cloak bundled up beside the lifting platform. Duty told him to put it on, but belligerence told him otherwise. And besides, what did he need it for? Now was as good a time as any to let them know he was done.

Carn picked up his axe and followed the Svark outside, where the chill night air felt freezing following the heat of exercise.

Thumil and Cordy met him outside the Dokon, and Aristodeus was with them. Thumil dismissed the Black Cloak, but Carn had the impression the shogger wouldn't go very far.

Thumil's eyes were haunted, Cordy's face bloodless. What with her wedding dress and his white robe, they looked like a couple of ghosts, or dwarves who'd just seen one.

Aristodeus's head was uncharacteristically bowed, and he shook it as he continuously muttered to himself. His canvas bag was missing.

"You haven't lost my ma's helm, have you?" Carn said.

"What? Of course I haven't. Someone's looking it over for me."

"Oh, aye?"

"Carn," Thumil said. "Thank you for coming."

"Did I have a choice?"

"Stop it," Cordy snapped. "Just stop it."

"Lassie? What's the matter? What's happened?"

Thumil released her hand and stepped toward him. "It's Lukar, son. He's gone missing."

"We think he's left the city," Cordy said.

Carn cursed. He should have checked the Scriptorium. He should have gone home. At least then he would have known something was wrong and given himself time to act.

"I found this in the kitchen at your house," Aristodeus said. He handed over a crumpled page from one of the _Chronicles_. "It describes the way to access the portal beneath the Sag-Urda. Lukar must have left it for one of us, so we would know what he was trying to do."

"I didn't think he was being serious," Carn said. He looked at Thumil. "He told me tonight that he wanted to go after the Axe of the Dwarf Lords, prove he was right, but I thought it was just bravado."

"He couldn't have picked a better time," Thumil said, "what with the Ravine Guard and the Svarks distracted by the wedding. I don't know what to do, old friend. Aristodeus bought us a little time by coming straight to me, but Grago already knows. He's called an emergency session of the Council. They're inside, waiting for me before they can begin."

"Grago's after Lukar's blood," Cordy said.

Thumil nodded. "Revenge for Kloon, no doubt. And he has the power to insist. I think I can delay the Council, keep them arguing over points of law, but ultimately Grago will get his way. The statutes are crystal clear on what happens if anyone leaves the city without the express authorization of the Council, and that's not been given since the Mount Sartis incident."

Carn turned to leave.

"Carn," Thumil said. "You know if you go after him, you'll suffer the same fate."

He spun back to face the three of them. "I know. And you knew that, too, but you summoned me all the same. You did the right thing, laddie, and I'll not forget it."

Cordy's hand flew to her mouth. Tears were brimming in her eyes.

"Lassie," Carn said. He wanted to hold her, tell her it was going to be all right, but the first would have been inappropriate, and the second a lie. "I can't abandon my brother when he needs me the most."

"You have to know I'd come with you, Carn," Thumil said, "but..."

Carn gripped his arm and looked him in the eye. "You're not coming, laddie. I won't allow it. You're the Voice of the Council, and besides which, your place is here, with your wife."

"But the Sag-Urda..." Cordy said. "You can't swim."

"He won't need to," Aristodeus said, waving about the page from the _Chronicles_. "Not if I'm right about this."

"Be careful, Carn," Thumil said. "Grago's likely to send the Black Cloaks."

Carn nodded that he knew. "Then it's a good job you bought me this axe."

"This is what I feared," Aristodeus said, huffing and puffing as he followed Carn down the steps of the Aorta. "What I've been trying to avert."

"You knew Lukar was going to do this?"

"Not him, necessarily. One of you. Both, maybe. All I know is that something pivotal happens right here, right now. Choices will be made. Either the axe is a ruse and best avoided at all costs, or it's real and is essential to what comes next. I've been reasoning it out night and day, and I'm still no closer to a solution. It's a game, Carn. A battle of wits that I fear we are losing."

Carn shot a warning look over his shoulder. "Laddie, this is no a game, not if it involves my brother."

"I don't expect you to understand," Aristodeus said. "How could you? How could any of you? Suffice it to say, the stakes are high. Impossibly high, and a great deal hinges on what we do next. What Lukar does. One false move, and there will be blood."

They paused for breath at the tenth level. Carn's legs were burning, but Aristodeus was feeling it even more. The philosopher was bent over with his hands on his thighs as he sucked in great gulps of air. His eyes had a ghastly pallor, and were focused elsewhere, as if he were glimpsing some hellish future.

"A moment more," Aristodeus said, when Carn wanted to press on.

"One," Carn said, "and then we go. I'm not losing my brother because you're out of shape."

Aristodeus winced, and ever-so-slowly drew himself upright, as if every straightening vertebra caused him pain. "Maybe it's a mistake going after him. It's you I see in the patterns. You are the important one."

Carn started down the steps without him.

They stopped three more times on the way to the bed of the ravine, but if anything, the closer they got, the more anticipation or dread seemed to fuel the philosopher's tired limbs. When they reached the bottom of the ladder leading down from the twenty-first, Aristodeus strode ahead, and Carn had to jog to keep up with him.

Gibunas shrieked and gibbered from the shadows of the chasm walls. The night crowds were thin, but the stalls were still plying their wares, and the clamor from the arena was as loud as ever.

They took a shortcut along the banks of a canal, ignoring the calls of scantily clad baresark whores, who would rip your dwarfhood off and ram it down your throat if you didn't hand over enough tokens after the deed. A lantern at the prow of a barge cut eerie swaths of orange through the mist rising from the ravine floor.

A crowd had gathered along the shore of the Sag-Urda. Out in the center of the lake, green light shimmered. It was coming from deep beneath the surface.

"The portal is active," Aristodeus said. "He must have gone through."

"To Aranuin?"

Aristodeus nodded.

Carn stared across the water, spellbound by the rills of moonlight that picked out each and every ripple.

The philosopher held up the page from the _Chronicles_ and used it to guide him to various points on the low wall hemming the lake. When someone objected that he was pushing in, Carn told them to go shog themselves.

"Oi, ain't you that Butcher what took down the Crusher?" an aged baresark asked.

"So what if I am?" Carn said, and the old dwarf took a respectful step back.

A space cleared around them, and Aristodeus set about identifying specific bricks in the wall and running his hand over them. Once or twice he cursed and started over, but finally the bricks he touched began to wink on and off in sequence with a violet glow. When the last had dulled, the center of the lake began to boil and froth.

Gasps passed through the crowd as a silvery disk broke the surface and skimmed across the lake, coming to a halt before Aristodeus. It was identical to the one the faen had used to escape from the Scriptorium. The philosopher moved aside and gestured for Carn to step on.

"You're not coming?"

Aristodeus flinched. "I can't. I mean... I just can't."

Carn shook his head and walked onto the disk. He didn't have time for explanations. Either the philosopher was in or he was out. Last thing they needed was a shogging discussion, like the Council of Twelve had every time they were asked to do something.

Bands of silver sprouted from the surface of the disk and encased his boots. He tried to move his feet, but he was locked in place.

"Don't worry," Aristodeus said. "I suspect it's to stop you floating away when you go under. They'll release once you arrive."

Carn sucked in a whistling breath through his teeth. He cursed his body for trembling at the prospect of entering all that water.

With a jolt and a judder, the disk moved back out onto the lake. Carn swayed in place, held out an arm for balance. He craned his neck to look behind when he heard angry cries from the shore. Aristodeus's white robe weaved in and out of the onlookers, as if he were in a hurry to get away. And then Carn saw why.

Black Cloaks emerged from the crowd, six of them, armed with hand crossbows. One took aim, but his bolt fell short and punched through the water with a phwat. Another held up a piece of paper and ran his eyes over it. It had to be the page of the _Chronicles_ Aristodeus had used to summon the disk. The philosopher must have dropped it, or the Black Cloak had taken it from him.

Thumil's delay tactics clearly hadn't worked. Or maybe they had, and he didn't know that action had already been taken. Maybe Grago had ordered his goons to give chase before the Council meeting had even started. If the Black Cloaks hadn't fired at Carn, he might have thought they'd come to prevent him from committing the same transgression as Lukar, but the fact that they had told him they wanted him dead, and now they had an excuse.

When the disk reached the bubbling maelstrom in the middle of the lake, Carn clutched his axe to his chest and held his breath. The disk lurched, and then it plummeted beneath the surface, plunging him into icy water. He fought the urge to close his eyes. The pressure of the descent screamed in his ears. The green glow coming from below intensified the deeper the disk took him until its scorching radiance burned his eyes. Looking down, he saw it came from the maw of a monstrous head on the lake bed: a dragon's head carved from _ocras_.

The disk entered the dragon's jaws, and Carn was engulfed by emerald fire that did not burn. He shut his eyes and gripped his axe so tight he thought the haft would snap. Waves of nausea washed over him, and his guts flip-flopped into his mouth.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the sensation left him, and the silver clamps fell away from his feet.

He opened his eyes onto blackness, but gradually he was able to pick out seams and flecks of green. Sulfurous fumes filled his lungs and made him gag.

He stepped off the disk and turned a slow circle.

He was in a cavern so vast he couldn't see the ceiling. Stalagmites grew up from the floor, twisting horns of _ocras_. The entire floor was made of the same dark ore, and the closest wall, the only one he could see, was also black and veined with green.

Behind him, the disk had come to rest in a circle of gold. Symbols he couldn't decipher ran around the rim, some of them similar to the letters on the head of the golem. He touched his foot back to the surface of the disk, and in response it shuddered, and a column of misty green light sprang up above it. Apparently, the return journey required no secret combinations. Not that it mattered. He wouldn't be going back, and neither would Lukar.

Not if they wanted to live.
TWENTY

Carn walked between the stalagmites, looking for some clue, some trail that could tell him which way Lukar had gone. But he needed to get his mind straight if either of them were to have a chance of making it through this nightmare.

Aranuin.

Even seeing it with his own eyes, he couldn't quite believe that's where he was. When he'd dreamed of leaving the city, it was always by way of the top of the ravine, not the bottom. He'd hoped one day to be beneath open skies, searching out the forests and mountains he'd heard so much about in the stories, not skulking around further below ground than even the miners had gone.

As he approached the _ocras_ wall of the cavern, intending to follow its contours until he found some means of egress, it shimmered and changed.

Glistening strands beaded with quartz hung like a curtain, where just now there had been a solid wall. He touched a strand and recoiled. It was hot and slimy, and reminded him of the strings of goat gut musicians used for their fiddles. But these were long. Impossibly long. He lost sight of them as they stretched away toward the invisible ceiling.

Through the grisly curtain, he glimpsed a forest of crystalline trees and a path of ivory stepping stones wending away across the coal-black floor. The trees were lit by some internal luminescence and stood out starkly against the darkness that surrounded them.

The curtain parted to either side of him, an invitation to pass beyond.

The minute he set foot among the trees, they were no longer crystal. Trunks of twisted flesh wound upward from sinuous roots, and the branches became thrashing serpents that hissed and spat venom. He ducked his head and ran, leaping between the stepping stones, and feeling in his guts, if he missed a jump, he would slip through the gaps into an infinite void. Or maybe worse. Maybe into the Abyss itself.

Green flashed behind him. It had to be the column of light from the cavern. The portal was in use once more.

The Svarks were coming.

Tinkling laughter chimed amid the treetops, which were now festooned with cobwebs. In place of spitting snakes, the branches had become limbs of bone. Creatures sat upon them. They were laughing at him, hundreds of them, each no bigger than a dwarf child. Yet these were no dwarves: they were faen.

About the only thing they had in common with each other, besides their stature, was their gnomic faces and glittery eyes. It seemed they all had their own manner of dress: There were rags and motley, animal skins and seamless robes; some wore pleated britches and matching jackets; one had on a silver outfit like a second skin. And their hair: it went from bald as an egg to tangles of vibrant color; spikes and crests to ringlets and ropes.

As Carn reached the last stepping stone, the trees in front of him disappeared, banished by a sheer wall of obsidian that appeared out of nowhere. Close to the base of the wall was a gash like a leering smile: an aperture that opened up onto a passageway.

The sudden silence from the treetops caused him to turn around to see what was happening. Back the way he'd come, dark shapes emerged from the curtain of goat gut, and one of them pointed his way.

The Svarks.

If it were just his life to lose, he would have turned back and confronted them. But if he slipped up, if they brought him down, then Lukar was as good as dead.

He rolled over the lip of the gash and crawled the first couple of dozen yards inside until there was room to stand. The passageway sloped downward, and as he descended, it took on the semblance of a fossilized gullet. Deeper still, and skulls atop metal spikes lined the way. They were dwarf skulls, all still with their beards, and yet caked with the dust of ages.

Tinkling laughter commenced once more behind him. The Black Cloaks must have entered the forest.

He felt like they were all being herded--Lukar, him, the Svarks--toward some innominate horror.

But maybe that's what he was supposed to feel. The faen were creatures of deception, begotten from the very stuff of Mananoc. Maybe they were just protecting their realm the only way they knew how. Perhaps the dwarf skulls were an illusory warning, not necessarily real.

But then a thought occurred to him: What if they were the skulls of the Founders, those who had pursued golems into the bowels of Aranuin and never returned? Those who had lost the Axe of the Dwarf Lords. Assuming, of course, Lukar had got it right, and wasn't himself a victim of deception.

The gradient grew steeper, and the skulls on spikes petered out, until he was left in a tunnel of absolute blackness. He inched down on his backside, axe clattering against the floor as he went. Once or twice his fingers connected with something soft and squelchy. His heart pounded as he snatched his hand away. The skin burned, and he wiped his fingers on his britches.

He became aware of a distant keening, muffled by the rock of the tunnel. Its echoes ghosted up the incline behind him, like a voice carried away on the wind. He stopped and pressed his ear to the floor; it was warm, and the eerie wailing grew louder. Despite the heat of the stone, insects of ice scuttled along his spine.

He quickly pressed on. If he lingered too long, he felt certain he would be lulled into despair by those howling cries.

The tunnel twisted and turned, but always led down. Scuffles and the occasional rasp of breath told him the Black Cloaks weren't far behind. Fearing being caught in an enclosed space, where he wouldn't be able to swing his axe, he scooted along the slope of the passage faster and faster. Flickers of red light taunted him from up front, bringing with them a waft of hot air that prickled the skin of his face. When the tunnel ended and pitched him onto a precipice above a chasm, the heat was scorching, and he could swear his beard was starting to smolder.

He'd emerged into a cathedral cavern with a fanged ceiling of glistening stalactites. The ground fell away in a sheer drop--a deep gorge that divided the cavern in two. It was too wide to jump, but a narrow rope bridge spanned the gap, swaying gently in the wafts of sulfurous smoke that billowed up from below.

There was no time to look for an alternative route. The sound of his pursuers scrabbling down the tunnel in his wake were growing nearer. He only hoped Lukar had come the same way. There had been no sign of another, but that didn't mean there weren't a thousand concealed passages and paths down here. In the stories, the realm of the faen was an endless space of warrens with shifting walls, false trails and myriad misdirections. If the tales had any truth to them, Carn had to assume the route he was taking--the only way open to him--was the one the faen wished him to take.

Tentatively, he set foot on the rope bridge. As his boot touched the first plank, he wobbled and grabbed the rope railing to steady himself. With his axe in his other hand, it made for hard going, but by shifting his balance with each step and waiting for the bridge to stabilize, he was able to negotiate his way out across the chasm.

Smoke plumed about him, caused him to cough and splutter. He risked a look down and wished he hadn't. Dark sludge oozed along the base of the canyon a hundred feet below. Scaly shapes undulated through it, indistinct through the smoke, but there was no doubting they were immense--great roiling leviathans. It crossed his mind that such a creature might once have left Aranuin and formed the basis of the Sag-Urda monster myth.

With infinite care, he took one precarious step after another toward the far side. The hand steadying him on the rope chafed from where he gripped so tight. Behind him, cries went up. He'd been seen. Air whistled past his ear. He flinched, and silver flashed in his peripheral vision--a crossbow bolt. It had barely missed him.

Abandoning caution, he let go of the rope and ran. The bridge swayed and swung wildly as he bounded over three planks at a time. When it threatened to sling him into the chasm below, he dived the rest of the way, hit rock, rolled and came up standing.

He raised his axe to cut through one of the ropes holding the bridge, but a quarrel pinged from its blades. A second bolt clipped his chainmail and skittered away across the cavern floor. Two more sent up chips of rock from where they narrowly missed his feet.

He turned and ran. Ten paces, and no more crossbow fire. Twenty, and it went quiet behind, save for the groaning of the rope bridge. It must have been swaying again as the Black Cloaks made the crossing.

The cavern floor continued for a couple of hundred yards before it ended in another wall of _ocras_. He kicked the wall in frustration, almost hit it with his axe, but then he glimpsed something to his left. A little way along the wall was a wooden door, utterly plain, save for a brass knob. It opened with a creak, and cold air blew over him.

Carn cast a look back toward the bridge. In the bank of smoke coming up from the sludge in the canyon, shadowy forms moved with jerky, lurching motions. The Black Cloaks had made it to half way.

He slipped through the door, pulling it shut behind him. As he crossed the threshold, his stomach lurched, and wooziness filled his skull. For a moment, he was bright-blinded by a white glare. He turned away from it, and as he blinked his eyes into focus, he saw that the door had a sturdy metal bolt on the inside. He snapped it into place. It might not hold the Black Cloaks, but it would delay them.

He turned back and let his eyes adjust to the blinding light, much of it reflected from the frost-rimed walls of a natural cavern. Blazing spheres of silver orbited just below the ceiling at dizzying speeds. Though their radiance was excoriating, it gave off no heat. If anything, the cavern was freezing, and Carn regretted leaving his cloak behind.

His eyes were drawn to the white-carpeted ground. There were footprints leading away from where he now stood.

Ice crunched beneath his boots as he followed the trail, and he began to shiver. A sibilant hissing came from somewhere up front, then a multitude of thrashing, snapping sounds. The deeper he went into the cavern, the louder the susurrus grew, until his teeth began to rattle, and his head felt fit to burst.

The glint of silver caught his eye. One of the footprints had disturbed something beneath the hoarfrost.

He stooped to examine the silver patch, then crouched to sweep away the ice with his hand. The silver extended in a broad band. He uncovered more and saw that it curved. He followed its line, clearing frost as he went, until it became obvious he was revealing a vast circle. He traced its surface with his fingertips, encountered a groove. He peered closer and saw that there were hairline symbols engraved into the metal. He recognized some of them as the same letters that had glowed on the golem's forehead.

Back the way he had come, a thud sounded, then a succession of rattles. The Black Cloaks had arrived at the door.

Brushing ice from his knees, Carn stood and then crossed over the silver line into the circle.

His eyes snapped open--when had he closed them?--upon the flickering flames of the hearth back home. Droom stepped between him and the fire, silhouetted by its blaze. He held out a kaffa cup. It was empty.

Durgish Duffin's painting slammed down between them, and Yalla stepped from the frame. She looked at Carn as if he were something foul she'd trodden in. There was a haughtiness about her Droom had never mentioned. She thought him weak, a disappointment, not fit to be her son.

Yalla thrust out a hand, and Carn flinched, thinking she held a spear, but it was a spike like the ones he'd seen as he descended the tunnel. In place of a skull was a fully fleshed head, the blood dripping from its severed neck steaming in the chill air of the cavern. Like a hammer blow to the sternum, recognition struck him, and he fell to his knees.

It was Thumil.

Then the spike became a spine, and a body grew up around it. The head warped and changed until Cordy stood before him. She was robed like a queen, and a coronet sat atop her golden hair. Behind her head, a hellish corona bloomed. It came from a pair of garnets set into the eye sockets of a skull. The flesh of Cordy's face wept putrescence. The skin was livid, peeling away in layers, and a maggot flopped out of her nostril.

Stakes as tall as trees pushed up from the ground, forming a palisade between him and Cordy. There were bodies impaled upon them, shit and blood fouling their bases. Snow stretched out beyond the forest of the dead as far as the fir-topped hills that marked the horizon.

The vision flipped, and suddenly he stood atop a mesa. Far below, all he could see was mile upon mile of ocher desert. Above, the sky was a brilliant blue. He was in the middle of a fierce battle between humans like Aristodeus and living corpses that just wouldn't stop coming, no matter how much they were hacked apart. There were skeletal riders on skeletal steeds, and metal men that discharged explosive bursts of fire. Above a ridge, the sky parted, and a man appeared on a throne, a man with a bloodless face and eyes of flashing blue.

At the foot of the ridge, another man looked on in despair. A wide-brimmed hat, a long coat. A sword wreathed in golden brilliance.

"Not good," Aristodeus's voice bubbled up from the ground. "Not good at all."

Then Carn was before a mountain of _ocras_ within the ambit of a black moat. The land it stood upon was ashen. Silver spheres orbited its peak. In the distance, terrible storms raged, violent whirlwinds that warped the very air around them. Dark fractures webbed the sky, and the ground beneath ruptured.

And then there was nothing.

Nothing left.

As if nothing had ever been.

"You can prevent this," Aristodeus said out of the void. "You are necessary. You cannot die."

A thud startled Carn. His eyes focused on the frosted floor of the cavern. A second thud had him standing. The subsequent crash told him the Black Cloaks were through the door.

More images danced around his vision: a horde of flesh-eating monsters with no facial features save for ravenous mouths; a black sun in a slate-grey sky; a citadel of obsidian built into the side of a dark mountain.

He wrenched himself away from all that he was seeing. It was an illusion, he told himself. None of it real. Either he moved and kept on moving, or he and Lukar were going to die.

He took one step across the circle. Then another. His feet scuffed against the ice coating the ground. Shouts came from behind. The Black Cloaks had seen him.

Invisible cords snapped, fell away from his mind, and he launched himself across the silver circumference, skidded, fell, and came up running.

The sibilant cacophony resumed, as though he were passing beneath a waterfall. The cavern floor banked downward, then continued to drop away in a series of natural steps. At the bottom, the floor leveled out. Gone was the coating of hoarfrost: it was glistening, polished marble as smooth as glass. He slipped when he came barreling onto it and went crashing down on his back. His axe flew from his grip and skimmed away across the cavern. He slid after it, flailing about for purchase. His feet connected with something soft that broke his momentum. Someone yelped. Hands grabbed his arm and brought him to a complete halt.

"Carn!"--It was a breathy hiss, no more than a whisper.

Carn looked up into his brother's pudgy face.

Lukar put a finger to his lips for silence. He indicated with his eyes where Carn should look.

Pillars of granite flanked them to left and right. There were eight of them.

Not pillars, he realized, as he raised his eyes: legs.

The legs of four golems.
TWENTY-ONE

Carn's heart bounded around his ribcage. He tried to stand but slipped on the polished marble floor and crashed back down again.

"My axe!"

"Gone," Lukar said, still whispering. He stooped so he could help Carn up. "You get used to it." He indicated the floor with a tap of his foot. "I landed on my arse at least a dozen times when I arrived."

Carn looked off in the direction the axe had slid away from him and gasped. Some kind of trench or pit marked the end of the cavern. There seemed to be nothing containing it: no ceiling, no walls, just inky blackness above; and writhing within the pit there were thousands upon thousands of thrashing tendrils. Blue veins pulsed inside the tendrils, which were edged with delicate hooks that glistened with moisture. There seemed no end to them. They extended away into the hazy distance, an infinite sea of horror.

"The seethers," Lukar breathed. "See, I can be wrong sometimes. I thought the mention of the seethers in the _Chronicles_ was one of the mythical elements, part of a morality tale."

Carn eyed the golems to either side. Violet symbols shone upon their foreheads: the same letters as before: " _Hevohk_ ", Aristodeus had said the word was they formed. "Life." Their lipless mouths were little more than fissures in the stone of their heads, curled into the slightest hint of a leer. The eyes were just depressions that gave no indication the golems could actually see.

He flicked a look at the seethers. Of his axe there was no sign; it must have slid into the pit. He returned his gaze to the golems, braced himself for an attack, but the four creatures didn't move.

"It makes no sense," Lukar said. He pulled a crumpled piece of parchment from his pocket and waved it about. "According to the _Chronicles_ , the _Paxa Boraga_ should be here, in this cavern."

Carn took the parchment from him and straightened out the creases. It was a crude map, with "X" marking the spot close to the center of the cavern.

"Maybe you missed something." He handed the map back.

"No, I don't think so," Lukar said. "Why do you think the golems are here? It's consistent with the passage describing how the _Paxa Boraga_ was lost. They're guarding it, I'm certain. Ensuring no one retrieves it and uses it against them."

Carn gave the stone giants a wary look. "Then why haven't they killed us already?"

"I don't know," Lukar said. "Do I look omniscient?"

"Omnipresent, maybe."

"Funny," Lukar said. "Glad I can still be of some amusement." He looked out across the sea of seethers. "The Axe of the Dwarf Lords has to be beyond the pit, maybe even beneath it."

He may have been right, for all Carn cared, but right now there were more pressing matters.

"Lukar, we need to get out of here."

"Don't be absurd. I didn't come all this way just to--"

"We're being followed by Black Cloaks."

"Black Cloaks? So soon? How did they...? I mean, they can't have known. I slipped away when everyone was busy at the wedding." Then realization hit Lukar. "Aristodeus! I left clues, so at least someone would know what I'd done."

Carn nodded. "He told Thumil, but I think Grago already knew. I'm certain he was having both you and Baldilocks watched. Come on, if we're quick we might be able to double back behind them, find some place to hide." Their only hope was if the Black Cloaks had been delayed by the silver circle, as beguiled by its illusions as he was.

Grabbing Lukar's arm, Carn started back toward the natural steps. Lukar slipped and fell on his arse, and a quarrel whizzed over his head.

Before the Svark could drop his crossbow and draw his sword, Carn barreled into him and knocked him flying. He barely noticed how, in the heat of battle, his footing grew as secure as a ravine goat's.

To Lukar he shouted, "Get back!" as more Black Cloaks surged down the steps. He threw himself to the ground as they fired, and bolts skimmed off the marble beyond him. He glimpsed Lukar up on his feet, slipping and sliding toward the seethers' pit.

If Carn backed off now, he knew they were both dead; the Black Cloaks would just use them for target practice. He rolled to his feet and ran up the steps. The Black Cloak he'd put down was already on his knees. A kick to the head put him back down again.

As the other five Svarks fumbled for their swords, Carn threw himself among them. They were quick to react and tried to grapple him to the ground. He crashed his head into a nose, felt it split. Wrenching his arm away from a grab, he lashed out, caught one of them on the jaw. Someone got him in a chokehold. Carn spluttered and swooned. A Black Cloak hit him in the stomach, but he tensed his abs, then kicked the shogger in the fruits. He reached behind for the Svark on his back, shifted his weight, and slammed him into the ground. A fist caught him in the mouth, and he spat out blood. A flash of silver came at his heart. He caught the wrist of the dwarf holding the sword and cracked the shogger's head with a hook.

Lukar shrieked.

Carn craned his neck and saw his brother backing up, slipping on the marble. The walls either side of Lukar blurred, and two Svarks in concealer cloaks launched themselves at him. One grabbed him either side, and they dragged him kicking and screaming toward the seethers.

"Lukar!" Carn cried.

He punched, kicked, blocked and shoved with such ferocity, he broke clear of his attackers and ran toward his brother.

The Svarks glanced back at him, and one of them gave a sickening grin as they edged Lukar closer to the pit.

"Stop!" Carn cried.

He came off the steps and skated across the marble floor, perfectly balanced, perfectly in control. He could reach them. He was going to reach--

With staggering speed, the golems jerked to life and stepped into his path, forming a wall between him and the Svarks dragging Lukar. He hit at full tilt. Pain lanced through his shoulder.

Carn screamed his frustration, hammering at a granite torso with his fists. Blood sprayed from his knuckles, but he didn't feel a thing.

He made a dash past the golems, but one lashed out with a massive hand and caught him by the arm, lifting him from his feet. It took a two-handed grip, splaying his arms till he hung helpless in its grasp. It turned, forcing him to watch as the Svarks flung his brother into the pit.

Carn's scream joined with Lukar's, and together they drowned out the hissing of the seethers.

Tendrils lashed about Lukar, caught him in midair. Where they touched, his clothing smoldered and his skin bubbled and blistered. First the fabric of his jacket and britches was flayed, and then his flesh. His screams kept rising in pitch, till they became an endless shrill keening. He should have been dead already, but even as flesh sloughed from his bones and his head was reduced to a glistening skull, he continued to wail like the damned of the Abyss. The blue veins in the tendrils throbbed as if they drank him in, and at the same time, in some diabolical way, they drew out his suffering.

The rest of the Black Cloaks, most of them nursing injuries, stepped past the golems to watch alongside their colleagues. They were rapt with horror, too fascinated to look away.

Carn kicked and thrashed, but nothing he did had the slightest effect on the golem's hold. He slumped in despair, sobbing as his brother continued to howl, now no more than a skeleton. Carn forced his eyes shut. He half-expected the golem to rip his arms from their sockets. Willed it to. Longed for it to grind him into pulp and end his torment.

Then the keening stopped, and the seethers' sibilant hissing gave way to silence. Carn risked a look, but of Lukar there was nothing left.

Slowly, as if still assimilating what they had witnessed, the Black Cloaks turned to face Carn, and the golems didn't make a single move against them. Were they in league? Or was it something else? And why was he still alive? The golems could have killed him a hundred times over by now. Why did they all just stand there waiting?

"Well, that was novel," one of the Black Cloaks said. He was an evil-looking shogger with a hooked nose and eyes so brown they were almost black. "You, though," he said, running the edge of his shortsword along his finger. "You're going to bleed real slow for what you did to Kloon."

The golem holding Carn lifted him out of reach. The other three golems stepped in front to prevent the Svarks from following as it turned away and took long lumbering strides back toward the steps.

The golem carried Carn to the center of the silver circle. This time, there were no visions, no disorienting feelings. Instead, waiting for him within the circle was the faen that had broken into the Scriptorium.

The golem set Carn down and retreated outside the silver perimeter. One by one, the three other golems filed up the natural steps, and then all four turned to clay and merged with the floor.

Farther down the steps, the six Black Cloaks crept cautiously into view, and at their sides the air shimmered and blurred where the two in concealer cloaks came with them.

The faen held out a slender hand for Carn to take.

Body still racked with sobbing, mind a stinging nest of insects that left him both enraged and numb, Carn accepted.

The faen led him to the hub of the circle. As the assassins reached the top of the steps, it said, "What's bad is good, what's good is bad," and then it released his hand.

The floor split open beneath Carn's feet, and he plunged into a well of darkness.
TWENTY-TWO

Gradually, imperceptibly at first, Carn's fall began to slow, until he was no longer plummeting; he was drifting down like a feather.

He dropped interminably through blackness so complete, the only thing that told him he was still moving was the passing of air across his skin. The deeper he went, the more ragged his sobs for Lukar became, until at last they were no more than involuntary shudders accompanied by wheezing snatches of breath. By the time his feet touched solid ground, he was iced over with clenched rage.

Dark light winked on around him, a crepuscular radiance that came from within the ebon walls of a sizable chamber. Five walls there were--just like the Slean; black mirrors that cast shadowy reflections. In each, he looked wraith-like, not fully existent. Above, an obsidian funnel flared from the ceiling. That was how he'd entered the chamber, but there was no indication of how he'd get out. A cell, then. The faen had set a trap for him, and he'd walked straight into it.

Not that it mattered now.

Lukar was dead.

Carn closed his eyes, as if doing so could ward off the memories. The black dog mood flowed from the recesses of his mind. He called out to it, begged it to smother him in a cloud of forgetting. But it wasn't his to command, and instead it wolfed down the images of Lukar's flayed flesh and disgorged them in ever more terrible forms.

His eyes snapped open, and he scoured the room. There before him, at the apex of the pentagon, was an axe hovering in midair.

It was no wonder he'd missed it before. It was a deeper black than the walls, no more to his sight than a particularly dense shadow. He recoiled on instinct, pressed himself up against the wall opposite. Tingles of wrongness prickled beneath his skin. His heart slowed to a torpid slosh that echoed in his ears. Tremors spread from his fingers along his arms; they entered his legs and caused his knees to buckle. He sunk down the wall to his haunches.

But he couldn't take his eyes from the axe. It scared him. It fascinated him, aroused in him a nightmarish dread. Somehow, he knew it wanted him.

Something formless emerged from the floor, growing and taking shape, until beside the axe there stood a golem made of coal. The letters on its head smoldered crimson, and the cavities where its eyes should have been were trained on Carn.

The black axe tugged at his attention, drew it inexorably back, until the golem was but a shadow on the periphery of his awareness. Hair-thin threads of darkness emerged from the axe's twin blades, quested through the intervening space toward him.

They recoiled, though, when the six Black Cloaks floated down from the funnel in the ceiling, followed by the two other Svarks in concealer cloaks that merged with the black light of the chamber.

Carn lacked the volition to act as the Svarks adjusted to the gloom and took in the walls of obsidian, the golem, and the axe. It was all over for him. Lukar was gone. His pa was gone. Cordy was married to Thumil. And even if there was anything to go back for, he was a criminal now. He'd left the city. Thumil might have been the Voice, but his authority didn't extend that far. He'd warned Carn what would happen if he went after Lukar, but then he'd encouraged him to go all the same. Had Thumil wanted this to happen? Wanted Carn out of the way, in spite of his promise to honor their marriage? The idea sounded crazy, but it was no less crazy than what was happening all around him.

When the eight Svarks finally saw him, Carn hung his head in resignation.

But then a shadow stepped behind the Svarks. Gasps went up. The two half-invisible in their concealer cloaks turned, and the golem reached over the top of the Black Cloaks and grabbed them both. It hoisted them into the air and cracked their heads together with such force, their brains spattered the walls.

The Svarks sprang at the golem, hacking and stabbing. Blades snapped. The golem stomped, and a bloody puddle was left where a dwarf had just stood. It swept out an arm and flung three Black Cloaks against a wall. They hit with pulpy splats and oozed down to the floor.

The two left standing lunged for the black axe. The golem caught one by the scruff of the neck and tore him in half. The other reached for the haft of the axe, but his fingers passed straight through it. With the sickening realization he'd had his last chance written all over his face, the Svark looked up into the empty eyes of the golem, and its fist fell like a hammer.

Once more, vaporous threads quested forth from the axe's blades. One of them extended across the room and swayed before Carn's eyes. He watched it, spellbound, and then it darted straight at him. Where it struck, in the center of his forehead, lightning sparked, then arced through his skull. The black dog mood scattered, and with a violent jolt, Carn lurched to his feet.

The golem wheeled to face him, took a lumbering step.

But Carn already knew what he had to do.

_What's bad is good; what's good is bad_ , the faen had told him. Nothing was as it seemed. How could it be, down here in Aranuin, where deception was the very fabric of reality? This was no prison, no trap: it was a treasure chamber, the stronghold that housed the axe.

The Axe of the Dwarf Lords.

He ran at the golem, swaying aside from its grasping fingers. It stooped and tried to flatten him with a punch, but he dived between its legs, rolled to his feet, and grasped the haft of the axe--which was solid to his touch.

And then everything changed.

The blades flared golden, the golem staggered back under the glare, and Carn hurled the axe. Thunder cracked on impact, and the golem exploded into a million shards that clattered and crashed to the ground.

The axe flipped in midair and soared straight back into Carn's waiting hand.

Lukar had been right: the _Paxa Boraga_ was real--the Axe of the Dwarf Lords. And now it was his.

Elation blasted away every last vestige of grief. Even his brother's horrific end now seemed a worthy sacrifice. This was what Lukar had lived for. What he had given his life to bring to light. And that was what his name meant, wasn't it? "Light." Or as Lukar had preferred, "the bringer of enlightenment."

They were so wrong--Rugbeard and Aristodeus. As deluded as the Council, locked away in the ravine because of their fear to act. It was all so obvious now, so clear how the dwarves had been deceived in the very act of trying to avoid deception.

As his initial exultation started to wane, Carn became aware of the faen from the Scriptorium standing beneath the funnel in the ceiling. Its stony eyes watched him intently, and its lips were curled into a smile.

"You see now?" the faen said. "You see what I meant?"

"I see," Carn said.

"Like scales falling from your eyes?"

"Like scales."

"And where are the scales now?" the faen asked, gesturing at the broken bodies of the Svarks who had come to kill Carn, and who had succeeded in killing his brother.

Fear gripped Carn's chest, and for a moment, he struggled to breathe.

They were grotesque. Glistening black scales covered the dead Svarks head to foot, and tattered wings of shadow sprouted from their backs. Even in death, their eyes were pits of malevolence, and they were snaggletoothed, with wicked incisors protruding from lipless mouths. Two of them had pulped heads, their splayed-out wings all but lost against the exact same color and texture from the floor.

"This is why they misdirected you all your life," the faen said. "Kept you from the truth. But your brother was too clever for them, and you were too strong."

"Misdirected?" Carn said.

"Arx Gravis. All that you have ever known. Think: did you ever feel stifled? Did you ever yearn to leave?"

"Always," Carn said, "but I just thought..." Oh, shog, what was the faen saying? That he'd been deluded all along? Deceived by the very people he lived among: the Council, his friends, his family?

"But my pa..."

"Not Droom," the faen said. "He was untainted. Same as your mother, your brother, and those you were closest to."

"Cordy? Thumil? What about Kal?"

"As you were, Carnac Thayn: blind victims. Innocents for the demons to draw life from. But already, what you have done here will be known. What you have found. Your friends are in peril."

"I don't understand," Carn said. His heart was racing. "This makes no sense. What are you trying to tell me?"

"Arx Gravis is a city of the damned."

"No," Carn breathed. "You're lying. You're trying to trick me."

The faen dipped its eyes and sighed. "Then it may already be too late."

"Speak clearly, spawn of Mananoc!" Carn took a stranglehold on the axe. The haft pulsed in response, and fire flooded his veins. It reassured him, told him he was in the presence of truth, no matter how painful, how hard to believe.

The faen spoke quickly, as if reluctant to give up its secrets. "My people have long held that the hope of the dwarves, the hope of our old allies, would come from the womb of Yalla Thayn. Your brother was special, Carnac. You are special. Lukar has played his part. He has given you light to see by. And now it is in your hands. Either you will remain down here in fear and confusion, or you will return to the ravine and save your people."

"Save them how?"

The faen raised its head and locked eyes with Carn. "You have clear sight now. Use it to sort the wheat from the chaff. You will know true dwarves from the demons who feed upon their essence."

"You want me to return to the city? Root out these horrors and kill them?"

"It's what your mother would have done. It's what the dwarf lords would have done, before they were forgotten by history and reduced to myth. Why do you think Maldark fell, Carnac? Why do you think your people became skulking cowards? Why do you think our two races were once friends, but now the dwarves view us with suspicion and hostility?"

Carn turned away and squeezed the bridge of his nose. "How do I know this is the truth?"

"Because you hold the Axe of the Dwarf Lords? Doesn't that alone prove you have been lied to by your Council, by your scholars, by that meddling philosopher who strives to keep you blinkered?"

"But why?" Carn said. "Why would Aristodeus do that?"

The faen shrugged. "What do you really know of him, other than that he hails from Vanatus across the Sea of Weeping? That he visits the ravine city whenever he pleases? He has the ear of the Council, Carnac. And have you never wondered about his clothes? His white robe is never besmirched, never soiled by travel. How does he achieve that? Have you ever seen him carry spares?"

Carn had wondered, but he'd formed his own theories to make sense of it. None of them were sinister, though. But now, with all that he'd seen and heard, he was starting to think again.

"You are making the connections," the faen said, "piecing it together for yourself. Aristodeus pops up all over the place; here one minute, some place else the next. Space is no barrier to him, and neither is time. Don't you see, Carnac? There is but one master who grants such freedom to his subjects, willing or otherwise; one place that scorns the laws of time."

"The Abyss?" Carn said. "Aristodeus is a servant of Mananoc?"

His question was greeted with stony silence.

So much of what the faen said made sense and went some way to clearing up the mystery of Aristodeus. But not all the way. If anything, Carn was even more confused, but beneath it all, tugging away at the threads of uncertainty, was the will to do something, and the fear that if he didn't, he would inadvertently doom his people.

"Me discovering the axe has changed things?" he asked. "Arx Gravis is no longer the same?"

"The veil is already lifting," the faen said, "and the demons will not let their true nature be known. They will kill, Carnac. They will slaughter."

_Will they?_ Carn wondered. _Will they really?_

It was like Droom always said about the bizarre philosophical ideas Lukar was always spouting from the books he read: You could believe what you liked, but it didn't change a thing when a gibuna was gnawing on your fruits, or cancer was eating you up from the inside, like it had Cordy's pa. You could call a sun a star, but it still rose every morning, and set every night. You could deny a chair was a chair, but it still numbed your arse when you sat on it too long. The bottom line for Droom was, if you could see it, hear it, touch it, then it was real. And if you couldn't, then it wasn't worth worrying about. Droom had never listened much to what folk said, but he paid great attention to what they did.

Carn hefted the golden axe to his shoulder. "You can get me back to the ravine?"

The faen nodded.

In that case, Carn had reached his decision. He had to see for himself.

"Then let's go."

And if it was all lies, if the faen had been trying to deceive him, he would hand himself over to the Black Cloaks. He'd chosen to come below to find his brother, and he'd known what the consequences were. If Lukar were still alive, Carn would have considered running; the two of them could have made a life for themselves in Medryn-Tha, assuming the humans who lived on the surface would permit it. But with the way things had turned out, maybe death was the better option.

The faen guided him beneath the funnel, then stood off to one side. It tapped some glowing crystals set into the vambrace on its forearm, and the air began to shimmer. This time, there was no blackness, as there had been when Carn had floated down to the chamber. The air around him dissolved into sparks and motes of many colors. Every fiber of his body screamed in agony. His skull burst into a million fragments.

And then he was standing on the embankment beside the Sag-Urda. The ravine walls oozed magma, and in their hellish glow he saw a fur-faced devil loping toward him, scraping its knuckles along the ground. Jaundiced eyes bored into him. Its jaws bristled with serrated teeth. It gibbered and shrieked, and a hundred hoots and howls chorused in response.

Carn saw them then: dozens upon dozens of demonic horrors, bounding down from the rock face and coming at him in a frenzied wave.
TWENTY-THREE

Fire in its eyes, the demon sprang. Filthy talons came at Carn's throat. He swayed and chopped, and it fell in two pieces. The top part screeched; the legs twitched and stilled.

It was easy. So easy. The axe sliced through fur, sinew and bone with no effort. Blood spattered the blades, but the golden brilliance coming off them seemed to evaporate it. As the crimson stains vanished, the axe haft throbbed, and Carn felt its heat inflame his blood.

The charging horde checked itself. Demons fanned out, gibbering insanely. One dashed in. He swung round to meet it, and it ran back off again. He took a step toward the pack; they retreated. He turned his back on them, and they came on with howls and screeches.

This time, he spun and hurled the axe. It arced across the front of the pack, slinging blood in its wake. Five demons crumpled to the floor holding their guts in, and the axe slapped back into Carn's hand.

He couldn't stop himself from gawping. He'd thrown axes before, but never to such effect; it wasn't what they were designed for. But this one... This axe had just sliced open five demons, and then flown back to him. His heart scudded about his chest, part from fascinated awe, part creeping dread. It was just like the axe in the stories. But knowing that the _Paxa Boraga_ was real only threw into doubt everything he'd taken for granted about myth, about reality. And now, with demons inside the city, and him wielding the legendary Axe of the Dwarf Lords against them, the world seemed sharply divided between good and evil, and both were utterly tangible.

Then fangs and claws were coming at him from every side, and he was swamped by hoots and shrieks of rage. Carn swung and chopped and scythed, stepping, lunging, ducking, swaying. Claws raked across his chainmail. Fangs snapped at his face. He thumped the butt of the axe into them, and teeth shattered. The axe came up. The axe came down. The demon's head split from top to bottom.

Pain flared in his arm--three deep gouges from a demon's talons. Carn lashed out with the axe, connected with furry hide, then ripped the blades up to sheer off the face.

For an instant, he panicked. What if the demon's claws caused corruption? What if they infected his blood?

Golden light from the axe blades coursed along the haft and flowed into his wounded arm. The lacerations knitted, and the pain subsided, and all Carn could do was gasp in wonder.

Clubbing limbs pounded him from behind. As he stumbled, a demon leapt onto his back, gripping his waist with its legs. Carn threw himself backward, slamming his weight onto the demon as it struck the ground and released him. He rolled to one knee and brought the axe down.

He twisted as he stood, slinging the axe behind him and taking off a demon's leg. Fangs found his shoulder, and his arm went numb. The axe flared again, and feeling was restored. With a two-handed grip on the haft, he swung the _Paxa Boraga_ in a wide circle, pivoting with his feet, spinning faster and faster. The demons backed away from the blades. They had seen what the axe could do.

Carn came to a stop, and the demons continued to swirl about him for a few seconds as the dizziness passed. In spite of the gore on the ground, the blood-drenched corpses, the wounds he knew he'd sustained, he remained completely unscathed. And the axe... Not a notch or chip, not the least stain of crimson. It looked newly forged. And it was scintillant, lit by its own inner sun.

He scanned the demons encircling him. As he met their hellish eyes, they shuffled back.

Somewhere deep inside his mind, the axe laughed. Or had it been a sigh? He strained, trying to hear more, but there was only the low growling of the demons, the occasional nervous gibber.

They had already delayed him too long. Confidence surged through him, told him he could sweep the horde aside, if only he gave full sway to the axe. He took in a deep breath, let it out slowly. The haft trembled in his grip, and answering ripples passed beneath his skin. Stiffness ebbed from his joints. His muscles tautened, and his heartbeat galloped to a bracing tattoo.

And then he charged.

So fast, the demons never saw it coming.

He was in among them, hacking, hacking, hacking. The axe sang an exultant song, spurring him on. But no sooner had he registered the fact than it changed to a mournful lament, as if it grieved for every life it stole.

Blood spouted in fountains, splashed his face, his arms, his armor, then evaporated into plumes of pinkish vapor. Growls became shrieks; gibbers, screams of terror. And then the demons were fleeing back to the ravine wall as if driven by flaming whips.

Carn should have felt relieved, should have been exhausted. Instead, he was angry. Angry they had wasted his time. Angry they hadn't finished what they started. Angry he might already be too late.

He strode away from the embankment toward the warehouses flanking a canal. Everything was locked up for the night, and the district was deserted. The arena fights must have finished--there were no sounds of fighting or the crowd. How long he had been in Aranuin was a mystery to him. Time seemed to pass slowly there, or perhaps not at all. But clearly things had moved on since he'd left the city.

He had to find Thumil and Cordy, Kal and anyone else who wasn't tainted. Shog only knew who was left. He dreaded walking into Bucknard's and discovering it was a nest of demons. And what if he went for aid to a Ravine Guard barracks and found it overrun?

Faces flashed through his mind in quick succession: Grimark, Captain Stolhok, Brol Farny, Old Moary... Surely, they were all right. How could they have been tainted and him not notice? He'd lived among these people all his life, eaten, drunk, fought some of them in the __ Slean. Had he been so blind? So deluded? And where would it have ended if Lukar hadn't shed light upon the deception and in doing so led Carn to the axe?

Layers upon layers of trickery and misdirection, and all for what? So the demons could go on feeding on their unsuspecting fodder? Is that how it worked? Creatures of nightmare imbibing the essence of those they lived among, with no one any the wiser?

But the Council knew, surely? Or at least some of them did. Which would explain why no one was allowed to leave the ravine. It hadn't always been that way. Thumil said there had been a move to found new settlements, and to engineer the volcano, Mount Sartis. Maybe it wasn't the goblins that put paid to that particular venture. In spite of their losses, the dwarves had won the day. Maybe it was something else they had brought back from the region. Because it struck Carn that's when things had reverted to the isolationism that had constituted the life of Arx Gravis since Maldark's fall.

He headed along the banks of the canal, past barges moored for the night, making his way to the iron ladders that led to the twenty-first level. Just the thought of going up, of looking for Thumil and the others, of drawing nearer to home, was all it took to bring back the full horror of Lukar's death. He flinched as he felt for himself the rip of the seethers' tendrils, the acid-burn of their touch. He relived his helplessness as the golem made him watch.

His footsteps faltered. He glanced up at the molten walls of the ravine, wondering how the Abyss had come to Arx Gravis. Another step, and he drew up sharp, clutching at the pain in his chest. It felt like his heart had been ripped out.

"Lukar," he groaned.

Weakness entered his legs, and he dipped down on one knee, bracing his hand on the ground. The axe scraped against stone.

_[There will be time to grieve later,]_ a voice said in his head. A man's voice, gruff and rumbling. Just how he imagined a dwarf lord would speak.

"I can't do this," Carn said. He let go the axe and stood. Only, when he made it to his feet, the axe was still there, snug in his grip.

_[You can,]_ said the voice in his head.

Carn tried to pry his fingers off the haft, but they wouldn't obey him.

_[You are being poisoned by the very air of this place. Assailed from every side. I will not abandon you. I am your only protection now.]_

"You?" Carn said, glaring at the blades. "You can speak?"

_[I am the_ Paxa Boraga _, the Peace of the Dwarves. For centuries, I was the heart of your people. Their soul. When I was lost in the bowels of Aranuin, the dwarves were deprived of their best defense against Mananoc, and this is the result.]_

"In the stories I learned as a child, you went down with Arnoch. You were entombed in the city, beneath the waves."

Silence.

"Are those stories false? Did you come to Arx Gravis with the Founders?"

Silence.

"Why can't I put you down?"

_[Because we are joined now, you and I.]_

"What if I don't want to be joined?"

The axe sighed inside his mind. _[This has gone beyond what either of us wants. We are caught in the currents of fate. I did not choose to be forged. You did not choose to be born. But forged and born we were, and all to a predetermined plan.]_

"No," Carn said. "I don't accept that. There are no plans, and no planners mapping out events in advance. But there are meddlers who want us to see things that way." Meddlers like Aristodeus, searching for patterns in the past and using them to manipulate outcomes in the future. How much had the philosopher really known about what was going on, what was going to happen?

_[So,]_ the axe said, _[you don't believe in Mananoc?]_

"Even if I do, he's not the master of my fate. And neither is any other shogger."

_[Spoken like a king of Arnoch,]_ the axe said. _[Now, Carnac Thayn, wielder of the Axe of the Dwarf Lords, ask yourself this: are you going to give up under the weight of grief for your brother, or are you going to avenge him?]_

Two dark shapes stepped out of an alley between warehouses. They were the height of a dwarf, but with skin as rough and black as coal. Veins of lava swirled in patterns upon their chests and arms.

Once more, the haft of the axe began to throb, and all doubt, all uncertainty, scattered from Carn's mind.

As the demons swaggered toward him, he strode to meet them.

One growled something. It sounded like words, but Carn couldn't decipher them. The other let out a shrieking howl. Froth spewed from its maw, and its eyes became shimmering moonstones. It pounced. Carn swung. Its arm fell to the ground, still twitching. It lashed out with the other, but he cut that off, too. Its jaws jutted forward, teeth gnashing, and its head went toppling after both arms. The body stood there for a second, spouting blood from three stumps, then it dropped.

The other demon turned to run, but Carn cut it down from behind.

With the swish of paid-out rope, shadows dropped from the walkway above. One in front, one behind, one to each side. Carn whirled to keep them in sight: four of the black-scaled demons he'd seen dead on the floor of the axe's chamber in Aranuin. But it wasn't rope he'd heard, it was the strands of spider-web the demons descended on.

They sprang from the ends of their threads and came at him.

They were fast--faster than the coal-skinned devils he'd just put down. But the moment he stepped in to meet the demon in front, he knew he was faster. Their movements slowed to torpid. He hit one, danced away, felled another, walked beneath the languid stab of a dagger-length claw, clove through a thorax, then made a beeline for the fourth. The demon threw its arms up, tried to back away. But Carn swung and took its head off.

Quarrels clacked and clattered from the flagstone floor. He glanced up. There were more of the scaly shoggers along the lip of the walkway. They had crossbows, and they were rapidly reloading. So, they weren't just mindless beasts, like the loping demons he'd first encountered by the Sag-Urda. The same as the ones who'd followed him into Aranuin, they possessed the skill and cunning of the Black Cloaks they had been imitating.

He picked up a severed head and lobbed it at them. It fell short and came back down with a muffled thud. The demons recoiled from the edge of the walkway, and it gave him an idea.

Swiftly lopping the heads from the other three shadow-wings, he tied them by their long hair to his belt. Some animals, he knew, were spooked by the carcasses of their own kind; maybe the same would work for demons. If he warded himself with their severed heads, it might be all the advantage he needed.

The lie was given to that particular hope when another barrage of crossbow bolts rained down. This time, their aim was better, but on instinct--or something else--Carn spun the axe in a dizzying blur, and the arrows ricocheted from its blades.

A whistle peeped from above. Cries went up, and then the blare of a horn. The tramp of dozens of boots rolled across the twenty-first level like a gathering storm.

Carn wasn't intimidated. Not with the _Paxa Boraga_ in hand. He ran to a ladder and climbed.

High above, a grey-scaled demon leaned out over the drop and began to attack the top of the ladder with a hammer and chisel. It was trying to sheer through the bolts holding the ladder in place.

Almost listlessly, Carn threw the axe. The demon shrieked as it plummeted below and hit with a splat. The hammer and chisel flew from its grasp and skittered across the walkway.

As the _Paxa Boraga_ returned, Carn made a fist, refusing to catch it. The axe exhilarated him, gave him the will to go on, but the instant it had left his hand, he knew he wanted neither.

The black dog mood moved in to claim him, and he welcomed its empty embrace. But then he realized the axe was in his hand as he started to climb once more. He couldn't recall opening his fingers.

Spear tips met him at the top. They poked down at him, tried to drive him off. He threw the axe, and it returned. Threw it, and it returned, over and over and over. Demons screamed. Spears clattered below. Blood poured in torrents. And then he was on the walkway amid a pile of the dead.

A ragged line of demons faced him down with wavering spears. Wings like a bat's, only crimson, draped from their backs, and scales of glittering silver covered their torsos. But it was their faces that disturbed him most: beards that were tangles of serpents, flesh that peeled away in rotting strips, and smoldering coals for eyes.

They were taunting him, desecrating the image of his people. They were mockeries of the Ravine Guard.

He advanced.

One of the demons stepped toward him, barked something guttural. It was holding a sword out before it, the blade wavering.

Carn took another step.

The demon cried out. This time, it was a word. More than a word: a name.

"Carn!"

He faltered.

Blinking, he tried to focus on the decomposing face. "Oh, shog, please," Carn muttered. "Don't let it be..."

And then he saw that it was.

"Kal?" His voice came out a twisted croak.

"Carn," the demon said again.

Hearing it say his name was like a punch to the stomach. Carn doubled over, spat out bile. They had taken Kal. Poor Kal. Tainted, like the rest of them.

He came upright, the fierce burn of righteousness searing through his veins. He took one step, then another. He brought the axe up. The demon yelled at him to stop. The axe came down.

Silver blurred in his peripheral vision. There was a terrific clang as the axe struck metal. A shield. Another demon stood between them. A mace swung for him. He swayed back, and it thudded into his guts, chainmail absorbing what was left of the force.

He hacked with the axe, again and again. The shield buckled, but didn't give. The demon holding it went down on one knee. The Kal-demon stepped out from behind and thrust with its sword. Carn smashed the blade from its grip, but as he went for a killing blow, the shield slammed into him and he stumbled back.

--A rush of movement from behind.

He turned straight into a bristling wall of spears. He batted one aside, stepped in between two more.

"Duck!" someone yelled from behind him.

He spun--

--Straight into the path of the mace.

Stars exploded in his skull. He spun off his feet and landed on his arse. Spears came in at him. Kal's voice cried, "No!"

Inky streamers erupted from the axe head. Cries and screams. The spears withdrew. Ribbons of blackness wrenched Carn to his feet. A golden sunburst. Pain fled his skull. His vision snapped back into focus.

And he was in among the spears, chopping and whirling. Demons fell back before him. And then they were running, scattering all over the walkway. He gave chase, slipped in blood. Cursing, he slung the axe, knocked a demon over the side to pitch screaming below, and this time he opened his hand to receive the returning axe.

He sought out the demon-Kal and the one with the shield, but they were gone, swept away with the tide of fleeing demons.
TWENTY-FOUR

Though Carn glimpsed more demons on his way to the Aorta, none moved to oppose him. He was too strong for them, and they knew it.

Level after level he ascended after he reached the steps. On each tier, red-wings watched him but made no move. At the sixteenth, he crossed the walkways to the Sward, and demons trailed him at a distance. Horns blasted and whistles peeped, each met by answering signals from above. They knew he was coming. They were preparing. But it would never be enough.

_Wheat from the chaff_ , the faen had said. With the scales fallen from his eyes, Carn would know true dwarves from demons. But maybe he was too late. He'd not seen a single dwarf. Kal had been tainted. What if Cordy and Thumil had gone the same way?

_[Do not despair,]_ the axe said. _[Press on, and you will save them. Keep going. You must keep going.]_

Despite the axe's goading, the unnatural energy it fed him, Carn couldn't do as it asked. He needed to sit for a while, recollect himself. He needed to think things through. Everything had changed so quickly. It was too bleak a nightmare. If he could just make it home, surround himself with old familiar things, maybe the horror would dissolve like mist in the morning. Maybe he would wake up and his life would be back to how it had been before he followed Lukar into Aranuin.

Devil dogs growled from the shadows. They were small and sturdy, like the chasm mutts he was familiar with, but their eyes were venomous slits, their barks roars that echoed around the walls of the ravine.

At Krank Scorby's smallholding the hogs were red-eyed and ravenous. They watched him hungrily through the fence.

When he reached home, the door was unlocked as usual. He checked behind and saw a scatter of red-wings still following at a safe distance, one or two shadow-wings flitting among them.

He went inside and shut the door, and for the first time he could remember slid the bolt in place.

Droom's door was closed as he passed it on his way to the kitchen. He'd not had the will to clear his pa's room out. Now he probably never would. The eerie thing was, it felt like Droom was still in there, tucked up in bed, waiting for the suns to rise and his first cup of kaffa.

But it was night outside, and Carn left his pa to sleep. He caught the delusion immediately he entered the kitchen and cursed himself for a shogger. Droom was dead. He'd seen his body burned. Or was he? Was it all part of some grand hoax? Maybe his pa was indeed snoring in bed. An even worse thought popped unbidden to mind: Droom might even be a demon.

Rushing out into the hallway, he opened Droom's door and poked his head inside. The room was dark and musty. Carn directed the axe's glow toward the bed. It was empty, made up with perfectly squared corners, the way Droom liked it.

Carn's heart lurched, and he slumped back against the door jamb.

He had hoped. Even for an instant, he had hoped.

Closing the door behind him, he went back to the kitchen and set the axe down on the table. This time, it let him release it.

_[Don't take too long,]_ it said in his head. _[Each minute we waste, they strengthen their position.]_

"I'll take as long as I like," Carn said. "It's already too late."

What did he have to lose? His life? He'd gladly give it. He blanked out the axe's protests that there was still time, that Cordy and Thumil might still be saved. The black dog told him otherwise. Everything he was had been taken from him in one fell swoop. Everything he had known.

Or had he ever known it? Had there ever really been a Droom, a Kal, a Thumil, a Cordy, or had they been demons all along? Was he the only one untainted? Had he always been?

And then a chilling thought struck him. He voiced it aloud.

"How do I know I'm not tainted?"

_[Oh, Carnac,]_ the axe said. Its tone was soothing, laced with compassion. _[You are the son of Yalla Thayn. The blood of the dwarf lords runs in your veins. Do you really think anything spawned in the Abyss could change that?]_

"So, it's true? My ma really was a dwarf lord?"

Silence.

"Why won't you answer? Were the stories Pa told us true?"

_[Didn't you trust your pa?]_ the axe asked.

"Of course I..." But how could he know? How could he know the truth about Droom, let alone what he'd said?

_[All will become clear,]_ the axe said. _[You must have faith.]_

"I don't even know what that means." Out of habit, Carn grabbed the kindling and tinderbox and set about getting the kitchen hearth lit.

_[Trust me, and I will see you through.]_

"Now you sound like Aristodeus."

_Have trust, and I will see you through, one way or the other. You are far too valuable to lose._

_[The philosopher asked you to trust him? What did you say?]_

This time it was Carn who chose not to answer. He trusted the philosopher as much as he did the axe. All he knew was what he saw, and felt, and heard: demons. Without the axe, he wouldn't stand a chance. Either it was telling the truth, and he would see things clearly once this was over, or it had its own agenda. But for now, the axe was all that was keeping him alive, the only thing that offered even the slightest glimmer of hope.

A spark took, and licks of flame danced along the kindling, burgeoning into a blaze beneath the stove. He filled the kettle with water from a keg and set it down to boil.

_[They are outside,]_ the axe said. _[They mean to prevent you from reaching the untainted.]_

"So there really are some dwarves left?"

_[Thumil,]_ the axe said. _[Cordy. A handful of others. You must not lose time searching. They will be under guard at the Dokon. If you linger here a moment longer, the demons will come for you in the confines of your home, where you will not have room to wield me to your best advantage.]_

"And I can still save them? Cordy and Thumil?"

_[It will not be easy.]_

"I guessed that."

_[Much blood will have to be spilled.]_

"I guessed that, too." But demon blood wasn't real blood. And killing demons wasn't slaughter: it was the cutting out of a malignancy.

He removed the kettle from the stovetop. Kaffa would have to wait.

Hurrying to the front door, he drew back the bolt and listened. No sound from outside. Nothing. He cracked open the door. Still nothing. But they were watching the house, he was sure of it. He could feel their eyes on him.

He stepped onto the garden path. A clutch of red-wings loitered down by the smallholding. When they saw him, a whistle peeped.

He turned to shut the door. Movement blurred. Stones came away from the wall of the house. A dagger flashed. Faster than he could think, the axe scythed through the air, and a demon crumpled to the ground. The wings shrouding it alternated between the grey of the house walls and the green of the garden grass, but little by little they gave way to the crimson hue of blood.

The red-wings by the smallholding backed away as he passed, then they resumed tailing him. As he approached the Aorta, hearth lights flickered through the windows of one or two homes. It would soon be dawn, and the miners would be getting ready for work. Just the thought of it made him want to see for himself if anyone untainted was inside.

He crossed to a house and rapped on the door. The red-wings drew nearer, weapons glinting amber in the light from the glowstones.

A demon opened the door. It was vaguely female, and in its arms it cradled a poisonous-looking baby. Carn recoiled. The demon screamed, and another demon--a male--appeared over her shoulder. Carn raised the axe, but the door slammed in his face. Before he could kick it down, the red-wings charged.

The axe sang as it tore into them, a dismal dirge that seemed to define the spray of blood. This time, it was indeed a slaughter, and Carn felt the rancid ooze of steaming ichor drenching him. But with a flare of gold from the axe, the gore was burned away.

Corpses were strewn about the walkway in spreading pools of blood. He almost felt sorry for them, and as he scoured the lifeless remains, he wondered if they had felt anything when the blades bit into them. They had to have done. They'd screamed as they died.

He reached the Aorta unchallenged and climbed up to the fifteenth. Arrows fell like dark rain, but the axe deflected them with ease. At the top, a shield wall was waiting, comprised of dozens of red-wings. It surged toward him, and he smashed it apart. The survivors fled, and he ran down every last one of them. He was committed now. No more holding back. No more indecision.

Each level he drew nearer the seventh, the defense grew stronger, the defenders more numerous. Dozens swelled to hundreds. Rivers of blood became oceans. Tier after tier he conquered with indomitable strength, and he was growing stronger with every demon slain. The axe reveled in demon blood, absorbed it, lapped it up, and passed it on to him as vitality. It was a wonder the Founders had ever lost the _Pax Boraga_ , a wonder they hadn't triumphed in Aranuin with a weapon such as this.

He smashed through phalanxes, shattered ragged lines. Demons flung themselves wailing from the walkways rather than taste his axe. They roared, they howled, but most of all they screamed. He surged past shield and sword, hammer and spear, chopping, crushing, splitting. Their blows came to nothing, blocked by the lightning-swift might of the axe. Some he saw coming a mile off and deftly stepped around them. The few that made it through glanced feebly from his chainmail, and the fewer still that grazed him may as well not have bothered. The axe healed him, time and again.

He grew insatiable for demon blood, drunk on it. And he surged inexorably toward the seventh level and the Dokon.
TWENTY-FIVE

The seventh-level plaza was brimming with demons. Red-wings mingled with black in a bristling mass of shadow-formed weapons and obsidian shields. The connecting walkways were flowing with them, too: streams of scarlet that foreshadowed the rivers of blood that would soon replace them.

In the background, the covered approach to the Dokon stood as a stark reminder of all that had been lost, all the Abyss had taken from Arx Gravis: fluted pillars that spoke of a more civilized time; the statues of Arnochian kings and the glorious heritage they represented; and the _ocras_ doors of the Council Chamber itself. They, at least, might have kept the Council safe from the life-leeching hordes, but for the fact they could only be locked from the outside.

Red sunlight oozed across the sky visible between the upper levels. Clouds of vultures spiraled in the thermals, descended like shadows upon the lower tiers. A murder of crows perched in judgment on the crest of an aqueduct.

All else was still as Carn walked toward the waiting army of demons. None of them moved, not a single one, save for the wavering of weapons, the flicker of flaming eyes.

The Axe of the Dwarf Lords thrummed with anticipation. It had been made for this--the smiting of evil; and now Carn realized that he had been, too. Through his boys, Droom had said, the dwarves would become like the dwarf lords of legend. The faen responsible for naming Carn and Lukar had told him as much. Hope, it had prophesied, would spring from the womb of Yalla Thayn.

The axe seemed to follow his thoughts. _[You will be the salvation of the dwarves, Carnac. Together we will drive this pestilence from the ravine and make another Arnoch from the ashes of Arx Gravis.]_

It was a promise to raise Carn up on a wave of hope. It tempered his despair, honed his anger and gave it purpose. If he could just see this through, just climb one last blood-slick mountain of violence, a new age would dawn, a new age of pride and glory.

He quickened his pace to a jog, which built to a run, then a full-tilt charge. He crashed into the front ranks like an avalanche. His axe was a whirling blur of gold, and the demons were chaff to be winnowed and threshed. Spears snapped, swords were sheered in two, hammers shattered on impact with the axe's scintillant blades. Shield upon shield was dented and cleft. Weapons clattered to the ground like hail. Cries, screams, the slump and thud of bodies, the whoosh of air that followed the blistering strikes of the twin blades. It was intoxicating.

And the _Paxa Boraga_ sang, a grisly symphony that harmonized the clangor of battle and the screams of the dying into a strident portent of victory. They were going to win. Together, they would triumph.

The ground beneath Carn's feet was slick with gore--more blood than even the axe could burn away. It soaked into his britches, spattered his beard and face. He tasted its copper tang on his lips, savored it like mead. He was beyond the fear of contagion. He was a whirlwind, an elemental god of death.

Corpses piled up around him. He climbed upon them, higher and higher as demons continued to fall. And then he glared down in rage and let cry a howl of frustration. He stood atop a mountain of the dead, the rest of the demons encircling its base in a sea of scarlet and black.

He roared at them to come on, screamed at them to face him. When they didn't, he ripped the severed heads from his belt, held them aloft by their hair. It wasn't enough. Still, no one dared stand against him.

He snatched up a broken spear, shoved its tip into the underside of a head and rammed the butt into the chest of a fallen demon. He did the same with the second head, then the third. And when the hordes still did not come on, he swept the axe down again and again, decapitating the dead and cramming their heads on spears, swords, anything he could find in the mound of bodies, and bit by bit he built a palisade around him in imitation of the dwarf skulls on spikes he'd seen in Aranuin. When he'd finished, he screamed out his challenge again.

At first, nothing happened. Then, as if they had been given an inaudible command, the demon army parted, affording him a view straight down the colonnaded walkway with its statues of dwarven kings.

At the far end, the door of the Dokon ground open, and three figures emerged. The two either side were ghastly revenants, draped in hoary gowns of cobwebs. The one in the middle was a giant shrouded in glacial white. Its head was a polished orb, and its eyes were scorching sapphires. As it glided from the Council Chamber, flanked by its ghostly helpers, it held out an ebon skull with flaming patterns swirling upon its forehead.

Silence settled over the plaza, save for the steady drip of blood from the piled-up corpses.

As the three drifted nearer, Carn slipped and slid down the hill of the dead to wait for them at the bottom. His heart pounded. The axe pulsed in his palm. Its golden glow guttered, as if it were unprepared for this new threat. Frightened, even.

Twenty paces from him, and one of the revenants howled like the wind gusting through the nooks and crevices of the chasm. In response, the red-wings drew back further, retreating onto the walkways that intersected with the plaza.

_[Beware,]_ the axe whispered in his mind.

Fifteen paces from him, the hellish trio stopped to confer. Carn could see the patterns on the skull now: letters etched in ruby flame. They spelled a word that froze the blood in his veins, a name that cut to the heart of who he was:

_Thayn_.

As the three devils continued toward him, his legs began to shake. The axe whispered at him to run, yelled at him, screamed.

Ten paces from him, and the world turned on its head.

The skull became a helm, the revenants, dwarves, the giant, a human in a white toga.

"Thumil?" Carn said, blinking to make sure he wasn't seeing things. "Cordy?" She still had on her wedding dress. Her face wore the ghastly pallor of dread.

Carn looked down at himself, at his blood-drenched britches. Gore clung thickly to his boots. His hands were stained red, all the way to his elbows. He lifted them to his face. It was sticky with clotting blood, setting over his features in a mask. And he knew what it must have looked like: the reflection in the window of the Scriptorium the day that Jarfy had died. Oh, shog, he knew.

A motley-clad dwarf in a tall hat came out of the Dokon. Stupid. He watched the trio facing Carn, and his hat bobbed as he nodded. Behind him, white-robed councilors started to gather in the entrance. They were all looking toward Carn, eyes wide with horror, as if he'd done something wrong.

Aristodeus, carrying Yalla's _ocras_ helm, took a step closer. He mouthed something Carn couldn't hear above the rush of blood in his ears. A second step, and the axe shuddered. Its golden glow died, left it blacker than shadow. A third step, and the _Paxa Boraga_ recovered with a bloodcurdling cry. Its blades exploded in golden brilliance, and the giant ghoul who had been Aristodeus dropped the helm, which clanged and rolled across the walkway.

Carn took a lunging step forward, drew back the axe. The giant stumbled away. One of the revenants rushed in front, pallid hands raised. It was screaming at him, imploring him. Carn switched his ire onto it, swept the axe down. The revenant slipped on blood and pitched to its back. It was the only thing that saved it. Carn swore and stepped in for a second blow, but the world tipped again.

Cordy was there now, standing over Thumil, the _ocras_ helm clutched in her trembling hands. The arm holding the axe dropped limply to Carn's side, and the golden glow coming off the blades stuttered and died.

Aristodeus stepped up and took the helm from Cordy. He said something, but Carn wasn't listening. He was appalled by what he'd almost done, appalled by the terror on Thumil's face as he scooted back on his haunches and got to his feet.

Carn's breaths came in strangled gasps. They grew ragged and thin. Every exhalation was a rasping wheeze. He needed air. He couldn't breathe.

Cordy moved in close and flung her arms around him. Blood squelched between them. Its cloying stench was thick in his nostrils. It soaked into her wedding dress, smeared her face. Droplets pearled her beard, oozed down her cheeks like tears. And then she started to sob, washing them away into streaks of pink.

Carn tried to drop the axe, but it clung to his fingers, as if glued in place by congealed blood.

"The seethers, Cordy." He hated the way he sounded: frail and broken, like a distraught child. "They fed Lukar to the seethers." The words burned like acid as they left his lips. Tears welled from his eyes.

"Carn," Cordy sobbed. "Oh, Carn."

"It's going to be all right, son," Thumil said in a quavering voice. "Just put the axe down."

"This is what I feared," Aristodeus said, holding out the _ocras_ helm like a talisman. "What I tried to avert."

"Just lay down the axe," Thumil said.

Carn steadied himself on the warmth of Cordy's embrace. A breath of air found a breach and rushed into his lungs.

"I can't." He tried again to release his grip. "Thumil, I can't."

"Let me put the helm on you," Aristodeus said, "then you'll be able to."

The axe hissed. It bucked in Carn's hand.

He shoved Cordy away before he hurt her. Before the axe made him.

"The helm," Aristodeus said. "You must wear it."

Feelers of darkness quested from the head of the axe to brush against Carn's skin. Where they touched, they burned like frost. One wormed its way into his eye, and his vision grew hazy.

Aristodeus's voice was a booming roar, none of his words decipherable. Thumil's robe grew indistinct: frayed tatters of cobweb.

Warmth caressed Carn's fingers. He flinched and focused his eyes. Cordy was holding his hand. He saw her plain as day, her wedding dress streaked and spattered with gore from embracing him.

"Trust him," she said, imploring him with her eyes. "Trust Aristodeus."

"I can't," Carn said. He tried to step back, but Cordy tightened her grip.

"Then trust Thumil."

Carn stared at his old friend, his former Marshal, the Voice.

"Son?" Thumil said.

It was like looking at someone he didn't know. Someone he used to know.

"I can't," Carn said again.

The axe began to glow golden once more.

"Then trust me," Cordy said.

Without waiting for an answer, she hooked her arm in his and led him along the walkway. The axe was like an anchor, holding him back, but when Thumil took his other arm, Carn didn't resist. He let them half-walk, half-drag him toward the Dokon.

Aristodeus rushed ahead of them and cleared the way. White-robed councilors emerged onto the walkway and stood off to the sides. Stupid nodded as the philosopher entered the Council Chamber, and then Cordy and Thumil walked Carn inside.

"Now!" Thumil barked over his shoulder.

And the door began to grind shut.
TWENTY-SIX

The door of the Dokon closed with a muffled clunk behind Carn. There was a succession of thuds, a clang and a hiss, and then the ensuing silence was almost deafening.

The hidden blue glow that suffused the walls made it seem colder within than it actually was. Emerald motes swirled in the air, backlit by phosphorescent veins of _ocras_. The embossed heads of dwarf lords stared accusingly from each of the doors that studded the twelve-sided chamber. To Carn, it felt like entering a hall of judgment, where he had already been tried in his absence and found guilty.

_[It is worse than that,]_ the axe said, once more reading his mind. _[We have been trapped, sealed in a tomb. There is no way out.]_

Carn started to pant, faster and faster. He was vaguely aware of Cordy on one side of him, Thumil on the other. Aristodeus turned to face him, holding out the _ocras_ helm.

_[Don't look at it,]_ the axe snarled.

He didn't. He stared instead at the debating table, at the twelve empty seats. Would it have made much difference to the city if those seats were always vacant, if there was no Council of Twelve engaged in endless debates that led nowhere, changed nothing?

Or is that what they really did? Carn no longer knew. The things he'd seen outside in the ravine, in the bowels of Aranuin, he couldn't tell truth from deception anymore. What if the councilors were the demons in charge, divvying out dwarves to be fed upon, just as they had ensured the fair distribution of tokens?

"It's going to be all right, Carn," Cordy said. She went to stroke his forearm reassuringly, but her fingers met the clotting gore that caked his skin. He felt her stiffen, but she didn't recoil.

"You're quite safe," Aristodeus said. "All you need to do is let me place the helm over your head."

Carn flinched and pulled back.

Thumil gripped his arm tight. "There's nothing to be afraid of, son. We're here, Cordy and I. We're both here with you."

_[It's a trick,]_ the axe said.

Could the others hear it? Carn didn't think so. None of them reacted to what he heard inside his head.

"It's just you ma's helm we want you to put on," Thumil said.

"It's special," Aristodeus said. "It can help you. See the letters? Your family name, 'Thayn'. Old Dwarvish for 'hero'."

"It's the same helm your pa kept," Thumil said. "The one he brought out every year on your birthday."

"Yalla's helm," Cordy said. "It will protect you. Protect us all. But only if you wear it. You must wear it, Carn."

_[Lies,]_ the axe said. _[Don't listen to them.]_

"Within the ambit of the helm's theurgy," Aristodeus said, "the axe's hold on you is weakened. Wear it, and the glamor will be broken."

_[More lies,]_ the axe said. _[Remember what you saw when they first stepped out onto the walkway? That was the truth. This is an illusion cast by the black skull masquerading as your mother's helm.]_

"Ambit?" Carn said. "Theurgy?" He looked from Thumil to Cordy, then glared at Aristodeus. What had the bald bastard done to Yalla's helm?

"Lore," Aristodeus said. "The lore of the faen. Always be prepared, I say. For anything."

Carn shrugged his arms free of Thumil and Cordy. "You knew this would happen?"

A flash of impatience crossed Aristodeus's eyes. "I glimpsed it, yes, but I thought it could be averted. Time is tricky like that. Mananoc is tricky. In case of last resorts, I worked with a group of dissident faen known as the Sedition, got them to make the helm into a ward... and more besides."

Cordy tried to take his arm again, but Carn brushed her off.

"What more?"

It was Thumil who answered. "Grago wants you dead, and he's within his rights, just by virtue of you leaving. But when the blood started flowing, there was no answering him, and the entire Council agreed. Grago's coined a name for you, Carn: the Ravine Butcher. The Council think you're a monster."

_[Then you must get out of here,]_ the axe said in Carn's mind. _[I told you, it's a trap.]_

Carn turned to the door they had entered by. Was it truly impregnable? He hefted the axe. There was only one way to find out.

"Wait," Thumil said. "Everything's going to be all right. I persuaded them there was an alternative."

"Only because I gave you one," Aristodeus said. "Again, with the help of the faen."

Cordy steepled her hands in front of her face. When Carn flashed her a look, she dipped her eyes. Either she was ashamed, or afraid.

And then Carn made the connections. "The lore of the faen, you say? Let me guess: a fate worse than death? You want to strip me of my name."

"It's the only way, Carn," Thumil said. "The only way to save the city from you, and you from the city."

Carn pressed his head against the _ocras_ of the door. It was all he had left, his name. He'd lost his pa, his brother, and he'd never even known his mother. A dwarf with no name was accursed in the worst possible way, an outcast no better than the baresarks.

"Then let Grago have his way. Let the Council kill me."

"No," Aristodeus said. "You are too valuable."

Slowly, Carn turned away from the doors. "You said that before. Why? I'm a nobody. A butcher. What makes me so important? Why keep me alive?"

Aristodeus closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. "Because I believe the faen who spoke to Droom was right. Salvation will come from Yalla's womb, Carnac Thayn. I can't say how, but I just know that it will."

Thumil was bobbing his head in agreement. "We have to hope. It's all we have."

"No, you're wrong," Carn said. "If there were no demons out there in the ravine--if they were dwarves--you can't risk keeping me alive."

"It wasn't your fault," Aristodeus said. "If anyone's to blame, it was Lukar for going into Aranuin in the first place. You were just trying to save him."

Carn took a step toward him, and Aristodeus backed away. "Don't you dare blame my brother. He was a victim in all this. Rugbeard was right: the _Chronicles_ must have been altered."

"I agree," Aristodeus said. "The faen are the spawn of deception. Trickery is second nature to them. And with their lore, they have the means."

"Lukar wasn't the only victim," Cordy said.

"Indeed," Aristodeus said. "That thing you hold, Carn. That axe. Do you truly believe the _Paxa Boraga_ --the Peace of the Dwarves--would induce you to such a massacre?"

_[Of demons, yes,]_ the axe whispered in Carn's mind.

"You're not capable of slaughter," Thumil said. "Violence, yes, when it's called for. But unbridled killing? Not the Carnac Thayn I know. Not Droom's boy. Not Yalla's."

The axe hissed with derision. _[It only takes one thread to pull on, and their whole argument will unravel. That is not really a helm, remember; it's a skull. An ebon skull of the Abyss.]_

"How can I know?" Carn said. He hadn't intended to speak aloud, and Cordy must have thought he was responding to Thumil.

"I believe as Thumil does, Carn. You're Yalla Thayn's son. Droom's son. And you're my friend."

"But the blood..." Carn spread his arms for them to see. "And outside, rivers of it pouring from the walkways." The waters of the Sag-Urda must have run red with it. Now there was an irony too grim to be a coincidence: the name meant 'Blood of the Earth'.

"Carn," Aristodeus said, "what you hold is not the _Paxa Boraga_. It is a copy, a fake forged by the faen on the instructions of Mananoc himself."

_[Hah!]_ the axe said. _[See how he twists reality to suit his purpose. It is the helm that is from the Abyss, not me. Ask him. Ask him how he came by this knowledge.]_

"Did your dissident faen tell you that?" Carn said.

Aristodeus nodded. "The Sedition, yes."

_[Ask him how he knows the faen are not deceiving him, too,]_ the axe said.

Carn did, and Aristodeus replied, "Because the Sedition have rejected the ways of their people. They have seen where deception leads, and they have rebelled against Mananoc."

"And you're sure of that, are you?"

"Of course I am. What do you take me for?"

"Aristodeus..." Thumil warned. He made a placating gesture with his hands. Carn didn't miss the surreptitious glance his way. Thumil was scared of him being riled again.

So, Thumil believed he was a monster. Believed the slaughter was for real.

Carn gave each of them a long, hard stare. The arguments on both sides had holes in them he could drive a cart through, and yet he couldn't even trust his own eyes. Thumil and Cordy had appeared as deathly revenants, but in the proximity of the helm, they had reverted to normal. Aristodeus: a gigantic ghoul one minute, a bald shogger the next. It was more terrifying than any army of demons; more terrifying even than the crimes he might just have committed. Was he crazy, deluded? Was he the victim of illusion? But whose illusion? The demons' or the axe's? There had to be some way to know. If a dwarf didn't know his own mind, couldn't tell friend from foe, truth from a lie...

Suddenly, the world had no substance for him. His beliefs, his experiences, the life he'd lived were no more than patterns of shifting moonlight on the ravine walls.

He looked at Thumil and Cordy in turn, squinted at them as if he might see through any cracks in the illusion.

"How do I know?" Carn said. "How do I know it's really you?"

Thumil and Cordy exchanged looks. Was that worry in their eyes? Confusion? Or was it something else they were communicating? Some secret message he wasn't party to? It wouldn't be the first time. They had deceived him before.

_[More than deceived,]_ the axe said, as if it were a part of him, enmeshed with his thoughts and knowing them without him needing to give them voice. _[They betrayed your friendship.]_

The truth of those words burned in Carn's chest. His heart responded with thunderous strokes that reverberated through his skull. His head began to throb. Even the soft blue light from the walls was an assault on his eyes.

"You're afraid right now," Thumil said, "but we can keep you safe." He took hold of Carn's arm again, and Cordy took the other.

Carn pulled free of Thumil and shoved him off. Aristodeus scuttled back to the far end of the debating table.

Cordy, though... Cordy still clung to the arm that held the axe. The haft writhed in Carn's grasp. It seethed and twisted and bucked. Cordy met his gaze unflinchingly. He raised his free hand, clenched it into a fist.

Thumil cried out and stepped in, but Cordy yelled at him to keep back. She stared into Carn's eyes, letting him see her sincerity. Willing him to. His fist shook. She didn't even blink. Emotions scudded like clouds across her eyes: fear, grief, sorrow, regret. There were flashes of anger, of frustration, of hurt; but behind them all came the unwavering promise that she would keep him safe, that she was his friend, that she loved him.

"I've got you, Carn," she mouthed. "If you let me, I will carry you through this, and I will not drop you."

Carn's fist snapped open. A fine tremor ran through his splayed fingers.

"Carn," Cordy said, imploring him to believe her. "I will not drop you."

He lowered his arm to his side. If he could have, he'd have let the axe fall to the floor, but it was as much a part of him as the hand that held it.

"Get him to sit," Aristodeus said.

Cordy gently led Carn to the head of the table. Thumil pulled out a chair for him, and almost in a trance, Carn lowered himself into it.

Aristodeus came around the table to stand behind him. Thumil and Cordy withdrew. Cordy's eyes still never left Carn's. She nodded imperceptibly. Reassured him it was going to be all right.

Thumil straightened his blood-spattered robe. His fingers found Cordy's. They clasped hands.

Carn narrowed his eyes. He suppressed the image of bloodshed that sprang unbidden to mind, looked away, flicked his gaze left to right. Betrayal lurked behind every door. The amber light of the glowstones atop each lintel--he'd not even noticed them while standing--looked as sinister as the blood-hue that suffused the ravine walls. The embossed faces of dwarf lords leered in triumph.

And then he looked back at Cordy and anchored himself on her glistening eyes.

He tensed as he heard the scuff of Aristodeus's sandals on the floor behind him. When he looked up, it was into the dark interior of the _ocras_ helm, a gaping hole of blackness. A void.

Movement drew his eyes away from it. Thumil stretched out a hand as he mouthed something. It might have been "No." Cordy put a restraining arm around his shoulders.

There was a collective intake of breath, and then silence as the philosopher lowered the helm.

Carn's thoughts scattered. Memories blinked. The black dog scampered out of the shadows and settled across his vision. As the last crack of light perished, he clutched at his dissolving name. It was there on the tip of his tongue. If he could give it voice... If he could just give it voice...

But it was gone.

A hammering heart. Rasping lungs. Frantic breaths. Stifling. It was stifling. Get it off. He had to get the helm off. Where it touched his shoulders, the _ocras_ of the helm softened, then oozed. The skin of his neck grew taut. He felt the _ocras_ sucking at it, tugging his flesh, interweaving with it. With a sickening dread, he realized it was enmeshing itself with his skin, that it was becoming a part of him, never to be removed.

The rest was a blur. Hands pried his fingers from the haft of the axe. In his hazy vision, he saw what looked like two faen encasing the axe in a block of crystal. One of them called him something as they carried the axe away:

"Nameless Dwarf."

Was that him? Was that his name? It seemed an odd one. No, he realized with sudden lucidity: a shameful one. A fate worse than death. "Am I a nameless dwarf?" he wanted to ask, but fear of hearing the truth sealed his lips.

He had the vague sense of responding to questions that fled his mind like water through his fingers. A tavern song bubbled up from within. He wasn't sure if he sang it or not.

He was surprised when he saw Thumil there, spattered with blood. Doubly surprised to see Cordy in her wedding dress, more red now than white. What had he said to her? Was she offended? Had she wept or had she smiled, or was it both?

At some point the chamber filled with white robes.

"Pish," someone said--Councilor Grago? "Never mind what was said. We are talking about the survival of our race. Risk, my Lord Voice. The risk is too great."

Voices were raised in anger. Seethers were mentioned, and with it came another lucid moment: Lukar. Poor old Lukar screaming as the flesh was flayed from his bones.

"My husband was speaking," Cordy said.

Her husband. Was he her husband? Had he been speaking? Another memory reasserted itself: No, that was Thumil.

A jumble of other recollections clamored for attention, got themselves twisted into a great knotted ball.

Conversation continued around him.

"Imbecile!" Aristodeus said. "Typical of you dwarves. Always throwing out the baby with the--"

"Isn't that what you did, philosopher?"--A voice like rustling leaves. "Weren't you once a man of faith, before you became too clever?"

A gale tore through the chamber, whipping up a vortex of sparks, flashes, tongues of flame. The whole coalesced into a cool conflagration then burst with the brilliance of a thousand suns.

He lifted his head to peer through the eye-slit. Everything behind his eyelids was white, then red, then black as the Void and dotted with pinpricks of silver. He blinked over and over. There was a figure, robed in brown, sunlight bleeding from beneath an all-enveloping cowl.

Was it happening in his head? Was he imagining it?

"So, here at last is our troublesome Nameless Dwarf," the cowled figure said.

There it was again. That's what he was now, to these others: the Nameless Dwarf. The only one they had ever known. Maybe the only one there ever was; unless he'd been right about the baresarks and who they were descended from.

"A time will come..." the cowled figure was saying, and suddenly he--the Nameless Dwarf--was pulled back into the happenings in the chamber, as if by the will of the speaker, or the unnatural timbre of his voice. "... when the name that is not a name will be as cursed as the Ravine Butcher's, should we allow him to live."

"Nothing is predetermined," Aristodeus said. "You know that as well as I, Archon."

Grago puffed up his chest and stuck his nose in the air. "Archon? Who the shog do you--"

"Silence!"

There was thunder in the Archon's voice this time, and Grago dropped to his belly, along with half the councilors. Thumil and Cordy remained standing, but it looked like she was holding him up.

The Archon rose into the air and started to circle Aristodeus. "This Nameless Dwarf must die. It is the only way."

"Now is not the time to lose your tongue, Thumil," Aristodeus said. "The Council agreed, remember?"

Grago raised his head from the floor. "Technically, we did not."

"What, your fingers were crossed?" Cordy said.

Old Moary coughed politely. He was still standing, a be-socked big toe curling from beneath his robe. "There was indeed a majority vote to stay execution, but if you ask me--"

"Thank you, Councilor Moary," Aristodeus said. "Age and wisdom go hand in hand like--"

"You are the Voice of the Council?" the Archon asked, drifting up close to Old Moary.

"Well, uh, no. I've just been on the Council longer than anyone else. Councilor Thumil is our Voice."

The Archon turned on Thumil. "Heed my words, Councilor Thumil. If this Nameless Dwarf lives, thousands will die. He is a pawn of Mananoc."

"Not if I keep him asleep," Aristodeus said. "I have the lore. Nothing besides my own voice will be able to rouse him."

"You know this philosopher well?" the Archon asked Thumil.

"Not well."

"And you trust him?"

Thumil looked at Aristodeus askance. "No."

"There!" the Archon said, turning on the philosopher.

"But no one's killing my friend," Thumil said.

Cordy gave his arm a squeeze.

The Archon's hood shimmered with pent-up flame, then settled back to a dull brown. "I cannot--will not--force compliance. The decision is yours, dwarf, but on your head be it. After all, it is your head to lose."

"With all due respect," Grago said, pushing himself up onto his knees, "the Voice of the Council does not have the authority..."

But the Archon was gone, leaving only swirling dust motes in his wake.

Reality careened once more, and the Nameless Dwarf found himself floundering amid threads and ribbons of conversation that seemed to come from a faraway place.

Thumil's face passed in front of him, mouthing something that might have been, "Goodbye, old friend."

Next he saw Cordy's grief-filled eyes and felt the tug of longing.

A door ground open. Two Black Cloaks entered, took his arms and led him onto the walkway.

Next thing he remembered was going down. His legs burned, and now all he had for support was Aristodeus's arm. A door opened--an iron door with a grille. He was seated on a stone bench. Chains were fastened to his wrists.

He started to struggle, but Aristodeus held a crystal up before the eye-slit of the _ocras_ helm.

"It's all right," the philosopher said. "It's all going to be... Interesting. I could have sworn there was a word inscribed on the helm--a name. There's nothing there now. I suppose there never was. But the family name as well as the given? I should have expected that. Now, just stare into the light and listen to my voice."

The quartz began to glow, its rosy light captivating, soothing.

"You must sleep," Aristodeus said. "Mananoc may have won the day, but he's not yet won the war. Sleep now, and let no voice awaken you save mine."

The Nameless Dwarf's eyelids drooped shut. A reddish glow seeped through them, then rippled into a lake of blood. Faces broke the surface, cold and grisly and dead: Jarfy, Ming, Muckman. Kloon appeared, ranting in silent accusation, then a hundred more, a thousand of the butchered dead.

The door closed with a clang, and he was alone. Alone with the horror of what he had done.

This was no sleep: it was a torment. He wanted to scream, call the philosopher back and tell him to do whatever he had done with the crystal properly, or better yet, do it for good, put him out of his misery.

Droom's face dispelled the bloody waters. He nodded with understanding, though his eyes were rueful. Suddenly, Droom was whisked away amid a burst of cackling laughter that grew and grew to a skull-rattling crescendo.

Durgish Duffin's painting drifted down to fill the scene, and the hellish laughter echoed away to nothing. Yalla stepped from the frame. The Nameless Dwarf knew there was more to her name--a family name--but for the life of him, he couldn't remember it. He tried recalling Droom's family name instead, the one he'd had before he married, but it was as gone as Yalla's.

_You must forget in order to find the truth of who you are_ , Stupid had said. Is that what he'd meant? Forget his family name, along with the name he'd been given as a child? But that can't have been it. It still said nothing about who he was.

Unless it was being stripped of his name that defined him. In dwarven eyes, that made him a nobody, a pariah, accursed to all his kind.

Was that who he truly was now: the Nameless Dwarf?

Yalla reached out a hand to him, and in his mind's eye, he took it. She was smiling with pride and approval.

And he knew.

He knew Aristodeus had been right, and that he was destined for better things.

Then sleep finally claimed him.
EPILOGUE

The cell door closed behind Hale Zaylus and three bolts slammed home. It was all over. He'd failed.

A dull lime glow bled from the shadowed walls. Emerald motes spiraled in the air, disturbed by the opening and closing of the door.

Zaylus should never have come to Arx Gravis. Should never have come to Medryn-Tha. And now he was trapped, and farther from the mad sorcerer's mountain than he'd been when he started. It had been one series of misdirections after another. Manipulation heaped upon deception. Like it always had been since Aristodeus had come to mentor him as a child.

Zaylus's eyes began to adjust to the gloom. Cobwebs hung in thick drapes from the ceiling. It was a circular cell the dwarves had taken him to. Judging by the heaped dust on the floor, it was one seldom used. Dense shadow defined the area farthest from the door, and flecks of green phosphorescence glimmered from within it.

He turned back to the door, thought about calling out, but what would be the point? The dwarves had said they would question him when they were good and ready.

Zaylus strained against the manacles holding his wrists together. Stone chafed skin, but there was no give in them. What he needed was patience, something he was hardly known for.

In spite of the hours unpicking knots on his prayer cord, and the endless study of the holy _Lek Vae_ , Zaylus was accustomed to getting his way with the sword.

He followed the curve of the cell and crossed the center line into shadow. The flecks of glowing green drew him like a moth to the flame. He had to see what it was. A few steps closer, and he picked out a deepening of the darkness below the phosphorescence. Another step, and he saw it was a figure seated upon a stone bench.

Warning prickles crawled beneath his skin. He edged nearer, until he could see it was the statue of a dwarf, arms chained to the bench. It wore a great helm and a chainmail hauberk, both skillfully carved from stone.

Or were they?

The green glow he'd seen seeped through cracks in the helm, but when he looked closer, he saw they were not cracks, but the patches of the helm not caked with dust. Same with the hauberk: it wasn't stone, it was dust-covered. He brushed some away to reveal metal links, most of them dark-stained. He did the same with the helm, revealing a streak of black flecked with green. He swept the dust from a forearm. Beneath, the skin and hairs were coated with what looked like tar. He picked away at a bit then recoiled. It wasn't tar; it was dried blood.

Heart hammering, he backed away toward the door.

What manner of people were these, to leave one of their own chained in a cell, covered in blood? Had they forgotten this dwarf was there, till the dust accumulated so much he looked like a fossil? How long had he been dead, left to rot? Because there had been no sign of life, of that he was sure. Was this dwarf a criminal, a captured enemy, or just a hapless fool, like Zaylus himself, who had simply wandered into the ravine and paid the price?

It was a moot point. If the dwarves didn't release him soon and aid him against the mad sorcerer, everything there was, everything there had ever been, would cease to exist within days, if not hours.

A pit opened up in his stomach, and his hope plunged into it. He groaned and whirled about, vainly seeking a window, a vent, the merest crack. A desperate cry began to well up within him, but he refused to give in to panic.

Zaylus lowered himself to the cold floor and pulled the prayer cord from his pocket. As he picked away at the lesser mysteries, he ran through the litany of the holy titles of the Way in the vague hope that one of them might trigger a miracle.

Didn't the dwarves realize how close the end of all things was? Did they even care?

He grimaced as he unraveled one of the knots and started on the next, steering his mind back to the litany:

"Way, glory of glories, save your servant. Way, light of all lights, have mercy on me."

He ripped at the threads on the prayer cord, whispering the words against the back of his teeth.

"Way, scourge of demons, rescue me."

His face was on fire with pent-up rage and frustration. His shoulders bunched up around his ears.

"Way, lord of the living,"--and then the dam burst, and he could contain his scream of frustration no longer--"hear my prayer!"

The cry reverberated around the cell until it lost itself in the cobwebs, only to be replaced by the silence of the tomb.

But then there was a clink, the rattle of chains, and Zaylus spun round to face the figure on the bench.
The story continues in...

SOLDIER, OUTLAW, HERO, KING:

ANNALS OF THE NAMELESS DWARF

BOOK TWO

MOUNTAIN OF MADNESS

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