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Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Rorec

Chapter 2: Datan

Chapter 3: Zas

Chapter 4: Ngom

Chapter 5: Morul

Chapter 6: Lor

About the author

# ROREC

The wagon lurched from side to side, and once again Rorec had to dab at the ink with his soft silk kerchief in an effort to correct the misprint that the sudden motion had caused. He was crammed into the back of the wagon with his collar turned up high on his ruddy cheeks to protect himself from the icy easterly wind. His worn walnut lap desk was placed across his knees and his inkwell stood rattling and jostling on the edge of a nearby crate of salted fish. Writing was a continual fight with the motion of the wagon and the wind, and he had to try to hold the paper with his bad hand while he wrote with the other.

Around him was a sea of soggy brown grass and slick moss-covered rocks stretching infinitely outward. There wasn't a single hand-made object (save for the wagon) to break the monotony, and there wasn't even the promise of mountains looming on the horizon, something which still greatly surprised Rorec. When he thought of the great unexplored north he always pictured gargantuan mountain chains of white craggy rocks rather than the dreary unbroken flatness of somber untillable earth. But then again, his kind knew very little of mountains save for the partly explored Razors in the south, and those were dry and arid and tiny compared to what he'd thought he would find here.

The overcast sky hung like wet green-stained cotton above, and the only sound besides the tuneless piping of the wind was the sloppy thud of hard hooves hitting muddy earth as they rode along. There were two travelers besides himself; one was the hoary old fisherman who owned the wagon, and the other was his sullen oily-faced grandson. The boy's loathing of the bleak wind had dominated the bulk of his conversation over the past two weeks, but the old man hardly spoke at all except when he was urging along the horses. They were not ideal travelling companions, but the aged fisherman had been the only one at Boulder Coast who had been willing to lend his wagon to Rorec's journey.

Each knew the risks they were taking, but it was easier to not speak of them. No one owned a weapon, but Rorec figured that even if they had been armed to the teeth, a Goblin raiding party would likely kill them before they even knew what was happening. Three untrained men wouldn't even be enough to put up a fight, and all the swords and armor in the world wouldn't save them if they were spotted.

And besides, the main enemy here was the weather.

Early on they'd encountered an eastward-marching snowstorm that slowed their progress considerably. Their food stores were low but game had been plentiful in the taiga. They'd seen deer and foxes and white-coated winter hares that skipped along the top of the snow, and the old fisherman managed to snag a few of them in crude traps he'd brought.

But as they had travelled farther north, the land around them seemed to change somehow. The game disappeared as the trees thinned out, and a sickly greenish-gray overcast set in above them. The horses became harder to handle, and the slightest noise would set them wild. Moreover, there was an unnamable feeling that weighed on them as they traveled, some dark-hued pall that lingered in their minds as they slept and made them sit up gasping in the dead of night sure that some enemy was at their throats.

And then one night as they camped, the boy thought he glimpsed something leering out from behind some birch trees. It was gone before Rorec and the old fisherman had a chance to look, but the boy's alarm was such that neither of them could convince him that he was just imagining things.

Rorec stretched his neck as the wagon clattered along. That had been two nights ago. Since then he'd hardly slept, and what little sleep he'd managed had been fraught with abstract nightmares filled with images of dark shambling horrors that left him screaming out in terror. The boy and the old man had suffered the same, and it was clear to each of them that the journey was taking a heavy mental toll.

Rorec tried to put all that out of his mind. He refocused on his letter, but found it hopelessly marred with ill-placed drips and splotches. According to the duke it could take up to four months for a letter to be delivered, so everything he sent would be a full season out of date before his wife would even receive it. That made the whole endeavor feel rather pointless, but Ella would worry herself to death if she didn't hear from him. Rorec dipped his quill and began trying again.

"Whoa," the fisherman told the horses. The reigns and their metal clasps jingled as he pulled them to a stop. "What's this, then?"

Rorec craned his head about. He saw a large jagged rock formation that seemed to jut right up out of the ground. It was craggy and black and roughly forty yards tall and wide, but despite its size, it wasn't altogether unique. The barren terrain had been punctuated with similar formations every so often and they must have seen dozens over the span of their trek.

But then he saw the wall.

Rorec shoved his lap desk aside heedless of the scattering of his papers and stood up. There was, indeed, a solid wall ahead of them, just peeking out from behind the giant rock formation. It was roughly twenty yards high and gray in color, so drab and so much like the nearby rock and ground that he hadn't noticed it at first. It was strikingly smooth and appeared, impossibly he thought, not to be made of multiple blocks of stone, but rather _one giant piece_. If there was an entrance hidden in that perfectly featureless wall Rorec couldn't see it, but legends told of master masons creating entrances that only they themselves could find. Behind the first wall was another wall and he could see the tip of a stone keep built into it, also made of the same featureless gray stone. The keep had unusually large apertures leading to two levels of stone-carved balconies on the outside, but for what purpose, he didn't know. A delicate trail of smoke streamed from its rock roof and disappeared into the dead gray sky, and as Rorec stood there looking, he realized he could smell the aroma of cooking meat wafting on the air.

Firehorn.

"We're here," Rorec heard himself say, though he could scarcely believe the fact itself. After so long a journey, he'd begun to think that it would never end, and for it to finish with such little warning and so suddenly came as a great shock.

"Gods be praised," said the old fisherman, kissing the wooden visage of a deity he kept around his neck. He'd remained fairly stoic throughout the journey, but the immensity of his relief now showed through his worn features. The boy beside him was in tears, and had yet to lift his buried face from his grandfather's shoulder. None of them had wanted to admit it, but the eeriness of the land and the length of the journey had become unbearable. The environment itself had seeped into their bodies and their minds, and it was only now, in his great relief at the trek's end, that Rorec felt the noxious grip slacken around him.

"Look there now," the old fisherman said, pointing. "A Dwarf!"

A vague dark shape lumbered forward at the far edge of the wall. Rorec knew immediately that the old man's eyes had failed him; this was no Dwarf. Instantly the eldritch fear that had fled ever so briefly came back wholesale and with an intensity he had not previously felt even during the worst of his nightmares. The shambling figure twitched and lurched unnaturally, as if its limbs were being subjected to some intermittent but torturous pain. It jerked and writhed, and though Rorec still couldn't tell exactly what it was, he could tell now that it was crawling along the ground.

Whatever it was raised its large head and turned their way, as if some foreign sense had told it of their presence. Now Rorec could see that it was some type of wolf, but of a kind that he did not recognize. Its fur was coarse and bristled like spikes and was stained with multiple layers of mud and dark grime. It strode haphazardly toward them as if it were wounded and trying to run. As it got closer, Rorec could see that great swathes of flesh were missing, and thick chords of tendon and muscle were bulging slick and dripping red in the cold open air.

Rorec tried to shout a warning but was drowned out by the screeching of the horses. They thrashed and tore at their restraints as the fisherman struggled to hold on. Rorec was tossed amongst the crates of supplies as the wagon suddenly lurched to one side. The animals were clearly trying to turn around and run, but their panic was keeping them from working together so the wagon was stuck maddeningly in place.

The beast ahead of them was now close enough so that Rorec could see its eyes. Instantly he knew that this was the vague and shambling thing that had stalked his dreams throughout the journey, the one that had left him drenched in sweat with a cry for help lodged in his throat. This was the nameless fear, the shadow in the dark, the mindless ravenous evil of that which knew no reason, no mercy, and no rest.

And it was coming right for them.

There came a sharp _twang_ followed by a wet and sickly thud like a nail driven into thick fruit. The beast fell limp before them, its cold and empty eyes still locked on Rorec, still seeing, still hungry, still longing to sink its blood-slick teeth into the meaty flesh of his neck and-

The wagon lurched again and Rorec was forced to brace himself with his bad hand. Immediately his grip failed and he went tumbling over the edge. He landed shoulder first and hard on the wet stony earth. The fisherman shouted something unintelligible at the horses as he and his grandson grabbed the reins and tried to regain control. The animals were still reeling violently from the beast on the ground despite the fact that it was no longer moving.

Rorec winced as he rubbed his shoulder. It was a rough landing, and he was lucky that he hadn't fallen on a rock. As he rose to his feet, his breath was suddenly taken from him, and he had to put his kerchief to his nose. The creature lying dead before him was emitting an odor that was foul almost beyond words; it was the stench of gore and rotting flesh, of grave worms and burnt hair. Its bulbous glossy eyes seemed to be writhing in front of him despite the fact that the crossbow bolt had-

_The bolt._ Rorec whirled around.

There stood a Dwarf in full military regalia. He wore a tarnished iron helm decorated with strips of embossed red leather, an equally decorated though more ragged breastplate, polished bronze gauntlets, and a very dirty pair of iron greaves. He carried an extraordinarily lethal-looking crossbow, all gleaming metal and oiled gears, and though Rorec knew very little of weapons and even less about the Dwarven sort, he could tell that this particular model was far more complex than anything he'd ever seen a Human carry. Of the Dwarf himself, he was lesser than Rorec's height by a full foot, and his ragged waist-length beard was the color of raw earth. The bridge of his nose was wide and flat and had clearly been broken at some point, as it had grown slightly knobby and crooked. His skin was a light shade of cream, like raw basswood, but looked rough and craggy to the touch. His eyes were a deep dark hazel set beneath a pair of eyebrows so thick and coarse that they seemed to be holding up his metal helm.

The old fisherman and his grandson finally managed to get control of the horses. They turned and stared, their panic replaced by awe as they saw the Dwarf in front of them.

Their shock at finally seeing a citizen of Firehorn was great indeed, but it was matched, if not surpassed, by that of the Dwarf. He seemed to almost recoil at the sight of the Humans, and for a frightening moment Rorec thought that he might actually raise his weapon, but he did not.

Rorec had rehearsed this moment many times over the past several months, but due to the shock of the last few minutes he found that all the things he'd planned to say had fled his mind, and he was left standing there with all the awkwardness of an uncouth child.

He cleared his throat. "Hello..." he said. "I'm Rorec."

The Dwarf said nothing, only stared.

Rorec remembered the letter, and he reached deep into his woolen coat and found the piece of parchment there. "I received this from Duke Goden Korabul," he said, showing him. "It's an invitation to come visit Firehorn."

The Dwarf in front of him blew his nose out onto the ground, but again said nothing.

Rorec continued on. "I'm a writer. I wrote the duke asking permission to write a book about life at Firehorn."

The Dwarf said nothing for a long time, then finally, he shifted his glance to the wagon. "Just the one?"

"...The one wagon?" Rorec asked. "Oh yes, I'm afraid so. It was all I could...well, it was all I could afford."

He spat. "So no trade goods, then."

"...No, I'm afraid not."

The Dwarf grumbled something, then reached down and grabbed the great bloody leg of the dead wolf in front of him, turned, and began dragging it the other direction.

Realizing the Dwarf wasn't going to say anything else, Rorec decided to follow and motioned for the wagon to come along. The horses were calmer now that they were a good distance away from the foul corpse, but Rorec could see that they still shook and trembled at the mere sight of the thing. It was only at the behest of the fisherman that they came at all, but they completely refused to move at anything more than a snail's pace.

Even with a handkerchief in front of his nose, Rorec's lungs remained filled with the awful scent of the dead creature. The Dwarf, however, didn't appear to notice, and seemed only concerned with dragging the thing. Despite the fact that he was carrying all that weight, he appeared to glide across the ground with little or no effort, and it took a moment for Rorec to even catch up with him.

"Thank you for what you did," Rorec told him. "None of us have weapons and I don't know what we would have done if-"

"No weapons?" His vivid brown eyes scanned Rorec's features, and it was clear that he found him to be quite queer indeed. "You travelled here alone with no weapons?"

Rorec knew himself to be a fool, especially now that he had seen what type of creatures dwell in the north. "Yes," he admitted. "We're not fighting men, so we felt weapons would have only been a hindrance."

He half expected the Dwarf to mock him, but he did not. "Perhaps wiser to be quick and quiet than to fight, then. The animals of this country have learned that lesson well. Those that stand and fight end up like this here." He gestured to the deformed corpse of the wolf.

Rorec was about to ask what type of creature it was, where it came from, and why it was there, but as they passed the far edge of the wall, his questions died in his throat and he froze where he stood.

There were bodies scattered all throughout the muddy field; wolves, bears, badgers, foxes, deer, all hewn and torn asunder, all bloody with patches of skin missing, all with terribly vacant eyes that shown gibbous like a full moon. They were dead, all of them, killed by the forty or so armed and armored Dwarves that stood above them with torches. Rorec's stomach roiled and churned as he realized that the smell he had found so inviting upon their arrival was actually that of burning corpses.

Of the Dwarves, there were males and females in equal number, and each was armed with either an axe, spear, short sword, hammer, or a crossbow. Most of them wore mismatched armor, some favoring certain metals over others, but there were a few that had full sets made entirely of bronze, iron, or even steel. Those were the more formidable looking of the bunch, and several had battle scars that rendered their faces nearly as awful as those grotesqueries whom they had killed.

As soon as they were sighted, Rorec and the wagon became the center of attention. He could feel the hair on his neck stand up as all those armed and fierce looking Dwarves shifted their eyes to him, and one quick glance told him that he wasn't alone in his discomfort. The fisherman and his grandson wore similar worried expressions, and the old man reached into his shirt to grab his wooden idol, muttering silent prayers as he did.

A Dwarf shoved through the crowd and strode forth to meet them. He was quite tall for his kind, nearly as tall as Rorec, and was barrel-chested with shockingly wide shoulders and hips. His arms were bare despite the cold, and thick tufts of curly brown hair covered his bulging biceps. He carried a massive silver hammer that had been engraved with various images of war. It was covered in blood and bits of rotten flesh, and the easy way in which he shifted it from hand to hand made Rorec recall butchers in their shops back home and the way they nonchalantly pounded great slabs of beefsteak to make it more tender. The Dwarf's beard was walnut brown and not terribly long, indicating that, despite his sharp and menacing features, he was scarcely older than Rorec himself, perhaps even younger.

"Drop what you carry," the Dwarf commanded. His baritone voice was weighted with the easy confidence so often wielded by those with great physical strength, but there was a sharp and untempered tone lurking there just beneath the surface, something which gave Rorec pause. The Dwarf's cheeks were slick with sweat and ruddy from toil, and his dark eyes seemed lit by an interior fire that burned just at the edge of his ability to contain.

Rorec stopped where he stood. He noticed that all the Dwarves were stepping aside, giving the two of them a wide berth. "I only carry this," he said, showing the letter. "It's from your-"

The Dwarf snatched the letter and threw it to the muddy earth without so much as a glance. He moved forward until he was close enough for Rorec to smell his pungent alcohol-soaked breath. Though they were the same height, Rorec felt like a child compared to the blood-drenched behemoth before him. "It's queer that you arrived just as the night creatures did. How do you explain that, Human?"

Rorec drew back at the sudden hostility. "I-I beg your pardon?"

The Dwarf sneered. "How do three men such as you with no weapons in hand travel unmolested through the Long Night?"

"We were fortunate," Rorec said, surprised to find his voice steady. "We encountered nothing until-"

"You encountered nothing because the creatures of the night do not harm their own," he growled. "Seize them."

The boy screamed as he and the old fisherman were pulled down from the wagon. Two Dwarves grabbed Rorec, and one forced a bloody bronze spear to his chest.

"What's going on, Tobul?"

Everyone turned and watched as a female Dwarf strode forward. She had high cheekbones and inquisitive blue eyes that were keen and hard, but kind as well, and totally devoid of the hostility that Rorec saw in the other Dwarf, the one she had called Tobul. Her straw-colored hair was flattened from where her helm had been sitting, but her armor had the gleam of polished steel and was decorated with numerous gemstones. Rorec saw rubies and emeralds and, shockingly, diamonds as well. Detailed scenes had been engraved on the metal, but instead of battles and beasts there were images of altars and gods, flags and murals, statues and architecture.

"I'm taking these men as prisoners for questioning," Tobul said.

"Prisoners? Just what do you think they are, exactly?"

Rorec watched as the anger in Tobul instantly shifted over to the female Dwarf. He'd heard legends about the notoriously unpredictable Dwarven temperament, but he'd never had a chance to witness it firsthand. He was simultaneously fascinated and terrified. "Are you a fool? Isn't it clear they had something to do with the attack?"

She remained expressionless. Despite all her armor, she moved with a silent and easy grace like all was effortless before her. She bent and picked up the letter. "This is the duke's seal."

"Yes, he invited me," Rorec said, trying to edge back from the spear that was jutting into his chest. "I've been corresponding with him for some time."

"Ah," she said, giving a slight smile. "You're the writer then."

Rorec felt a wave of relief rush through him. "Yes. Yes I am."

"Writer?" Tobul asked, spitting the word. "What writer?"

"The duke has been expecting him." With a motion of her hand, the Dwarves lowered their weapons.

"Thank you," Rorec said. "We were supposed to arrive a fortnight ago, but we encountered some difficulties. The weather in the south has been quite bad."

"Yes, the storms have been just missing us. It's good you came when you did. This far north the snows fall even in breakup season." She handed him the letter and gave him a smile which, despite its stoicism, was kind and warm. "Welcome to Firehorn."

"Datan, this is foolish," Tobul said. "We should at least question them before-"

"There's no need," she said. "Finish disposing of the bodies. I'm going to see our guests inside."

Tobul's eyes were full of unchecked anger, but at her word he seemed to diminish somewhat. "Aye captain."

As he and the others moved off, Datan removed her gauntlets and stuffed them into the rugged leather pack she carried. "You'll have to forgive Tobul. He's a fine hammerdwarf, the finest we have, in fact, but oftentimes his emotions get the better of him. Do not take it personally."

"It's forgotten," Rorec said, though it wasn't. The various ups and downs of the last few minutes had left him more than a little shaken, but he was determined not to let it show. "I apologize for the poor timing of our arrival. We didn't mean to cause problems."

"You didn't. We're just..." She glanced back at the pile of malformed bodies, her eyes darkening. Rorec thought he could read a lot in that look. Tension, worry, and...fear? "One of our speardwarves was injured."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said. "Is it severe?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. But let's not speak of it," she said. "Goden will be pleased at your arrival. Come, I'll show you inside."

Rorec was very curious about the nature of the attacks, but since Datan seemed reluctant to discuss the issue, he decided not to press her further. In truth, his desire to find shelter from the fetid stench of those accursed creatures took precedence above all, so whatever questions he had about them could wait.

He followed her to the wall, but even as he came closer Rorec was still unable to locate the entrance no matter how hard he looked. As before, he saw no cracks in the masonry, and it wasn't until the drawbridge was being lowered that he realized it was the same kind of system that his own kind had been using for centuries. It was the craftsmanship (or craftdwarfship, he supposed) that made the structure so unusual and spectacular. The drawbridge fit so seamlessly into the outer wall that it appeared to be all one piece, and the only sound Rorec heard as it was being lowered was a mechanical almost clock-like ticking. When it touched the ground, it fit perfectly into a natural dip in the earth, so their horses and wagon transitioned to it without even a hint of difficulty.

They were just about to cross the threshold into the interior when the fisherman's wagon came to a halt. Rorec saw the man was weeping.

"What's the matter?" His grandson asked.

"We mustn't," the old man said, his voice barely above a whisper. His features seemed a decade older than when they had first left Boulder Coast, and his gnarled old hand wouldn't release his wooden idol.

"I don't understand," Rorec said.

"I agreed to drive you. And I did." Tears collected in his scraggly white beard, and he brushed them away. "Now I'd like to go."

His grandson stared agape at him, but said nothing. He seemed too shocked for speech.

"But surely you'd like to rest first," Datan said. "If you're worried about sleeping beneath the ground, we have surface dwellings built for guests. Most of our trading partners prefer those when they visit. It would be no problem."

"Thank you, but no," he said, his voice quivering. "I fear...I fear that if we stay..."

Rorec understood immediately. Now that they knew the difficulty of the journey and the horrors they might face on the way back home, the temptation to stay behind those high Dwarven walls might prove too great if they stayed for long. They'd only taken this job out of desperation for gold anyway, and Rorec couldn't fault them for wanting to get back home as soon as they could.

Rorec grabbed his purse, sorted through it, and after a moment of thought, handed them the purse itself. "The promised amount and half as much more."

The old man hesitated. "...That's too much."

"Never mind that. If I need more, I can earn it working." Rorec turned to Datan. "I don't intend to prey on your hospitality without giving back. My skills are meager, but I am happy to do whatever you may ask."

Datan nodded. "We'll arrange something." She motioned toward a few of her soldiers. "Bring them some supplies from the keep."

When they returned, they brought with them two short copper spears, stone pots full of sweet meats, eggs, mushrooms, greens, bread, and a full barrel of Dwarven wine. The fisherman protested that it was far too much, but Datan would hear none of it. "You'll eat well on your return journey, and tell the men of Boulder Coast about the hospitality of the Firehorn Dwarves." The fisherman promised to do so, and now it was his grandson that wept. He hadn't eaten so well in years.

As Rorec watched them turn around and go, he felt a wave of dread rush over him. It was a dangerous thing he'd had them do, and though his journey was over for the time being, theirs was only half finished. They had been very lucky to reach Firehorn without incident, and now they would be travelling through the night with one less pair of eyes to help them watch the shadows.

Rorec said a silent prayer for them, then took his first steps in the great Dwarven fortress called Firehorn.

Rorec passed through a second gated entrance that was surrounded on two parts by an overarching northerly keep built of the same gray-brown stone as the outer wall. It had been smoothed to such an extent that it reflected the gleam of Datan's sword as they passed by, and Rorec fancied that he could see a bit of his own reflection there. Beyond the keep was a series of channels dug into the earth where Rorec saw Dwarves leading huge white bears by chain leashes into earthen pens.

"Gods...what are those?" Rorec asked.

"Polar bears," Datan said. "We find them on our hunting expeditions. They're the ultimate arctic predator. They care nothing for cold or snow and make for fearsome opponents in combat. Even more so when armored."

"You put armor on them?"

"We do." She flashed a slight a smile. "But it's easier said than done."

That much Rorec had guessed. "Do you raise the beasts from birth?"

"We do, but we still capture some from time to time. Same with them, too," she said, pointing.

Rorec glanced toward the easterly keep, and in one of the great apertures he'd seen before, three massive snowy owls stood feeding from a trough. They were beefy, bulky things with white feathers that were flecked with bits of black and brown. They stared down at him with the cold, haughty look of fierce predators, and Rorec could feel their eyes probing him as if they were trying to decide whether or not he was too big to eat.

"They serve as an early warning system," Datan said. "Whenever something approaches the fortress, they come flying back. You caught us by surprise because they were inside already, for they fear the night creatures. Most animals do, even the bears."

They walked along a cobblestone road lined with unlit torches. There were three keeps in total; the doubly-large northerly one where they had entered, the easterly one that kept the owls, and a western one that Datan said was used mostly by hunting parties or for training new recruits. There was no keep in the south, for the large rock that came out of the ground was so high and wide that nothing could be built there. Rorec saw now why the Dwarves had chosen this location; the great rock served as the fourth and largest of their walls.

There were very few other buildings on the surface, and the bulk of them were contained within the centermost area where small stone hovels surrounded a larger three-level structure. That's where Datan led him.

"The duke will meet you here," Datan said. "If you feel more comfortable above ground, you may stay in the guest suites, but you're welcome to live amongst us if you wish. Your things will be brought wherever you decide. Do you require anything else?"

"No, thank you. You've been very kind already. I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you, especially considering the circumstances. I don't want to keep you from your duties any longer."

"Very well," she said. "If you'll excuse me, I'd like to see how our wounded speardwarf is getting on."

"Thank you very much captain," Rorec said. "I wish them a speedy recovery."

"As do I," she said, though as Rorec watched her go, he thought her expression didn't seem at all hopeful.

The building he'd been led to apparently served as something of a welcome center, and it was lushly decorated for the purpose. There were beautifully crafted stone statues of all different kinds and colors, and each was decorated with jewels and gems of astounding value. According to the accompanying carvings, the figures depicted were famous Dwarves from the Emerald Eyes, Firehorn's parent civilization. Only their general history was known in Rorec's homeland, but that was one of the things he intended his book to remedy.

Rorec was exhausted, but the writer in him felt compelled to begin working immediately in order to capture the awe and splendor he felt at being surrounded by such displays of wealth. He gathered his writing supplies and placed them at an immaculately carved stone table, then began the attempt at describing what he saw.

Covering the walls were bas-reliefs illustrating the founding of Firehorn. The engravings were spectacularly detailed, so much so that Rorec could instantly read the expressions of the Dwarves depicted there as if they were full life and standing before him. The history of Firehorn was one of long difficult toil and fierce perseverance in the face of hostile weather and the forces of darkness. Its early history was rife with attacks like the one he had seen, and from what he could tell, the early settlers had had great difficulty weathering them. There had been much death and hardship, and the images were moving in that they often depicted the final moments of citizens who died trying to protect the fortress.

But the depictions were not all sadness and woe; there were many detailing great accomplishments such as the building of the walls, the creation of fine works of art, and the general prosperity of the fortress itself, which appeared to be doing remarkably well despite its isolation. It seemed to Rorec that there was an exceptionally high standard of living at Firehorn, a fact which surprised him greatly. His home city of Motherhold was notorious for the bulk of the population (which included Rorec himself) living in abject poverty, and he couldn't help but wonder how a fortress on the outskirts of the known world could manage to provide so much for its people despite all the disadvantages inherent to living north of the taiga.

But the statues and engravings were not the main attraction of the welcome center. The bulk of the space in the large room was filled with weapons; axes, spears, swords, hammers, crossbows, bolts, armor in all shapes and sizes and of all manner of decoration from the mundane to the intensely intricate. Rorec could tell instantly that the quality of the objects here was completely unparalleled and unlike anything he had ever seen.

He was busy writing about all this and more when a number of Dwarves rose from an unseen hatch in the floor and greeted him.

Rorec had built a firm picture of the duke in his mind based on their correspondence; he'd been swift of wit and infinitely kind, and his eloquence had evoked the image of a stately aristocrat. But unfortunately, that image did not match up with the Dwarf he now saw before him. Goden was shockingly corpulent even by the standards of his kind. As he walked, Rorec was reminded of a toy he'd had as a child; rounded and weighted on the bottom, it would rock back and forth and side to side, but would not topple over. Goden moved as a ship moved on storm-riddled seas, ever leaning, ever lurching, and ever seeming on the verge of capsizing. He wore a vast and beautiful silken robe that had obviously been dyed by a master of the craft, for it had intricate patterns of color that Rorec hadn't thought were even possible. He was covered in jewelry of all sorts; gold and silver and, shockingly, _platinum_ , the color of which he only recognized from depictions he'd seen in books. There were no less than a dozen such bracelets jingling on his bulbous wrists, and each had been encrusted with diamonds of such purity that they seemed to almost glow in the torchlight. His belly-length beard was just beginning to show speckles of gray, and was decorated with numerous colorful baubles so that they clinked together much like a series of cowbells as he waddled his great bulk forward.

The Dwarves arriving with Goden appeared to be his attendants. One opened a copious leather pack revealing containers of food and ale and handed the duke a mug. He drank greedily while another attendant wiped the perspiration from his reddened forehead with a silk cloth. When he was ready, the large man began to speak, his bejeweled arms flailing about him with an odd maniacal flair.

"Welcome to Firehorn!" The duke said with practiced drama. "Behold the glory of the finest fortress ever built in all of Dwarven history. Feast your eyes on our wares; our golden chalices, our obsidian swords, our steel armor, our gem-encrusted furniture, our master work statues, and lament dear Human, for you will never see beauty such as this again even if you live another thousand years. No nation of Men or Elves has reached the pinnacle of glory and splendor that Firehorn has, and none ever shall. Behold, and be awed to silence."

Normally Rorec would be put off by such an overdramatic and boastful welcome, but considering the grandeur of what he'd seen thus far, he actually thought it quite fitting.

"I truly am awed, duke. When you described the treasures of Firehorn in your letters I formed such high expectations that I thought them impossible to reach, but they've doubtlessly been surpassed. And it is good to meet you finally, after so many months of correspondence."

"And good to meet you too, my Human friend. I was beginning to think your reluctance to make the journey had gotten the best of you. It was as simple as I said it would be, eh?"

Rorec hesitated. Was Goden serious, or was this some ill-made attempt at humor? During their correspondence, Rorec had indeed expressed reluctance at making the trek, but who wouldn't? It was _thousands_ of miles and drifted dangerously near Goblin territory. If anything, the trip had turned out to be even more dangerous than Rorec had thought it would be, and he couldn't help but feel like the duke was being more than a little flippant about the truly mortal danger he and his companions experienced.

But before he could answer, Goden whirled on one of his attendants. "Urdim, have you not offered our guest ale?"

The Dwarf withered. "Oh, I beg your pardon."

Instantly, Goden's features twisted into a rictus of disgust. "How _dare_ you? The man is clearly thirsty, he's had a long journey. Do you think of nothing but yourself?"

Though Rorec was indeed thirsty, he didn't want the poor attendant to get in trouble on account of him. "Thank you duke, but-"

"I ought to have you hammered," Goden told the Dwarf, fresh sweat dripping from his brow.

"No no, that's not necessary," Rorec said. "I actually don't drink."

All the Dwarves suddenly turned to him. Goden himself had an expression that approached something resembling terror, and even the Dwarf that he'd been chastising looked offended.

And then Goden burst out laughing, clapping him on the arm. "Don't drink? Ha! Good one!"

The tension broke as the other attendants joined in on the laughter, and before Rorec could tell them that he was actually quite serious, they slapped a beer mug into his hands and began filling it with a frothy amber-colored ale that smelled frightfully strong yet inviting at the same time. They toasted his health and, not wanting to offend them, he drank. It was as strong as he had thought it would be, but flavorful too, and seemed to have all the richness and complexity of a full meal.

Goden polished off an entire mug of the stuff in what looked like record time, and his attendants immediately poured him another. With his previous anger now forgotten, his eyes began to sparkle with a prideful glee. "Come now, and I'll show you what you've traveled so far to see."

The attendants lifted the hatches from which they'd entered, and immediately Rorec was inundated with the overwhelming smell of rich wet soil. As Rorec walked in he realized he was stepping on earth that had been packed down so tightly that it felt like stone. Inside was a wooden lift surrounded by a spiral staircase so wide it could fit five Dwarves abreast. Goden waddled ahead, leading him down the torch-lit stairs until they came to a set of double stone doors, and when the attendants opened it, Rorec saw the source of the deep earthy smell.

There were a series of long, wide rooms sculpted entirely of earth save for a series of gray stone supports that had been placed at occasional intervals. Torches kept the place well-lit but relatively dim compared to the welcome area. As Rorec's eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he heard the gentle babble of running water. It flowed through channels dug into the floor, and immediately Rorec recognized an irrigation pattern similar to what Human farmers used in their fields around Motherhold. There were bushes and vines and stalks bearing odd-looking vegetables that Rorec had never seen before. Dozens of Dwarves were tending to these, either checking the plants for blight or spreading potash around. Others harvested, loading up wheelbarrows and large pots of rough stone and whisking them off to the lift. Once they had it loaded they activated a lever, and from somewhere down below there came the metallic _thunk_ sound of counterweights being shifted, and the wooden lift and its contents disappeared down into the vast depths.

"Fascinating," Rorec said. "Where does the water come from, duke?"

It was one of his attendants that answered. "Above. There are small channels cut into the surface so when the snow melts, the runoff comes down to the farms. We end up with far more water than we need actually, so we store the excess in a small reservoir for the warm season and release it when we wish. That's what you're seeing now."

"How long does the warm season last here?"

"Two months if the Gods are good," Goden said. "A month if they're not. It's been warm three weeks and looks to be so for longer than usual this year. But the snows will come and when they do we have to be ready. We have just over two thousand Dwarves living here, and that's a lot of mouths to feed."

They took the stairs further down and beyond a series of rooms that appeared to be used for simple storage. Rorec noticed that they kept most everything in stone containers. "Wood must be difficult to come by."

"It is, but we have a supply," Goden said. "We send hunting parties on trips south in good weather and they come back with meat and wood. We also harvest some from the caverns below, and we make a point to plant two for every one we take down."

"Caverns? You've found caverns here?"

"Oh yes. Caverns the likes of which you've never seen, my friend. And if you think the farms I showed you were impressive, you've seen naught but a fraction. Most of our food is grown below."

"Interesting," Rorec said. "I've heard tell of Dwarves keeping their livestock underground."

"Indeed we do. Chickens, geese, ducks, turkeys, guinea fowl, pigs, sheep and reindeer. I dare say you'll eat more meat here than you ever could afford at Motherhold."

Rorec tried not to take that as an insult. "...But how do you feed them all? One of your crops?"

Goden let out a haughty laugh, and Rorec saw the attendants sharing similar glances between them. They clearly thought him a fool, but so little about Dwarven civilization was known that he felt he had to ask these basic questions. "My dear Human, no. The caverns provide. Mosses and fungi grow freely there, and the animals graze as they would on the surface, were it grassy and temperate."

Rorec heard the dining area long before they reached it. The spiral staircase wound straight downward into a large vaulted hall of stone. A few dozen Dwarves were there eating and drinking and shouting with raucous laughter. Dogs and cats roamed freely and, oddly, so did a yak and an alpaca. The stone walls were the same brownish-gray as the outer fortress walls, but punctuated with occasional streaks of earthy yellow, some stone that Rorec wasn't familiar with. There were bas-reliefs, and though they were older and less-intricate than that of the welcome center on the surface, they were interesting nonetheless, and Rorec made a mental note to study them closely when he had the time.

"This is Iron Hall," Goden said. "It was the first full dining hall the founders dug out, and for some years, it was the only one. Many a long day and night were spent here while other parts of the fortress were being readied, but now most Dwarves prefer to dine in the guild halls."

"Guild halls?"

"Oh yes. Firehorn provides a dining hall for each of the major guilds; mining, gem setting, blacksmithing...we have nine in all. But we also have a Grand Hall for ceremonial purposes, and it's large enough to seat every Dwarf in the fortress. That's where your welcome feast will be."

"A feast? For me?"

"Of course," Goden said, clapping him hard enough on the shoulder to splash his ale a little. "It's not often we have guests, as you might imagine, and you're certainly the first writer."

"I'm honored," Rorec said. "Truly, thank you."

"Think nothing of it," Goden said. He turned to an attendant. "Pour him more ale you oaf, he's almost out."

Rorec's head was already swimming from the first mug, and though it wasn't an unpleasant sensation, he was unsure how much his frail constitution could handle and he didn't want to make a fool of himself. They continued on down, and as they did Rorec noticed the sweat accumulating on Goden's brow. The other Dwarves walked up and down the stone stairways as if they didn't even notice them, but Goden was clearly having difficulty. His attendants seemed used to this, for they never made any effort to walk any faster than he did. Rorec was actually quite thankful for the slow pace, for though they had only traveled downward thus far, his legs already felt a little weak, but that was most likely due to lack of use throughout his long wagon voyage.

What he saw next, however, would completely force the thought of fatigue from his mind. The great stone staircase on which they traveled led them downward into a vast cavernous space the size of a town in itself. Rorec gasped and instinctively clutched at the railings, staggering back into the solid chest of one of the attendants behind him. It was seventy feet to the bottom, and only the railing had kept him from tumbling over into it.

Goden erupted in laughter, as did his attendants, and his blubber covered belly rolled and sloshed about as he clapped his hands. "What's the matter, afraid of heights?"

Rorec felt himself blush with embarrassment. He couldn't help but feel a little irritated at being mocked by his host, though he was sure it was just Goden's idea of fun. Perhaps Rorec was just being too sensitive due to weariness. He decided that was it, and forced a smile. "I did not expect it to be so..."

"Big? Of course, my dear Human," he said, his oily voice emphasizing 'Human'. "We Dwarves don't do _anything_ small. This is the upper market. You will find all manner of wares here, and I can say with absolute certainty that you will find no greater crafting of any sort in any other settlement in the world."

Though still bothered by the staggering height, Rorec forced himself to peer over the railing. Hundreds of Dwarves moved down below, many of them in yak or horse-pulled carriages or wagons. Shopkeepers were calling out the deals of the day from countless dozen market stalls and workshops. There were gambling dens and taverns beyond number, each with a Dwarf outside of it shouting about their special new brew that couldn't be tasted anywhere else. Rorec saw that the lift they'd seen departing the farms upstairs was being unloaded here. Many of the stone pots were being put into storage warehouses, while others were taken to the taverns to be brewed or cooked. Rorec inhaled an amalgam of aromas, and his stomach rumbled at the exotic spices wafting toward him on the air of sweet wood smoke.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Goden said, his eyes lighting up with avarice. "The market area is the heart of any fortress. You probably thought it was the dining halls, but no...This is where Dwarven legends are made, Human. It is here that all Dwarves make or lose their fortunes. See those taverns there? Those are mine, as are the wood and stonecrafter shops there. A third of my income comes from this market," he said, smiling. "But just a third, for we have another market such as this deeper underground."

"Dear me, two markets this size?" Then it was no small wonder why Firehorn was doing so well. Two thousand Dwarves, and yet they had all the economy of a village two or three times as large.

"Aye, Human. Now you're beginning to understand. But even all the wealth that is generated here is but a fraction compared to that which we gain from trading. Once a year, merchants from the White Hills come to do business, bringing fruits and meats and ale and wood, and in exchange, we give them the finest weapons ever crafted by Dwarven hands."

"White Hills?"

"Hill Dwarves in the west," Goden said. "Our chief most trading partners, besides those from the mountainhomes, of course. Come, I'll show you where you'll be staying."

With his strength ebbing and the strong ale ringing about his brain, Rorec was thankful to hear those words. They took the spiral stairs downward until they reached level with the market, where the noise and smells were so strong that Rorec almost asked to stop so he could sample the food.

Instead they kept going, and as they did Rorec had the realization that none of the areas he had seen so far appeared to have been adapted from natural caverns. These had all been dug out _by hand_ , a feat so staggering to Rorec that he could scarcely believe his own senses. Before he had come, he had pictured dim tightly-packed low-ceilinged corridors and shallow rooms where space was the most expensive luxury.

Apparently he'd been grossly mistaken.

Goden led them to a level passage branching off the staircase (though Rorec could see that the stairs still went ever downward and downward). They walked through a short but busy hall until Goden, wheezing, threw open a set of double doors. Once again, Rorec let out a cry.

They were now at the top of another hugely open area, only this one was filled with endless rows of dwellings carved into the rock. The hall was so vast that Rorec could not see the end of it, for a great pall of almost palpable darkness filled the air, kept at bay only by the torches lining the walkways and walls. From his perch at the height of it all, Rorec fancied that he was looking upon a massive stony labyrinth like he'd read of in legends, the kind that lured glory-seeking adventurers to hunt for whatever treasure or horror was at its center. There were five levels in all, each attached to one another by yet more staircases. Lifts held with metal chains and pulleys had been placed at intervals, and Rorec watched as one, packed full of goods, was lowered from a hole in the vaulted ceiling above, while others, some empty and some full, were being pulled again upward.

"Welcome to the neighborhood of Granite," Goden said. "It houses roughly five hundred Dwarves and now, one Human. Most of your neighbors will be brewers and cooks and carpenters and the like; basic tradesdwarves. They work directly below in the lower market, which you'll get a chance to look at later. That is where the second third of my wealth is made. Ha!" Goden said, clapping him on the back again. "But that's a story for another time, for I have important business to attend to. The attendants will see you to your room now."

Rorec thanked Goden, then followed the attendants as they led him through the maze of twisting, turning pathways. He could not discern any real pattern to the way everything had been dug, but he knew it was unlike Dwarves to build in a pell-mell fashion. Perhaps it was an advanced motif that allowed for comfortable expansion when needed and he just didn't recognize it.

Oddly enough, Rorec felt as if these were familiar surroundings, like Granite was the Dwarven equivalent of his own neighborhood back in Motherhold. Since his wife had taken ill, all they could afford was a simple apartment they shared with another family. They'd been fearful when first moving in, but after getting to know his neighbors he'd found that they were actually very fine people, just poor, like himself. They may have had nothing else in common, but poverty was the great equalizer, and rather than divide them, Rorec had found, at least in his experience, that it had brought him together with people he might not have normally known otherwise.

He felt the same way as he studied the Dwarves around him. They weren't poor in comparison to the Humans he lived near, but it was clear that they were very much the underclass of Firehorn. Unlike Goden, these Dwarves wore clothes of simple cloth or leather, and what jewelry they had was fairly mundane in comparison to his. This Dwarven equivalent of poverty was hardly such at all, and he couldn't help but admire a civilization that could provide such relative equality to its citizens.

Granite was alive in a way that even the marketplace hadn't been. The halls were filled with the sights and sounds of Dwarven families laughing and talking and shuffling back and forth, moving things in and out of their little carved apartments. There was dirt and grime, but not nearly as bad as the filth of the Motherhold slums. The halls were strewn with objects large and small; dressers, pots, innumerable articles of clothing, dirty plates and old stale bread. Cats and dogs ran about and chased one another in a wild free-for-all, endangering the footing of all who walked past. But despite the clamor and cold stone, there was a singular charm about the place, and he found himself more intrigued by these modest hovels than by anything else he had seen thus far.

The attendants pointed him down a hall, directing him to his room. Rorec was shocked to find that a large crowd of Dwarves were waiting for him there, clapping and hollering and yelling out greetings. When he hesitated, half a dozen Dwarven children (the boys with beards that adult Humans would be proud of) grabbed him by the hands and began pulling him into the crowd. Apparently he was a celebrity there, for Goden had informed them all of his intention to write a book on Firehorn and the citizens therein. He found the Dwarves universally bright-eyed and full of smiles, and they immediately began to ask him all sorts of questions about his journey and his book and whether or not he'd seen the forges yet. They seemed to take immense delight in him, and though he was exhausted, he couldn't help but enjoy their child-like inquisitiveness. He'd been hesitant to ask Goden and his attendants certain things since they had seemed to find his ignorance amusing, but the Dwarves of Granite were more than happy to answer anything he wished, and he never once felt the fool for asking. He spent a full hour talking with them before he even got a chance to step inside his room.

As he'd learned from his neighbors, his room had been dug out of a vein of silver found in the granite. They'd been tremendously excited for him, for apparently rooms such as that were highly coveted. Though Rorec had previously possessed no appreciation for stone, he found himself running his hands across the smooth silvery surface, marveling at the mastery the Dwarves wielded over hammer and chisel.

His dwelling was small but comfortable, and was furnished with all the amenities he could have asked for; a stone cabinet, a wooden desk, and two coffers for his things. What little belongings he'd brought with him had been placed on the desk and bed, and when he looked inside the coffers, he realized they had been filled with pots of ale and meat and cheese; gifts from his new neighbors.

Rorec sat down on the hard wooden bed, and for the first time in what felt like months, his body seemed to relax. He had made it to Firehorn. It had taken two sea voyages and a long wagon ride to get there, but the journey was over. When he'd first set out, part of him refused to believe that he would ever make it at all. He'd never been a lucky man, and he'd failed more times in his life than he'd succeeded. The trip to Firehorn had been a huge gamble in a lifetime of unblemished cautiousness or, as he sometimes confessed to himself, cowardice. He was not an adventurer, but yet here he was on the greatest adventure of his life. The undertaking before him was as staggering as the Dwarven dwellings were in their vastness, and now was time for him to begin. Now was time for him to make his name.

It came as no shock to him then, to find that he was completely and utterly _terrified._

#  DATAN

Datan and two members of the fortress guard walked through the Lignite housing block past the hordes of cats and dogs and stacked piles of old clothes and onto the level where most of the leatherworkers in the fortress lived. The majority of Lignite denizens were at work, but a few Dwarves still lingered about their hovels attending to the odd task. A Dwarf sweeping the stone dust out of his home stopped and stared at the armored trio as they passed. He called out to his wife, and then she called to her sister and her children to come and see what was going on.

Datan sighed. This was precisely what she didn't want. If she had it her way, arrests would be made by guardsdwarves in plain clothes. They always wore mail shirts beneath anyway, so full armor was rarely necessary except in the most heated of exchanges.

Also, it drew a lot of unwanted attention.

Now every Dwarf in Lignite was coming out to see what was going on. Whispers echoed off the stone walls as the crowd speculated on who was in trouble, and for what. Children climbed on stone balconies and clamored over one another for a better view.

"You want me to make them go inside?" One of the guards asked.

"No," Datan said. The quieter this was the better. "Leave them be."

They came to the door of a simple apartment that was indistinguishable from the rest, save for the small carving of a Dwarf handling a stack of hides and leatherworking tools.

"Dumed Lorumstiz, come out please," Datan said.

A moment later, a leather-clad Dwarf with a brown beard and hair streaked with gray opened the door. There was a swollen purple bruise around his left eye and another on his lower lip which had been split and was in the process of scabbing over. He gave her a nod. "Datan."

"Hello again, Dumed. Will you come with us please?"

"Aye," he said, closing the door behind him. He gave the watching crowd a glance, then blushed a little. "Didn't know there would be an audience."

"For that I apologize," Datan said. "But it couldn't be helped. Come old friend, let's go somewhere we can speak privately."

As Datan led him through the halls, she could feel the air thicken with tension. The crowd was quiet for the most part, save for a few Dwarves calling out 'he's innocent!' or 'it was Moldath's son who started it!' A few grunted in agreement but most remained hushed, watching them with...what was that look on their faces?

Resentment, she realized. It was resentment.

Datan felt a wave of guilt pass through her. The emotion was becoming all-too familiar lately, but that made it no less painful.

"I heard you questioned Edzul," Dumed said as they walked.

"Aye," Datan said. "The duke..." she stopped and corrected herself. "The _mayor_ ordered his release."

Dumed spat on the stone floor. "So I'm to take the blame, eh? Is that how it stands?"

"We're still in the process of interviewing witnesses."

"Aye, and what do they say?"

Datan stayed silent. The majority of witnesses claimed that the fight started when Edzul punched Dumed as they were arguing, thus setting off the fracas that involved over fifty Dwarves. However, many of Edzul's friends and other members of the mining guild put the blame on Dumed, some of them even going so far as to say that he pulled a knife, forcing Edzul to defend himself.

"People are saying that Moldath is the one pulling the strings," Dumed said after she didn't answer. "Did he order you to arrest me? Is that it?"

"The fortress guard doesn't take orders from the mining guild," Datan said.

"Aye, not _usually._ "

Datan shot him a look. "You think me corrupt?"

Dumed frowned, and she could tell the leatherworker regretted the harsh words. "No captain, I don't. If there's anyone's honor I'd never question, it's yours. I'm just...I just can't believe..." His eyes were plaintiff in the torchlight of the halls. "You know I wouldn't pull a knife on another Dwarf. Have I ever shown myself to be a troublemaker?"

"No. You haven't."

"Then why am I arrested, and Edzul isn't?"

They came to the outside of the jail, which was actually just an old resource storage room below the farms that had been refitted for the purpose. Some of the nobility was pushing for the building of a real prison fully outfitted with proper cells, but so far it hadn't been done. Crime was traditionally rather low (though it had increased lately), and prisoner space was never an issue, so many saw it as an unnecessary expense. Datan didn't like the idea, but not for fiscal reasons. Much in the same way that stonecrafters hesitated to build extra coffins, she had a superstitious fear that a new prison would somehow break the peace and bring about more criminals.

Datan saw that he was still waiting for an answer to his question. "After he punched you, what happened?"

"I hit him back," Dumed said. "Then we traded blows for a moment, but I got the better of him. That's when he fell."

That matched what the bulk of witnesses had said. "And then?"

"Then the smiths rushed forward. That's when everybody else got involved. Before they did that, it was just between the two of us. Would that it had stayed that way."

Would that it had, Datan wished. But it hadn't.

The makeshift jail was essentially a series of beds with walls separating them. It looked much like the hospital did, save for the chains. A door at the far end of the room was the only one that locked, and it wasn't used for Dwarves. That's where they kept the Goblins they'd captured in battle last winter.

Dumed turned up his nose as Datan fitted the metal around his wrist. "Gods...I can smell their stench from here."

"For that I am truly sorry," Datan said, and she was. For most prisoners, the reek of Goblin was worse punishment than the confinement and chains. "I hope you'll excuse this breach of procedure, but I'd like to speak to the duke before I charge you."

"...May I ask why?"

"It's for your benefit, I assure you," she said. "Edzul was released from the hospital this morning. He lost the thumb."

Dumed raised his bushy eyebrows. "His thumb? But how?"

Just as she suspected, Datan thought. He didn't know.

"The doctor said it appeared to have been crushed, as if under a great weight," Datan said. "He was unable to repair the damage."

Dumed still looked puzzled. "But that can't be, I only-"

"It was the crowd, Dumed."

The realization dawned on him slowly. "But...but it was the smiths who rushed forward. If one of them stepped on his hand after he fell, then...I only struck him, as was my right."

He was not wrong. Datan found her mouth terribly dry.

All the color left Dumed's face. His expression turned grim, and suddenly the Dwarf looked five decades older.

"If you hammer me, I'll be crippled," he said, his voice weak.

"Let me talk to Goden," Datan said.

"I won't be able to work. My kids...they'll-"

Datan put a hand on his shoulder. "Let me talk to Goden."

The meeting hall had originally been built as a dining area for the nobility, a place where they could converse in private and discuss matters of state together. While it still served that purpose on occasion, it was, for the most part, used exclusively by Goden and his son. Datan didn't remember exactly when or how the two of them had taken ownership of the beautifully decorated hall, but none of the other nobles had ever objected, so apparently it wasn't an issue.

The massive table that sat in the center of the room wasn't the most valuable piece there, but Datan had always found it to be the most captivating. It was an astounding combination of petrified wood and steel, built in a now legendary fit of mania by one of the metalcrafters. It had been made in nine pieces that fit together much like a child's puzzle and every piece was needed for it to stand, for if one was removed or if the weight was not distributed correctly, the entire thing would collapse on itself. It had taken a surprising amount of work to put it together, but the result was glorious. The rest of the hall was filled with weapons of almost unspeakable value, including gifts of rare gems from the mountainhomes, specially crafted suits of armor, and statues of exalted figures from Goden's aristocratic ancestry, but Datan found that she loved the table best.

Goden sat at one end and his son Iteb, the fortress's seven year old mayor, sat at the other. There was a golden brown turkey garnished with baked apples, grapes, pears and fisher berries. There were dressed eggs and assorted cheeses, leafy quarry bush greens coupled with slices of exotic imported vegetables that only Goden could afford. There were rolls of doughy bread glazed with sugar and small wooden bowls of frothy cream, and the mayor gorged himself on these, completely ignoring all else.

"Ah, captain!" Goden said through a mouthful of turkey. "A pleasure to see you. Sit, have some pudding."

"No thank you, duke." Datan wondered if she should ease into the discussion gently or get right to the point. She decided on a direct approach. "I want to talk to you about Dumed."

"Who?"

"Lorumstiz, the leather worker."

Goden grunted, then poured a mug of ale down his throat. "Did you arrest him?"

"Aye. But there are certain..." Datan hesitated. "...Facts I think you should be aware of."

Goden gave her the look she'd expected, like a tradesman about to scold his apprentice for fouling up his work. "What facts are those?"

"After interviewing most of the witnesses, it appears that the majority of them claim it was Edzul who started it."

Goden frowned. "Edzul tells a different story, as do the smiths who were with him."

"Aye, they do." Datan tried to choose her next words carefully. "But I have reason to believe they may have been...mistaken about a few things."

Goden stopped eating for a moment, and immediately Datan could tell that he'd seen through the veil of words. "Those are the sons and daughters of prominent Dwarves. Many of them have shared this table with me. Are you calling their honor into question?"

Goden was intractable at even the best of times, but when he was angry he was impossible. The last thing she wanted to do was get him worked up. "I'm not in the habit of dragging good names through the mud. But from what I've found, Dumed was not entirely to blame."

"Tell that to Edzul, who has lost the ability to ply his trade," Goden barked.

"That's a grievous injury, and one that should not be overlooked," Datan said. "But the weight of that shouldn't be placed entirely on Dumed."

"Then who?"

"No one. Or everyone, depending on how you look at it."

Goden leaned over the table, his voluminous robe dipping downward into the greasy turkey. He didn't appear to notice. "And how is that just?"

"It was a fight between two Dwarves that got out of hand. If Edzul is not to blame for starting it, then Dumed is not to blame for responding to it. I wouldn't charge either of them, but the warrant for Dumed's arrest was issued by the mayor. That should have been my decision."

Goden glanced across the table at his son who was still stuffing his face, oblivious to the mention of him.

"Our good mayor is merely ensuring that justice is served," Goden said.

"A hammering for a Dwarf who did no wrong is not justice," Datan said. "And it's not up to anyone besides the captain of the guard. It's my decision to make."

"As _acting_ captain of the guard, it's understandable if you sometimes need help making the hard decisions," Goden said, his oily voice imitating perfect kindness. "That was something your predecessor knew well."

"Aye. But he's dead nigh on four months now. And if I carry the title, then the justice is mine to wield. If I'm asked to investigate wrongdoing, then I will rule according to what I find, not what a noble orders."

Goden actually smiled at that. "You do realize you're a noble too, right? Or do you still think of yourself as just a soldier?"

Datan ignored that. "Lift the call for a hammering, Goden. One cripple is bad enough, there's no reason for us to create two."

"You speak of justice and then ignore the obvious," Goden said. "By every right of law, a Dwarf who cripples another Dwarf should have the same done to him."

"But Dumed did not-"

The duke slammed his hand down on the great table, a gesture all the more meaningful for the pain it must have caused him. Petrified wood and steel did not yield.

But neither would Goden, and if he felt any pain from the blow he did not show it. For the first time in the whole conversation, the little mayor looked up from his sweets.

"A guild leader is demanding justice for his son," Goden said. "What should we tell him, Datan? That it was Edzul's fault for losing his thumb and the deed will go unpunished?"

Datan needed to tread especially carefully here. "Punishment, perhaps, should not be the primary goal, especially considering what caused the confrontation in the first place."

"And what was that?" His face was expressionless, his eyes locked on her. Either Goden never lied or he did so constantly. Either way, his face never showed even the slightest inkling of hidden truths or machinations.

"Dumed approached Edzul and started a conversation with him about food prices," Datan said. "It was Dumed's hope that he'd pass a few ideas to Moldath for his consideration."

The expression of puzzlement on Goden's face was either completely genuine or a master work of deception. "And what would Moldath have to do with food prices?"

Since Datan could never tell what was a lie and what wasn't, she spoke as if Goden were telling the truth, if only for the sake of politeness and, hopefully, a productive conversation. "As you know, we began exporting weapons at a much higher price than usual last summer."

"Of course we did," Goden said. "White Hills had a war with the Goblins. We'd be fools to charge them the same prices as peacetime. But what does that have to do with anything?"

"It is said that in order to afford the weapons, the Hill Dwarves tripled the amount of food they were sending to us."

"Who says this? Tradesdwarves?"

"Yes."

Goden scoffed. "Where they get these numbers, I'll never know. They haven't the faintest idea what kind of agreements we've made with the Hill Dwarves."

Datan continued. "Nonetheless, if their assumptions are true, the increase of food imports should have flooded the market, thus lowering prices across the board. But as I'm sure you've noticed, that's not what happened. In fact, food prices are at an all-time high."

"Again, what does that have to do with-"

"It is speculated that, after the Hill Dwarves tripled their exports, our local farmers knew they wouldn't be able to compete with the inevitable downshift in prices, so they conspired with Moldath to help them hoard much of the imports in a private cache to create false scarcity and keep prices high."

Goden shook his head. "No wonder Edzul took exception. It's pure speculation."

"Is it? If so, then how have food prices gone up since the war? Locally grown food is still about half the cost of imports, as it has always been, but the price of food as a whole has more than quadrupled. How is that possible?"

Goden sighed. "There are clusters of truth in what you say captain, but as the old adage goes, 'a cluster is not a vein.' Food imports increased, but not by triple. And yes, we are storing more food than usual, but that's to save up for an emergency. Should White Hills be taken, our food imports would stop entirely, and _then_ you would truly see a crisis. We'd lose half the fort to starvation in two years. We're trying to prevent a catastrophe, not start one."

"But their war has proven little more than a series of small exchanges, has it not?" Datan asked. "The Final Torment is not sending full armies to their gates, Goden. They're harassing, not invading."

"For the moment. If they sent a force to White Hills the size of what they sent us last winter, then-"

"Then the Hill Dwarves would do what they do best; retreat to their canyons and bluffs and slaughter them with ambush tactics. The Goblins are too smart to walk into that, and they know the Hill Dwarves are too smart to meet them in the open field. These harassment tactics are their only alternative, and they're meant to bring victory through attrition over decades rather than overnight collapse. Though I advocate having plenty of food stores on hand, hoarding it out of fear is unnecessary, and we've seen the trouble it has caused."

Goden folded his flabby arms. "So you're trying to blame the leatherworker's foolishness on our trading policies? Isn't that a bit of a stretch?"

"Crime has gone up, most notably thefts. People aren't steeling gems and jewelry, Goden. They're stealing food."

Goden took a swig of his ale. "So you say."

"If a percentage of the food stores were released for sale to the public it would relieve some of the hunger we've been seeing."

"It would hurt the farmer's guild."

"If done slowly over time, the effect would be negligible on the farmer's guild, and they would have plenty of time to adjust their prices accordingly. Incidents like what happened between Dumed and Edzul would diminish over time as tensions between the nobility and tradesdwarves eased. To punish Dumed would not only be unjust, but would be addressing a symptom of the problem rather than the problem itself. It would also insure that this would not be an isolated incident."

Goden raised an eyebrow.

"The craft and trade guild would almost certainly find a way to retaliate," she said. "That's the last thing we want."

"That would be very foolish of them."

"Aye, it would," Datan said. "But hungry Dwarves do foolish things."

"It is your job, captain, to prevent any such retaliations from happening, and to ensure that justice is served without undue interference from those seeking revenge. If we stopped punishing Dwarves simply because we feared reprisal from them, then we might as well not have a justice system at all. We would be just as bad as the Goblins."

"Duke, I ask that you please reconsider. I don't think-"

"The mayor has ruled already," Goden said, wiping his greasy hands on a silk handkerchief.

"As I said before, it's not the mayor's decision. Even so, the citizens will understand if he retracts his order. It will be seen as a sign of good will."

"No, it would be seen as a sign of weakness," Goden said. "Iteb cannot afford to look weak."

The little mayor dribbled cream on his tunic as he stuffed another piece of bread into his mouth, smacking his lips as he chewed.

Datan stared at Goden for a long time, trying to think of something else to say. There was much that went unsaid between them, for if certain things were spoken aloud, it would almost certainly result in ruin.

When she could think of nothing else with which to convince him, Datan gave a curt bow. "As you wish, duke. I'll see it done myself, then."

"The hammering? Why not use Tobul?"

Because Tobul would shatter him like cheap porcelain _,_ she thought. "He's seeing to the militia's training today."

Goden shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Datan gave one last look to the table in front of them; the turkey and pudding and fresh exotic fruits. I could say so much _,_ she thought.

But it would do no good.

Iron Hall was particularly raucous, for whatever reason. The tradesdwarves that took their meals there were the sort who found reason to revel even in the leanest of times, and the shortage of food had done nothing to dampen their spirits.

Perhaps that was why Datan found herself eating there rather than in the northern tower. These were the types of Dwarves that were most affected by the food crisis. Brewers, carpenters, craftsdwarves...common folk who sold the bulk of their wares in the market and took only a tiny share of trade revenue in comparison to the other professions. Unfortunately, the Hill Dwarves didn't have the same hunger for wine and stone chairs as they had for sharp steel blades and shields and copper bolts.

Datan ate a simple mushroom stew with fresh black bread and ale. Though her position provided her a large wage in comparison to her Iron Hall counterparts, her lifetime of eating portable military rations rather than elaborate meals had made her palate easy to satisfy. Many of the nobledwarves spent a shameful amount of money on food, but Datan had never seen the sense of it. The memory of a good meal was fleeting, its effect dulled by repetition. Datan preferred to invest in things more permanent. She had recently commissioned the fortress's best artist to engrave an entire wall of her living quarters with a mural of Ogath, goddess of justice. In the image, Ogath was considering the fate of two quarreling children, a scene from one of her favorite legends. When Datan woke up in the morning, it was often the first thing she saw.

She sipped her ale, an earthy black brew that suited her meal well. As she drank, she considered her quandary. She certainly couldn't refuse the hammering order, for that would only get her removed from her position and Dumed would be punished anyway. But to sentence Dumed to a hammering would not only cripple a Dwarf who'd done nothing wrong, it would also make it quite clear that the guard were a tool of the nobles. Since the mayor had breached protocol and called for punishment himself, that was now impossible to avoid. As Dumed had demonstrated earlier, mistrust of authority had become widespread amidst the poorer Dwarves; another unfortunate consequence of the food crisis. Looking back on it now, Datan realized it was possible that Goden had appointed her to the position of captain of the guard for the sole purpose of quelling that suspicion, for she had always been well-respected amongst the common folk. That type of sly maneuvering was exactly the type of thing Goden might do.

Datan was considering all these things and more when Rorec walked up and greeted her. She'd been so busy with the aftermath of the nightcreature attack and the recent fight that she had forgotten all about their Human visitor. She recalled the scare Tobul had given him upon his arrival and felt a pang of guilt. For a guest to be greeted with anger and suspicion was unforgivable. She stood up and offered him a place at the table, and he graciously accepted.

As he sat down, she noticed that he had an old injury on his right hand. There was a large scar and an indentation that made it look like it had been crushed at some point. He appeared unable to use it much, if at all. Datan was curious but decided not to ask, for she didn't want to risk rudeness. Dwarves bragged of their scars, but she didn't know if Humans did the same.

"I must apologize for not checking on you these past few days," Datan told him. "I've been exceptionally busy lately. I trust the duke has seen to all your needs?"

"He has. He's been very welcoming," Rorec said. "It's been quite overwhelming actually, I never thought I would be greeted with so much...well, pomp. I still haven't made a dent in all the food my neighbors gave me."

Food? The Dwarves of Granite were struggling to feed themselves and their children, but they'd still given him gifts of food? Datan could not help but be moved. That was true generosity indeed, but unfortunately Rorec couldn't possibly understand the full gravity of it.

She studied the Human in front of her. From the moment he'd first arrived, it had been clear to her that Rorec was no noble, though she had expected him to be when Goden first told her a writer was coming. How could someone who knew how to read and write _not_ be part of the nobility? Perhaps Rorec was a bit of an oddity amongst his own kind, a commoner in possession of unusual skills. Certainly there were Dwarves like that; Datan had a tradesdwarf cousin who could take a glimpse into a room and declare with uncanny accuracy the value of the trade goods inside, a feat which would take even the most experienced broker hours of careful calculation. Despite this talent he'd remained poor all his days until death. Judging by the clothes Rorec was wearing, he appeared to be enduring the same struggle.

"Have you visited many fortresses?" Datan asked.

"A few Human ones, but none of Dwarves. I wrote a book about the fortifications at Plainsview, but compared to Firehorn, they were miniscule."

"Where is Plainsview?"

"In the eastern half of the Storm Plains, south of the Isle of Graves."

Datan thought. "I know the Isle. It is said the men of Boulder Coast come from there." She pulled off a piece of bread. "Are the fortifications of Plainsview well-known in your land?"

"Fairly well, yes. They were instrumental during the early stages of the Sunset Quest."

Datan knew of the war. The Final Torment versus the Humans of Silvermire. The Goblins sacked a city in a surprise attack, prompting a total retaliation that saw a quarter of the Goblin population killed over the next twenty years. It was said that Silvermire took the entire eastern half of the Goblin empire as payment for an end to hostilities.

"And how did you become a writer?" Datan asked. "Is that a common profession in Silvermire?"

"Not at all, actually. In fact it was only due to luck that I was afforded the opportunity at all. When I was a child, a wealthy landowner hired my father to build him a series of mills and granaries on a swathe of newly purchased farmland. It was a project of several years, so we were allowed to live on the edge of the property as my father worked. I was a sickly child, and it was clear to my father early on that I would never be suitable for the hard work of mill-building. As a favor to him, the landowner allowed me to be tutored along with his own children, and I learned my letters that way."

Now Datan understood why he carried himself like a commoner. "Are all your family builders?"

"Traditionally, yes. I'm the first in four generations not to be."

Datan detected a tinge of regret in his voice. She changed the subject. "So tell me about this book you intend to write."

Rorec immediately brightened at the mention of his project. "My intention is twofold; to describe, in detail, the inner-workings of Firehorn. It is fascinating to me how a fortress at the far ends of the earth can not only function, but thrive, and Human academics and laymen alike will surely be interested in such a thing. The second part is to describe, basically, the essence of the Dwarven soul."

"The Dwarven soul? How do you propose to do that?"

"It is my hope that I can find a single individual who exemplifies Dwarven nature better than any other. I know it will difficult to find such a subject, but I'm hoping that over time, one might be revealed."

Datan thought it was a novel idea, especially from a Human. Another Dwarf would have inherent biases as to what traits exemplified true Dwarven nature, but a Human would be a total outsider capable of rendering a fair and impartial judgment.

"I was considering, perhaps, the Dwarf that was wounded in the nightcreature attack," Rorec said. "What is his name?"

"Vucar," Datan said. "Normally I'd say he's a fine choice, but...his condition is worsening."

"Oh," Rorec said, taken aback. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Datan nodded. Her bread and stew were finished, and though there was much more she wanted to know about him and his project, she needed to get back to her duties. "I apologize, but I must take my leave. It was nice talking with you, and if I get a chance at the feast tonight, I'd like to continue the conversation."

"Ah yes, the feast..." Rorec gave a shy smile and nodded. "I hope they don't go to too much trouble because of me."

"Goden is in charge of the festivities, so I'm afraid the chances of it being a modest affair are slim to none."

He actually blushed. "Oh dear..."

Datan couldn't help but appreciate the irony of it all; commoner amongst his own kind, but heralded amongst foreigners, and all for a work he hadn't yet begun. He must feel a great deal of pressure to make good on what everyone expected of him, on what he expected of himself.

Datan understood those expectations all too well.

The hammer was a lustrous bronze color flecked with bits of diamond dust. The torchlight made the little stones wink and glimmer like cold distant stars fixed in a forged metal sky. The grip was smooth polished polar bear bone lined with small red rubies. It was a gorgeous weapon that any warrior would be proud to carry, but it had never seen battle and never would.

Technically by doing the hammering herself, she was infringing on Tobul's duties. That would certainly irk him; he never liked to miss a chance to hammer someone. He'd even started bringing the silver judgment hammer into battle with him, something of which Datan didn't approve. There are weapons for enemies and there are weapons for justice, but the two should not mix, she thought.

She made a point to walk the shortest route to the jail so fewer Dwarves would see her. Those that did immediately knew what she was about to do. Word traveled faster than an eagle with a tailwind and nothing stayed secret in a fortress for long.

Bomrek was standing next to the prison door smoking a dark briar pipe. He wore a long leather coat that was dusty at the tails from where it dragged the stone floor. His long hair and beard were obsidian black save for a tinge of tobacco brown on his moustache. The fragrant smell of his smoke brought back old memories of good whiskey and long conversation.

"Thank you for coming," Datan said. "Did you bring your supplies?"

He nodded. "Inside."

"Did you talk to him?"

"Not yet. I thought I'd leave that to you."

Datan entered the jail and he followed. Immediately her nose curled from the smell of the Goblin prisoners in the back. She wondered if this room would ever smell clean again.

Dumed was reclining on his bed, the metal chain extending from his hand to a bolt on the wall. On a nearby table were half a dozen stone idols and burnt candles; he'd been doing a lot of praying. Several empty casks of ale sat beside him and he was drinking heavily from a large tin flask. He saw the hammer in her hand and a rictus of pain formed on his face.

"Hello, Dumed," Datan said. "You know why I've come?"

He took another long drag from the flask, then nodded.

Bomrek removed the chain clamp from his wrist. "Kneel."

Dumed moved off the bed slowly as if he were already in pain. When his voice came it was hoarse and labored. "Where will you strike?"

"Your right arm."

Dumed cringed, and tears formed in the corners of his eyes. "Gods be kind..."

Datan took her place beside him. "Dumed Lorumstiz, you are hereby convicted for the crimes of assault and maiming committed against one Edzul Thobilid. Your sentence for this crime is hammering. Do you have anything you wish to say before the punishment is carried out?"

Dumed's tears ran freely now. "Gods be kind...gods be kind..."

Datan eased the hammer slowly back into swinging position, and steadied herself.

"Gods be kind...gods be kind..."

With one smooth, fast motion, she swung the hammer forward...

...And lightly tapped Dumed's arm.

Dumed eased his eyes open, his muscles still coiled to receive a blow. He looked up at Datan.

"The sentence is carried out."

Dumed dropped to the floor at her feet, weeping. "Gods save you, Datan. Gods save you..."

"Do not thank me," Datan said. "Thank the chief."

Bomrek removed the bag of gypsum powder and tools from his bag, smiling amicably at Dumed. "Get up."

Still bewildered, Dumed rose from the ground and sat down on the edge of the bed. "I thank you both, but...but the mayor decreed that-"

"I know," Datan said. "And he must be satisfied."

"I'm going to give you a cast for that nasty break of yours," Bomrek said, grinning through his pipe. "In a few months you'll come in to get it removed, and you'll find that you've made a miraculous recovery."

"Gods thank you both," Dumed said. "From the depths of my soul, thank you."

"You must understand, of course, that this kindness comes at a price," Datan said. "When asked, you must say that you received full justice for your conviction. You must never tell a soul what happened here."

"Aye. Aye, I can do that."

"And one more thing," Datan said, kneeling next to him. "Since they won't know the truth, your guild leader and fellow tradesdwarves will be angry that you were punished and Edzul wasn't. There can be no retaliation," she said, emphasizing her last words. "You must convince them of this, for if you don't the situation could very quickly spiral out of control. I have showed you mercy this time because I know you were not the cause of the trouble, but so help me Armok, I'll crush anyone who puts this fort in disarray. Do you understand?"

"Aye," he said. "It will be done, I swear it."

"Good," Datan said.

Bomrek started mixing the plaster. "Come, Dumed. Let's get this done."

The Grand Hall was true to its name as the largest single room structure in the fortress. It was dug out over fifty years ago with the goal of providing enough space for every Dwarf in the fortress for generations to come. True to their skill, the miners had accomplished their task and then some. The fortress had grown more than expected, and yet there was still plenty of space for all. The wall engravings were as high as towers and more detailed than any in the entirety of the Firehorn. There were images of the seven founders carved in chert and the symbols of the nine guilds took up an entire wall of jet, their colors and insignias brought to life by the flickering light from the massive stone hearth below.

Goden had clearly spared no expense. There was roasted lamb, chicken, geese, cave lobster, giant thrips, alpaca, yak, cheeses of all kinds, great wooden bowls of quarry leaves and plump helmets and turnips and carrots and a myriad of baked breads and imported fruit. The younger Dwarves seemed to find the latter fascinating, for many of them had never seen strawberries and pears and oranges before.

The nobles sat on a raised dais with their backs to the blazing fire. Rorec was seated next to Goden, as was customary for all guests of the fortress. The little mayor sat on the duke's other side, his chubby cheeks already reddened from too much wine. Tobul was there, brooding as usual, and Bomrek was seated next to him, puffing away on that old briar pipe of his. There was a seat for each guild leader as well, and as if to prove that the gods had a sense of irony, Datan found herself sitting next to Moldath, father of Edzul and leader of the blacksmiths.

The bulk of Firehorn's attending population was seated according to guild, each with their own series of tables marked by raised cloth banners featuring their symbols. Datan couldn't help but notice that the leather workers, who were part of the craft and trade guild, had been seated on the opposite side of the hall from the blacksmithing guild. She thought that was probably for the best, all things considered.

Dumed had been told to stay in jail during the festivities, an act which both kept up appearances and lessened the possibility of arousing negative emotions. Bomrek had made sure that he would be the only doctor to treat him, and Datan trusted that he could handle it. Bomrek was the soul of discretion, and Datan couldn't have asked for a better co-conspirator than the chief medical Dwarf himself.

Goden rose to his feet (an act which was becoming more meaningful for all the trouble it caused him) and banged his mug down on the wooden table. It took a while for the crowd to quieten since there were so many assembled, but after a few moments a hush fell, and all that could be heard was the sputtering of the fires.

Silence in a room with two thousand Dwarves...Datan couldn't help but smile. Goden did have a way with crowds.

"Dwarves, I thank you for coming," Goden said, his arms moving with practiced drama, his smooth voice carrying with seemingly little effort. "I do not wish to delay our meal any longer, but I would be remiss if I did not first speak of our reason for assembling." Goden took a moment to gather his thoughts. "Firehorn is known throughout the north for a number of things: its bears, its weapons, and its hardy citizens. But though we are both famous and infamous amongst Elves and Goblins alike, we are relatively unknown to the Humans of Silvermire in the far east. We know of some of their exploits; their vast cities, their martial prowess, their thriving culture...but of us, they know little.

"However, there is one who would change that." He put a hand on Rorec's shoulder. "This man traveled from half a world away by sea and by land to reach us here so that he may see the glory of Firehorn, record it in detail, and return home with the knowledge so that all of humanity will know our accomplishments."

There came a barrage of cheering. Goden waited patiently for it to die out, then continued.

"For that, we honor him tonight. Let us show our appreciation for the Human writer, Rorec Kethorma, whose bravery and thirst for knowledge has led him here to us tonight."

There was a cacophony of applause as all two thousand Dwarves stood for him. Rorec was clearly taken aback by the uproar, but he smiled and waved to the crowd, much to the delight of all. Goden himself was ecstatic, and he clapped so hard and with such fierceness that Datan thought he might hurt himself.

"Let the feast begin!" He cried, and the enthusiasm of the Dwarves shifted to tender meat and frothy ale, crispy vegetables and sweet fruit, good conversation and loyal company. Every Dwarf rejoiced, for it was a rare occasion when all had plenty.

Centuries later, historians would remember the night as 'Firehorn's Final Joy.'

#  ZAS

The Dwarves gorged themselves on thick heaps of greasy meat and slick fat, guzzling ale the color of fetid water and slurping the pungent flesh from tumorous foreign fruits. In their reveling they paid no mind whatsoever to decorum; they wiped their mouths on sleeves caked in dust and oil, or simply let the remnants of their meal gush freely from their mouths like untrained babes. Every bite was an exercise in disgust, each filthier and more depraved than the last.

Zas forced these thoughts out of his mind. The old feelings were the hardest to be rid of, he'd found. Perhaps they would never leave him. He feigned a drink of his wine and when no one was looking, dribbled a little onto the stone floor.

At least tonight that would be easier than usual.

Asha leaned over to him. "Dear, are you sure you don't want something? Some pudding, at least?"

"I'm not hungry." He was starving.

"It's a shame, you're missing such great food."

Zas watched as a pack of dogs and cats feasted off the floor scraps. Normally they'd be fighting each other for the bounty beneath the tables, but tonight there was enough for all of them. Even the runts would be getting fat.

Before he could stop her, Asha refilled his wine goblet. Zas forced himself to smile in thanks. She was as dutiful a mate as a Dwarf could ask for, but that was not why he married her. As he watched her quietly dine on her modest plate of greens and chicken breast, he saw none of the slovenliness that he saw in the others. Asha had a polite and, dare he say, stately grace. Though she was a common weaver she carried herself with unusual poise and nobility, a quality quite rare amongst the crude and loathsome lot they shared a table with.

Zas wondered for the hundredth time whether or not he loved her. He knew he should. She had many loveable qualities. She had given him two healthy children and had helped raise them to have the same attentiveness and grace their parents shared. She listened when he spoke and was open-minded to his ideas, even when they flew against convention. She expressed herself well and thought before she spoke, and when she was emotional she sought his reason and his counsel to make her feel better rather than flying into a rage. He should love her for those things.

But did he?

His son Urvad was there next to him. Barely seven. He spooned pudding into his mouth and looked up at Zas with his large sandstone colored eyes. He hung on every word his father said. He was a quick learner and creative with his crafts. When Zas spoke to him of the proper methods of bone carving, the gentle relationship between hands and bone and blade, he listened, and rather than rush into it like other children, he made an effort to perfect the form. He was everything a father could want and his sister was no different.

But did Zas love them?

Such questions were always troubling, but not seriously so. The quandary of love had lingered with him like a light wound that nagged quietly for attention. He was not bothered by it, but at the same time, it merited thinking about.

And at least it distracted him from all this.

Zas tried to ignore the lot of so-called friends and neighbors at the table around him and focused his attention on the dais. Their Human guest seemed to have manners, at least. He ate almost as daintily as Asha, but without the comfort or surety. Even from this distance, Zas could tell he was nervous. His meal was more of an exploration than a dining experience; many of the foods were surely new to him. Beside him, the idiot duke talked and laughed in boisterous acclaim, probably bragging about something or another. The Human seemed to sense his ridiculousness, but did a good job not to show it much.

But Zas could tell. He read the expressions on Humans and Dwarves and Elves as a master angler might read the ripples of the water and know that a great fish lie beneath. Still, even as he exercised this skill, he did not really want to. It was merely second nature.

And the skill came at a cost: no person was a mystery to him for very long, and that made them dreadfully boring. Not even Asha was an exception to this, but perhaps that was unavoidable with any mate. There was no depth to her that he did not understand, and he often felt that he could read her moods and needs as if hearing her thoughts aloud. Because she was good to him, he made efforts to satisfy those whims accordingly, as any good husband would.

And of course, she adored him for it. Asha was madly, foolishly, and hopelessly in love with him, and the guilt that caused was painful for Zas to bear.

But he had borne worse.

What had started as a feast had now become, in many places of the Great Hall, a dance. Music was being played and those who were finished with their meals (or merely taking a break, more likely) got up and danced or sang along. Soon the Great Hall would be filled with the sounds of merriment and joy and celebration.

Zas hoped to be gone by then.

Asha laughed as she watched some friends dance. She would want to join in soon. She would ask and Zas would smile brightly and say yes, and they would dance just as happily as the other couples, but Zas wouldn't feel it. All the joy would be hers and hers alone, but he would still smile and laugh, if only for her sake. Of course he could tell her no if he wished, but then she would be disappointed, and there was no reason to disappoint her.

For the moment though she was content to watch, so Zas did as well. He dribbled some of his wine out on the floor as everyone at the table watched a particularly drunk Dwarf slur his way through the first verse of a popular song. Zas pretended to watch and even pretended to laugh, but he had found something more interesting to occupy his attention.

It was the captain of the guard and another Dwarf, one of the smiths, judging by the way he dressed. They were in the shadow of the huge stone hearth behind the dais, well away from anyone else. Datan had an expression of dire seriousness, and the other Dwarf, judging by his body language, appeared to be getting chastised for something.

The conversation finished and the Dwarf turned to walk away. Zas recognized him as Edzul, son of Moldath, and remembered hearing about the fight that had taken place between he and another Dwarf recently. Datan starred daggers into the smith as he walked away, and Edzul was clearly flustered and embarrassed by the exchange. All the same, the moment seemed to have passed without notice, and once again all was merriment and music.

Interesting, Zas thought.

It wasn't difficult to make an educated guess as to the nature of their discussion: Datan was warning Edzul. Everyone with any modicum of intelligence knew that he had escaped prosecution only as a political favor from Goden to his father. More likely than not, Datan wanted to make sure Edzul fully understood that this was a onetime event and there would be no such exceptions in the future.

Datan was more clever than most, though like many common Dwarves elevated to nobility, she lacked a proper understanding of her full political power. This fortress could be hers if she merely reached out and took it, Zas thought. She was a pillar of the community, equally respected by tradesdwarves and nobility alike. The only ones who liked Goden were the nobility, but they were all that was necessary to keep him in power. As with most leaders, Goden ruled via illusion of strength and control and greasing the right palms. All that could be shattered with one well-placed political blow, and Datan was in the best position to strike.

But she never would. Instead she would always put the fortress before herself, as evident by what she'd just done with Edzul. She surely knew that a brat like him couldn't suffer harsh words without whining to his powerful father the first chance he got, but apparently she didn't care.

Luckily for Zas, she was making a mistake.

There was no person in this fortress who was more of a danger to Zas than Datan, and thus, he'd been watching her closely for some time. She was intelligent, capable, fierce, driven, and worst of all, incorruptible. Such Dwarves were his mortal foes by their very nature, and conflict with them was as inexorable as autumn's change to winter.

But Datan could very well be sowing the seeds of her own destruction. If tensions in the fortress continued to rise the way Zas thought they would, Datan might be ousted (or worse) in a matter of a few short years. That wasn't long for him to wait. After all, he was playing the long game.

The music changed to a fast, upbeat number. Their friends and neighbors linked hands and rose to take their places. Asha turned to him, her watery blue eyes gushing with love and adoration. "Would you like to dance, dear?"

Zas feigned his brightest smile, returned her loving gaze, and took her hand.

"I'd love to."

The children were asleep, cradled in Asha's arms. Zas wrapped them up in a thick woolen blanket and pulled it to her chin. He could tell that she was exhausted from the feast and the dancing, but she was trying very hard not to show it. When Zas was awake, she wanted to be as well.

"Will you come to bed dear?"

"No," Zas said. "I think I'll do a little work."

"But it's so late."

Zas bent and kissed Asha and his children in turn. "Rest dear. I'll be back in a few hours."

"I'll wait up for you."

She was asleep within moments. Bless her, Zas thought. She did try.

Their apartment was cozy and comfortable and had all chert walls. Their neighbors were other bone carvers and weavers, dyers and leather workers and the like. Lignite was normally a lively place, but tonight it was pleasantly quiet. The festivities had lulled the fortress to a joyful sleep, sated on food and drink and music.

Zas sat in a small chair near the door, a chicken fat candle burning in a dish beside him. Sometimes Zas spent entire nights like that, just sitting there in the dark by the door. He would retreat into a haze of old memories filled with times and places long gone by, faces from lovers and family members and strangers and enemies long since dead. There was a restful peace that would come to him then and his mind would slow to a crawl, his thoughts trickling out like water from a frozen pipe.

Other times he would light the candle again and stare at the mural he'd had engraved on the wall.

It was the one thing in their living quarters that he had insisted upon. Asha always pretended to like it because she knew how much it meant to him, but Zas could tell that she didn't. All the same, she never complained.

The mural was of Asroth the Reviled; a scholar turned outcast, an outcast turned outlaw, and an outlaw turned king. Once the most learned Dwarf in all the kingdom, he dared to claim more wisdom than the gods and was thus cursed for his hubris. He then wandered the wilds for untold years, gathering other wayward followers like himself until one day he brought his band of outcasts to the gates of Marblespire. The battle became known as 'The Siege of Curses.'

His reign of terror lasted two hundred and eighty-four years and marked the longest time in Dwarven history that the capital had been occupied by a hostile outside force. His ascension to power was the stuff of legend, and was filled with tales of brutal warfare, unimaginable decadence, and strange rituals carried out by the cult that worshiped him as a living god. Never before had a Dwarf been so merciless to his own kind. It was said that he gorged himself on the blood of those who challenged him, and that such acts of barbarity were the secret to his unnaturally long life.

And then one day, he simply disappeared. Nobody understood quite how or why, but all sources agree that one day, Asroth simply ceased to rule and was never heard from again. Bloody succession wars raged amongst the various factions of his empire until they were finally united by the Glowing Embers, one of the early precursors to the Emerald Eyes.

That had been eight hundred years ago. Like Asha, most Dwarves grew up hearing the awful stories of Asroth's reign; the gruesome tales of his lava pits and water dungeon, and the hellish and mysterious feasts he and his cult would hold in Marblespire's central annex. Sometimes Zas would listen as Asha told the stories to their children. Being kind, she always ended them the same way: _But that was an age ago, and Asroth is long, long gone._

If only she knew.

On quiet nights like this he would stare at the image and sometimes, if the unseen air currents moved just so, the flickering light would almost make it look like Asroth was coming to life, his stony limbs flexing to regain their old strength, his hoary beard parting to reveal red stained teeth in a predatory sneer, his lashing tongue forming the old words of reign and ruin, of blood and fire, of rage and conquest.

It was in those moments that Zas would snuff out the candle.

Some things were best left to the dark.

Zas believed that in the quiet hours of early morning a fortress was simultaneously at its most beautiful _and_ its most horrible. A settlement that was devoid of life, if only briefly, was much like a tomb: one could appreciate its elegant structures and decorations, but its emptiness made it a body without a soul.

It was the beauty of silence, and the horror of stillness.

Zas walked through the dark, not bothering to carry a torch. Only once did he see anyone else and when he did, he merely stopped where he was and let them pass. It was so dark and the Dwarf was so drunk and tired that he hadn't even registered Zas's presence. When he was out of sight Zas continued on again, sticking to the shadows.

It would not do to be seen tonight.

His task was a delicate one, and had been put off for too long. There had simply been no opportunities. Zas had thought he'd get a chance with the wounded militia Dwarf (Vucar, if he remembered correctly), but his condition was such that the doctors attended to him every hour of the day and night, so getting to him would be next to impossible.

But, in a stroke of irony, it was Datan who had provided him the perfect opportunity.

Zas opened the door to the jail. It was never locked, for every prisoner wore shackles that were anchored into the wall. There was no escape from those but with a key.

A guard sat napping in a stone chair near the door. On the table next to him sat many empty ale jugs and the meatless bones of a roasted guinea hen. He would remain asleep as long as nothing startled him.

Zas found the guard's torch and snuffed it out, engulfing the jail in darkness.

He ignored the stench of the goblins emanating from the back room and proceeded forward. They were certainly a viable option, but he wanted to save them for an emergency. There was no telling how long Goden would keep them there, anyway. Months? No use wasting them now.

Dumed was lying on his stone bed, eyes fluttering in sleep. The plaster cast from his hammering was on his right arm, stretching from elbow to wrist.

Perfect.

Zas moved silently. He felt his pulse quicken, but forced his sense of urgency away. Calm was essential. Eagerness was a liability. He squatted down near Dumed's wounded arm, watchful of the leather worker's eyes. They did not open.

Now came the difficult part.

If this was to be done correctly, he needed to be gentle. Zas carefully lifted Dumed's wounded arm and rested it on the bed. Dumed did not react.

Good, Zas thought. Now, the cast.

Of course casts were meant to stay stationary on the arm, but Zas had found that even the most skilled of bonesetters left a little space between the plaster and skin, if only for comfort's sake. Zas gently slid the cast back toward the leather worker's elbow, just a little bit, just enough to leave the wrist bare before him. It had only slid a meager two inches, but that was good enough.

Zas opened his mouth and clamped down on the meaty flesh of Dumed's wrist.

Before the leather worker could call out, Zas's hand found the Dwarf's mouth and clamped it shut.

The taste of the fresh blood was irresistible. In his younger years, these moments had sent him into a frenzy of drinking, often causing him to make foolish decisions. But time and practice had brought control and patience.

And most of all, experience.

Dumed flailed his good arm, causing his chain to rattle. He was strong despite his wounds, stronger than Zas had expected. Still, the guard was too deeply asleep to hear, and Zas was much stronger. He clamped down harder, and though Dumed still fought, he could gain no ground against his attacker.

Slowly but surely, Zas felt the strength slip from his victim. Zas drank long after the leather worker was still, savoring every drop and wasting nothing.

When he was finished, Zas felt around in the dark and forced the cast down over the leather worker's wrist. That would cover the bite marks. No one would question that someone who was recently hammered had succumbed to their wounds. Shock and melancholy were common amongst prisoners, not to mention that the blows themselves were often fatal. His death would be seen as an unfortunate but understandable accident.

Zas breathed deep the darkness. This Dwarf had been hardy. Perhaps he would not have to feed again for a while.

Zas moved past the dead leather worker and checked on the guard. Still fast asleep. Good.

He opened the door. There was nothing. No one. The halls were clear and the fortress quiet.

Zas slipped into the shadows and was gone back to Asha, back to his children, back to his humble home of chert on the fourth level of Lignite, amidst the weavers and bone carvers and leather workers that called him friend and neighbor.

If only they knew.

#  NGOM

Ngom smelled death.

Fresh death too. The air was sweet with it. The smell had come drifting through the cracks beneath the door this morning and the jailer lit his torch a little while after. Ngom heard the coughs and sighs of a waking Dwarf, the jingle of keys, the draining of ale from mugs, the gnawing of old fowl bones...Those were the sounds of morning in this place.

Seven other prisoners sat in the cage behind him. Without looking Ngom kicked one. He heard a hiss of pain as the other Goblin retreated to a corner.

Ngom had to keep them afraid. Underlings without fear were treacherous creatures.

For the past several weeks, he'd sensed that they were plotting to kill him. Such plotting could not be vocalized however, since the cage was so small that Ngom could hear every groan, every growl, every belch and every breath they dared to utter. But the thoughts were there, he was sure of it. He'd catch their predatory eyes leering at him when his back was turned and knew they were trying to find weakness.

But if they decided to kill him, Ngom doubted that it would be today. The smell of death meant that something interesting was happening. Nothing brought Goblins together like the presence of death; they'd want his strength, if only temporarily. As soon as they'd tasted the scent, they'd become more alert than they had been in weeks. They even started looking again for ways out of the cage; a futile exercise, but at least they were looking. Too long had they sat idle.

A knife rusts without use, as the old saying goes.

Ngom sniffed the air again. No blood. Not surprising though, since the kill had come when he was asleep and he'd heard nothing. Very few killers could tread so lightly that Ngom couldn't hear them. Suffocation? Poison? Ngom considered disease, but that was doubtful. The air did not have the scent of sickness.

Ngom heard the popping of knuckles. "...Meat," said one of the others. "Ngom will provide?"

Ngom kicked him, and hard. He whimpered, and Ngom hated him for it. "I will have _your_ meat should you complain again."

"Ozru relents," the wretch said, curling into a ball.

Ngom spat on him. Pathetic westerners...most of them were only fit for fighting Elves. If he'd begged for meat back in the Dread Tower he would have been fed to the trolls. However, with only eight of them in this cage, Ngom couldn't afford to waste even the most pathetic of his soldiers.

The Dwarves only fed them a meager diet, but most of them were still faring well. Ngom ate the largest share and Ozru got only the scraps the others left behind. Ngom had seen Goblins survive on less, so he thought Ozru was probably speaking more out of fear than hunger.

And that fear was well-justified.

There could only be one reason they were being kept alive, and that was for sport. Ngom had expected them to be executed months ago, but apparently the Dwarves were delaying the pleasure. Whatever sport they had planned for them would certainly be extravagant. The Dwarves were known for such things, and to keep his mind active, Ngom often entertained himself by trying to guess what fanciful method of execution they had in store for them. Would they be set loose in a labyrinth of deadly traps? Fed to a titan? Crushed to death by a magma-powered rock press?

Whatever it was, they'd spent months preparing it. The guards often taunted them by saying that their bloody surprise was 'almost ready,' and that Dwarven vengeance would soon be at hand.

As a connoisseur of cruelty himself, Ngom could appreciate a good wait. At the tower they often did the same, letting their prisoners stew in their own fear for months or sometimes even years. However, their methods of execution tended toward the old-fashioned rather than the ingenious. A blunt instrument here, a blade there...Ngom didn't often find himself experiencing envy, but he couldn't help but wonder what kind of legendary tortures Goblinkind could come up with if they only had the same mechanical prowess as Dwarves.

Yet for all their genius, the Dwarves were losing the war.

For the last ten or so years, the Final Torment had been taking all the coastland leading north. Within a matter of half a decade, the area the Humans called Boulder Coast would belong to Goblinkind. If the Humans tried to reinforce it, they'd have to by sea and that seemed unlikely. Ngom had taken part in some of those raiding parties, and the Humans had very little in the way of real fighters there; apparently they only used the area to fish and cut timber.

And naturally, the Dwarves didn't care what happened to Human territories. When the Final Torment finally took over the area, the Dwarves would sit back and do nothing.

But if Boulder Coast fell, the surrounding countryside would be easily dominated. The Long Night was a perfect place for the Goblins to build a fortress of their own, and from there the Final Torment would have whichever target they liked best: Marblespire, White Hills, or Firehorn.

Marblespire was the most difficult, and too direct. A war that far in the interior would be foolish.

White Hills, home to the far-less ingenious Hill Dwarves, had shown a little promise. The Final Torment had a small war going on with them now, but judging from the relatively small troop commitment, Ngom thought it was probably being done just to probe their defenses. White Hills could potentially be taken, but it would be very costly and victory would not be guaranteed.

Firehorn, much like Marblespire, had long been considered almost unbreakable. However, recent events might have changed that.

Last winter's army had set out from the tower with roughly two-hundred and fifty Goblins and seventy-five ogres and trolls. Fifteen percent died along the way due to cold. Ngom had made the trek north four times, but this last winter had been the most merciless he'd ever experienced. The metal of their weapons had been so cold that their skin would freeze to it instantly. Ngom had seen a Goblin learn this the hard way, inadvertently touching the metal of his spear to his arm and losing six inches of flesh as a consequence. There had been constant infighting for better furs; Ngom himself had murdered an archer for his gloves and a lasher when his boots began to wear thin. By the time they reached Firehorn, their force had been exhausted to the point of mutiny, and only the promise of Dwarven blood had prevented the uprising.

Though they still possessed a serious force, it couldn't match the strength of a fortress as large as Firehorn. The Dwarves were inherently superior fighters individually and had far better equipment, so even with a smaller militia the odds had been in their favor. They'd fielded around one-hundred and twenty that day, and perhaps thirty bears. Throughout the years they had remained stubbornly consistent with that number (with much success), and though it was widely believed that Firehorn held much in reserve, it was unknown just how many.

One of the Goblin leaders, an ambitious lasher wanting to rise up in the ranks, had been tasked with leading a flanking maneuver to rattle the Dwarven line in hopes that they would be forced to bring up their reserve. Even if the battle was lost at that point, the leadership would at least have the information to help them plan future attacks. Similar maneuvers had been tried over the years and almost always resulted in terrible casualties, so with the troops as exhausted as they were, there was very little hope of success.

Ngom had been a part of that charge. The night had been lit only by their crude torches, many of which were blown out by the fierce arctic winds. Snow was waist high and fell in flakes so thick that he could not see his own hands in front of him. Corpses became stiff as soon as they hit the ground, and the blood that spurted from their wounds froze and shattered underfoot.

And yet they charged. The first line of attackers was instantly shredded by Dwarven spears, axes, swords, and hammers. The snow was littered with limbs and blood and the entrails of the fallen. A volley of crossbow bolts seemed to fell half their line in an instant. A rout seemed inevitable.

But the weeks of marching and cold had made the Goblins desperate. They had suffered far, far too much not to have their thirst for blood quenched. They fought all the more fiercely the more they died, and before the Dwarves could adjust their lines, momentum seemed to turn in favor of the invaders.

The Goblins had taken horrendous casualties (including the ambitious lasher leading them), but the maneuver had worked. A reserve of eighty Dwarves were brought out of the northern gate and put onto the field to help stop the damage. As they did, the battle immediately tipped back in favor of the Dwarves.

And then, something wonderful happened.

And that something was Ngom.

He couldn't help but grin as he remembered. He'd been reliving the moment constantly since they'd been captured.

Ngom had found one of the Dwarven leaders, a male in steel armor so polished and pure that it glimmered even in the midst of the blizzard. He fought like a creature gone insane, his deep bellowing voice barking orders and screaming madly in the speech of slaughter. Troll and Goblin and ogre limbs lie scattered around him; he was a lunatic butcher, beautiful and terrible to behold.

Ngom didn't know what the Dwarves called his position, but he appeared to be leading a sizeable portion of the troops, possibly even half. Their eyes locked for a brief moment, and Ngom had a choice: fight or flee.

Survival in the Dread Tower was a constant tug-of-war between boldness and discretion. One did not advance without the former, and one did not survive without the latter, and Ngom prided himself on his ability to walk the line. As he stood there looking into the Dwarf's eyes, he knew the creature was at his most dangerous then.

And yet, Ngom charged him anyway. Call it intuition.

They'd fought for what felt like hours, but in truth it could not have been that long. The Dwarf's strength was fearsome to behold, his armor impregnable. Ngom dodged around the fey beast, prodding for gaps in the armor with the tips of his blades. It was a spectacular example of their age-old racial battle; strength versus speed.

Ngom's furs were frozen with sweat and snow and blood, but his blade still found the armpit of the slower Dwarf, spilling his steaming blood into the snow. The Dwarf seemed to fall in slow motion, the torches of dozens of Goblins casting diabolical shadows on his glimmering breastplate. Ngom watched the life flee from his victim's eyes, then lopped off the creature's head and raised it high, letting out a victorious battle cry that made all within earshot stand in pause.

Whoever his victim was his standing amongst the Dwarves must have been quite high, for when the others saw that he was dead, a great cry exploded forth from their ranks, and it was as if their strength left them all at once. They bawled like mewling babes, and Ngom laughed hysterically as he drank deeply of their despair.

There was nothing so sweet as the cry of the conquered.

The Dwarven ranks collapsed. The rout was on. Ngom and many others ran forth after them, finally getting through the great stone gateway and into the interior courtyard. Their victory was almost assured.

But another Dwarf rallied the flagging troops. This one wore mail that gleamed just as brightly as the other, only it was a female. She'd climbed the outside of one of the towers and her voice rang out above the tumult, calling for her compatriots to hold the line.

Through the snow and the blood and the dark, Ngom saw her, and she saw him. It was clear that she knew he was the one who'd made the crucial kill. They charged toward one another, and then-

And then he was trapped.

Ngom should have known. The inner courtyard was filled with traps hidden beneath the snow. Most of them killed or crippled all who came near. Ngom had been one of the lucky few that had only been confined.

But the battle was instantly lost. With many of the Goblins now trapped, the rallied Dwarves had momentum on their side. Most of the unwounded Goblins who'd made it inside refused to accept that the tides were now turned, and fought and died where they stood. Those who did survive were forced into retreat.

They had been so close. No force had pushed through the gates of Firehorn in decades, perhaps longer.

And it was all owed to Ngom.

He gripped the bars of his cage. Now that so much time had passed, the leadership undoubtedly thought him dead. He would be unable to claim the glory that was rightfully his, or worse, some other Goblin could claim that _they_ had been the one to slay the Dwarven fighter.

Ngom clenched his teeth so hard he thought they might crack. His finest kill, and he could not claim it. A lifetime of toil in the front lines of countless battles had won him only modest status amongst his kind. He was regarded as a fine killer and clever tactician, but the Final Torment had no shortage of those. Finally he had something to distinguish himself, and yet-

Ngom forced himself to stop thinking about it. To dwell on the past was weakness, and blinded oneself to the present.

As it stood, he was not entirely without hope. If enough survivors made it back to the Dread Tower, they'd be able to pass on the precious information they'd gleaned from their daring maneuver. They would know how the Dwarves reacted when pushed to their limits. They may even believe that the Dwarves had suffered enough casualties to warrant a larger push next winter.

Maybe even a full army.

Ngom sneered. Winter was still a long way away. But at least it gave him something to hope for.

Ngom heard voices and heavy boots behind the cell door. The Dwarves had come back. He listened.

"How did you find him?" Came a female voice. It sounded familiar.

"Just so," said another. It was the voice of the jailer. "I woke up, had my meal and ale, and when I checked on him-"

"You ate _first_?" Asked a deeper voice. Ngom sniffed the air, smelling something fragrant burning. He couldn't place it.

"...Yes," the jailer croaked.

The deeper voice mumbled something.

"Then what?" asked the female.

"I came in here to check on him." Three sets of boots shuffled toward the end of the room. The small crack of torchlight Ngom could see beneath the door was blocked. "He didn't move when I called him so I gave him a shake. That's when I noticed he was cold."

"Gods..." said the deeper voice. The fragrance was stronger now, smoky and earthy and with a hint of pepper.

"Did you check on him in the night?" the female asked.

"Aye. Before...before I fell asleep."

"Did anyone come to visit him?"

"His wife brought him the food, but no one after that."

"Did he make any noise?"

"No, quite the opposite actually," the jailer said. "Normally those that get hammered spend the rest of the night squirmin' and squealin'. He seemed to be taking it real well."

There was a long pause and some shuffling around.

"Give us a moment," the female said.

Ngom heard the jailer shuffle out of the room. He was a heavier Dwarf, and Ngom had long-since learned the sounds of his coming and going. A door closed behind him.

"Gods...how in Armok's name did this happen?" Deep voice said.

"I don't know," the female said.

Their voices had become low, conspiratorial. Ngom pushed himself as far as he could up against the cage, trying to hear everything.

"Is there any way..." the female started, then stopped. "...Could he have died naturally?"

"Gods no. He was in perfect health. There's no way."

"Then how?"

The deeper voice sighed. "I suppose he could have done it himself."

"With what?" There came the sound of objects being moved. "There's nothing here, unless he choked."

"No, no signs of suffocation. Though he is rather pale...Do you see any blood?"

"No. Nothing."

A pregnant pause filled the air with tension. Ngom could taste something almost like...

...Fear?

"I need to examine him closer."

"Not here, Bomrek," the female said. "Once word spreads there will be dozens of Dwarves wanting to see him. Not to mention his wife and-"

"Back there then. Help me lift him."

Suddenly the door burst open, flooding them with light. All the Goblins retreated to a corner of the cage, and even Ngom was forced to shield his eyes. They'd been kept in darkness for weeks so the wan torchlight seemed as bright as a thousand suns. They put the body of the Dwarf on the dusty floor and shut the door.

The female was the same Dwarf he'd seen that night on the battlefield, the one who'd rallied the troops. She wore a martial gray pig tail fiber tunic over chain mail. Ngom noticed the angular symbol embossed on her steel bangle; it was the same as he'd seen on the breastplate of the man he'd killed. A symbol of rank, perhaps? Ngom counted three knives: two on the waist and one in her boot. The latter was cleverly hidden, but Ngom's eyes were keen even half-blinded by light.

The second Dwarf he didn't recognize, and was the black-haired creature she'd called Bomrek. He was sucking on the end of some odd wooden trinket that oozed intriguing smoke. He carried no weapons, only a leather bag.

Bomrek shut the door then took the shirt off the corpse. He felt around the ribs and stomach and throat and belly.

"Anything?"

"No," he said. "Gods Datan, I just can't fathom it."

"I can't either."

"I see him once a year for his constitutional. He's always been fit save for a few stress injuries. Work related things, nothing serious. When was the last time you spoke to him?"

"Before the feast," Datan said. "I wanted to hear how his guild had reacted to the news of his hammering. He seemed in good spirits."

He shook his head. "If not melancholy, then I don't know."

Datan hesitated. "Check the cast."

Bomrek seemed almost to wince. He stood and made sure that the door behind them was securely shut, then removed some tools from his bag and began cutting. As the cast fell away, the light revealed a muscular and hairy Dwarven arm completely devoid of injury.

Ngom narrowed his eyes. Now _that_ was interesting. Why would they put a cast on-

And then he saw it.

Ngom burst into raucous laughter. The Dwarves whirled around.

Datan sneered and struck the cage with her hand. "Quiet, Goblin."

But Ngom could not be quiet. It was simply too funny.

"I said quiet!"

Even the other Goblins were staring at Ngom now. They had not seen, and if they had, they did not understand.

"Ignore him," Datan said. She touched the arm of the dead Dwarf, feeling around it. "I see nothing, just-"

Her fingers stopped on two puncture wounds on the inside of the wrist. Bomrek saw them too.

"They're fresh," he said, confusion in his voice. "Only hours old. But I don't remember seeing them when I put the cast on."

Datan's face was a rictus of anguish. Ngom rasped out another laugh.

This one understands.

"How perplexing..." Ngom said, twisting his lips into a devious grin. "...A cast meant to cover no wound is found to have covered a wound after all." He let out an oily laugh.

"Quiet," Datan said.

"A situation that begs a number of questions," Ngom rasped. "And unravels a conspiracy as well."

"I said quiet."

"Gods..." Bomrek said. "A night creature in the fortress? We've not received migrants for five years now. That leaves...who, the writer?"

"No," Datan said. "I've seen him eat and drink. It's not him."

"Then who? You can't tell me that this has been going on five years now and we haven't noticed."

Ngom could almost taste the anguish from Datan. It warmed him like a fire in his gut.

"Perhaps more than five," Ngom offered.

Datan slammed the cage, pulling a knife from her belt. "Quiet or I'll cut your cursed throat!"

Ngom could feel the anger radiating from her and spread his dry lips in a grin.

Not quite as unflappable as she presents herself, he thought. I'll have to remember that.

"You'd do well to tell us if you heard something, Goblin," Bomrek said. "If a night creature can kill a Dwarf, just think what it could do to you trapped in that cage."

"Oh, I hear much," Ngom said. "I hear things in the dark you wouldn't believe."

"Don't bother questioning him," Datan said, sheathing her knife. "He'll lie just to see us confused. And death from a night creature would be a far better fate than he deserves."

Ngom flashed his teeth at her. "You should thank me, Datan. Were it not for me lopping off your superior's head, you would not have his symbol on your wrist. That kind of favor is worth quite a lot in the tower."

The Dwarf's eyes flashed fury at him, and he knew he had her again.

Bomrek touched a hand to her arm. "Ignore him."

Datan was shaking, but the words seemed to steady her. Still, she leaned down to the cage, bringing her face within inches of Ngom's. He sneered as he smelled her acrid Dwarven stench, all earth and ale and dust.

"Worry not, doctor," she said even as she stared into Ngom's red eyes. "I wouldn't harm this one for all the gold in Goden's safe. We have something very special planned for him."

"I'm hopeful that it will include more of the Dwarven command," Ngom said, his long tongue caressing his lips. "I haven't tasted blood in months."

"The Dwarf you killed..." Datan started, her expression seemingly torn between grief and anger. "He was a Dwarf to be remembered, and he was a finer captain of the guard than I'll ever be. Your kind places no value on life, but here we honor the dead. As a tribute to his memory, your death will be such that it is spoken of for generations."

"You should hurry and prepare it then," Ngom said. "The dark whispers of many things Dwarf, things your kind are deaf to. Firehorn's time is nigh."

Datan smirked. "Empty talk."

"Is it? We Goblins know the moods of the earth and that which dwells within. We know more of darkness than your kind knows of light. The Long Night is hungry, Dwarf. It will feed soon."

Datan narrowed her eyes. He could tell her interest was piqued.

Ngom let out a guttural laugh. "You ponder that as you prepare your revenge. Now quench that torch and leave me to my whispers."

Datan studied him for a moment, but her expression remained impassive. "Come Bomrek," she said finally. "Let us prepare Dumed for his tomb." She smirked then. "And leave this one to his _whispers._ "

They took the corpse and shut the heavy rock door behind them. Once again Ngom and the others were left with just a crack of light to share. Finally that too was quenched, and then all that remained were eight pairs of eyes red as blood. One by one they closed, letting the darkness rule...

But one pair remained.

#  MORUL

Morul opened the hatch and inhaled the rich earthy smell of the first cavern layer, the air as thick and potent as steam from a kettle of stew. It was the scent of minerals and tilled soil and fresh water, and smelling the sudden onrush of that natural freshness (as opposed to the stuffy air of the rest of the fortress) was often one of the highlights of his day.

But today it seemed laced with something bitter and acrid, some distant corruption barely detectable but disturbing all the same. Morul inhaled again, but it was still there. Perhaps the engineers were up to something. Sometimes there machinations brought about odd smells.

Or more likely, it was just his failing senses.

Morul went about the task of climbing down the long southern staircase that coiled ever downward for the entire length of the fortress. It was still quite early and Morul found that he must have been the first to come down that way, for the torches along the wall were yet unlit. He was glad for that, actually. It gave him an excuse to stop every few moments and gather his breath as he lit them with his own.

Already he could feel his knees aching. The parts of his grizzled body that had so long served him and contributed to his life-long good health had finally begun to falter. He sometimes lost his thoughts in mid-sentence and his partners in conversation often had to remind him of what topic they were speaking. They'd pat him gently on the shoulder and tell him it was alright and that such things were to be expected, but he could see the look in their eyes. They thought he was becoming feeble.

He felt a draft come forth out of the darkness, creeping its tendrils up and under his clothes. His muscles tightened and he felt his flesh prickle. The mind was a fragile thing, a delicate machine that if not properly tended and oiled would grind its stony gears until all alignment was lost and there was only the clatter of broken levers, mechanisms, and chaos. He would often lie awake at night thinking of such things, but now those doubts had begun to creep in at all hours.

Save those thoughts for the sleepless nights, he told himself.

He continued on his path, his knees barking all the way. When his old bones first started to fail him, he'd gone to see the doctor thinking that perhaps he'd been lacking something in his diet. Instead, the chief medical Dwarf had surprised him with another diagnosis.

You're getting old.

Blast him, Morul thought. That Bomrek is as blunt as a hammer.

But he was also right. An officious little bookkeeper had approached him last year and seemed to take an obscene delight in telling Morul that he was now the oldest Dwarf in the fortress. Unfortunately, that didn't afford him any additional privileges, other than an excuse not to do as much hauling. But there wasn't much of that to do anyway now that the minecart system was installed. A marvel of engineering that was, and made Morul think of the old fable about a clever Dwarf who had taught stone to haul itself. What was his name?

Morul couldn't remember. He hated that sensation, that feeling of knowing but not being able to recall, like some shadow playing only in the edges of one's vision. Curse it all, what was his name?

To blazes with it. It was a foolish story anyway.

He carried an old cane fishing pole along with the torch, and in his pocket a small leather pouch with a few spare hooks. His first real profession had been as a fisherdwarf in his youth and in an effort to save himself some trouble climbing up and down the stairs, he'd decided a few weeks ago to go back to his roots. Now he could spend all day by the lake, fishing and relaxing. The others here used nets to catch the half-blind cave lobsters and glowing top-feeders that swam around in the seemingly infinite underground lakes, but he was trying for quality rather than volume.

As a child he'd first learned to fish with an old cane pole much like the one he now carried. He'd spend hours sitting on the bank of the stream that ran by the old fortress of Oak Helm where he grew up. If he caught something his mother would pat him on the head and gut it outside and he would watch so he would know how when he got old enough. She'd fry it in a pan and he would be asked share with his sisters.

Still now he often dreamt of the modest mudstone room they all shared back then; he'd technically spent more years of his life in Marblespire, but oddly, he rarely dreamt of the capital. He'd dream of his two sisters, Minkot and Onol, and his mother and father and the old scuffed wooden dining table where they had shared their meals. He'd dream of them all sitting there talking about some goings-on in the fort, often the strange and fanciful events that sprung forth from the deeper stages of sleep. They were nice dreams. Peaceful.

His father died in a mining accident. Onol was killed in Oak Helm's third Goblin incursion. Minkot died in the fourth. His mother was drafted into the militia in the fifth and was killed during the siege. After that Oak Helm wasn't much but rubble and ghosts. The Final Torment took it the following winter, changing the name and spearing the heads of the dead along the stream where Morul used to sit and fish and wait for his mother to help him gut his catch.

He'd been too young to fight so the sieges were merely blurs of fear and fire. He recalled only a few clear images of the troubles; Minkot praying at the foot of their father's coffin, a filthy and scraggly and shockingly thin Dwarf digging through old barrels for food scraps, Onol looking fierce but too young as she wore her iron breastplate, his mother and he hiding in some rough corner of the fortress chopping bits of their old dinner table for firewood and young Morul asking _but where will we eat, mother?_ It was only by the grace of the gods that Morul had survived all that.

Morul gave a humorless smile. Survive. What a word.

After a great deal of trudging along in the near-dark, he finally reached the bottom of the staircase and the first cavern layer. At its highest, the galena ceilings were roughly eighty feet above him, but they were mostly occluded by the darkness. The entirety of the first layer was explored save for the areas where the ceiling dropped to just a few feet above Hot Lake, and only the mining and engineering teams had been all the way back there. When Morul had first moved to Firehorn roughly twelve years back he'd been utterly abashed at the decadence of having a magma-heated lake. But like any Dwarf he'd been intrigued as well, and he'd made a point early on to take a tour with a mechanic friend through the tiny interlacing hallways that made up the maintenance levels. They were filled with countless unlabeled levers and gauges and switches and nozzles, and Morul had wondered how the mechanics and engineers were able to keep up with them all.

Hot Lake's water had become cloudy due to the heat and, predictably, nearly all of the fish had been killed. Most of the Dwarves simply chalked that up to progress, but Morul couldn't help but think that it was something of a tragedy.

Still, his old aching bones couldn't argue with the warm bubbling water that was the fruit of their labors. The chief medical Dwarf had insisted that he take a bath there as often as possible and Morul hadn't argued. The relief he got from those mineral-imbued waters was now as integral to his daily routine as his food and ale.

But he still had a long day of work ahead of him before he could go for a soak. His destination was Cold Lake, located on the opposite side of the cave from its counterpart. Slow-burning torches were kept about the walking paths even at night in case Dwarves wished to come down for a bath or drink, so his path was already lit. Down here the earth was soft and springy and the vaguely putrid stench that lingered at the edge of his detection seemed lessened somewhat.

He made his way through a three-Dwarf-wide road of galena blocks that interlinked through and around the various farm plots. As far as he could see (which was not far both due to his failing eyesight and the darkness of the cavern) were fields of plump helmets, pig tails, cave wheat, and quarry bushes. This was where the bulk of Firehorn's crops were grown, and during the day (when the rest of the fortress was awake) these fields contained as many planters and harvesters and potash-spreaders as there were tradesdwarves in both upper and lower markets combined. A comparatively small portion of these fields were devoted to dimple cups for the production of dye. Though it was used frequently amongst fortress denizens, it was only a modest trading commodity, for the Dwarves of White Hills seemed to prefer plain leather and undyed wools.

Beyond the fields were pens filled with livestock: Chickens, geese, ducks, turkeys, guinea fowl, pigs, sheep, and reindeer. They fed on the myriad of cave fungi that grew like rainbow carpeting on the cavern floor. There were hundreds of each animal, so many in fact that they were considering splitting the stock and putting half of them down on the lesser-used second layer.

But they'd have to secure it first. Only a comparatively tiny area of land had been declared safe, and wild things still roamed beyond those walls. It was even rumored that a tree cutter had found an ancient arrowhead and a tablet of what appeared to be writing buried in the soil there, and the implications of such a discovery sent shivers up Morul's back as he thought of it.

He passed by a handful of Dwarves, mostly farmers, taking their breakfast in the dining area near the lumber yard. He waved and they waved back. He joined them for breakfast every now and again, but mostly he stuck with the fisherdwarves and engineers. He didn't understand half of what the engineers said but he liked to hear them say it anyway.

Beyond the eatery were the fungiwood and tower-cap farms. They were arranged in neat symmetrical shapes with the galena road weaving in and out and around so that the harvesters could wheel their loads toward their destinations. There was a perpetual wood shortage which kept it at a premium price, but that was not by design. It simply took a long time for the planted saplings to come to their full harvestable size, and the needs of two thousand Dwarves were such that there was always more demand than supply. When the weather was favorable the duke (or the mayor, whichever you believed) would order hunting and foraging expeditions to the more temperate areas in the southwest. There they would harvest as many trees as they could (and hopefully capture a few bears) before returning.

There was a lift here as well, and it was pulled up toward the lower market area several dozen times a day carrying wood and crops and whatever other raw materials. Most Dwarves chose to fabricate their goods in the market itself since there was a certain joy patrons got from seeing an object go from the raw materials to the finished product as they watched.

As Morul approached he could smell the familiar clean mineral scent of the water. Since Cold Lake was further away than its heated counterpart, few Dwarves came this way except those odd fanatics that demanded a cold bath. The mosses and fungi there were yellow and turquoise and felt like thick luxurious carpeting underfoot. The muddy banks were devoid of Dwarves this early, even the other fisherdwarves, but that would not last long. Many of them swore that the fish were easier to catch in the early morning hours and they would surely arrive in droves after having their morning ale.

The water was still and possessed the perfect clarity that only underground reservoirs had. Morul could see a small group of cave lobster on the stony floor of the lake and watched as they scuttled away at the sight of a larger fish. He bent and dug through the moss with his crundle knife, looking for bait. It didn't take him long to find some, and he fit the little squirmer on his hook. He found his favorite spot, a natural indentation in the galena that was as comfortable as any chair, cast his line, and settled in.

He closed his eyes. Oftentimes he'd fall asleep right there and not wake up until he got a tug on his line. Those little naps made the day pass quickly and he was grateful for them, for he found he could no longer sleep in his own bed, no matter how tired he felt.

It was plain simple _dread_ that kept him awake at night. It was dread that made him pace about his bedroom in the wee hours, and it was dread that had caused him to lose so much weight over the past few weeks. The cause of his fear was not complicated, but was nonetheless impossible to defeat.

He did not want to be alone.

His wife had died nigh-on fifteen years past. In truth, it did not seem that long ago. She'd gone quietly in the night; unexpectedly, but quietly. The doctors had always told her she was in good health, but Morul knew she suffered. Grief plagued her like a disease. They had seen five of their seven children pass before them, and each one had taken a piece of her as they went. Catten was just six years old when a pox came through Marblespire's lower hold and took her from them. Erush fell from the back of a wagon and suffered a head wound that killed him before his fourteenth year. Kogan, still an unwed bachelor, was struck down by Goblins in a meaningless frontier skirmish. Likot went off adventuring and was rumored to have been killed by a giant. Cerol, their eldest with a husband and three children of her own, was killed along with her family when the Final Torment seized her village.

The death of Morul's wife had at least spared her further grief. Their sixth child, Risen, and his wife Onul had passed nine years ago when an especially harsh winter entombed them in their village just outside the mountainhomes.

It was then that Morul and Vucar, his last remaining son, aged sixty, decided to leave for Firehorn. Vucar had a quiet wife named Rith and three children, two of whom had left to go adventuring and had never returned. The other was a boy named Sodel, aged three.

Sodel was killed by a nightcreature during the trek north.

Rith died in a cave-in two winters ago.

And now Vucar, his last remaining heir and only surviving family member, was lying in a hospital bed clinging to life. He was in the militia and had suffered a wound at the hands of a nightcreature, and the infection that came from it was now so advanced that he would not wake.

Morul knew that the others whispered about him and his family line. They fancied that he was cursed by the gods, perhaps from some long-forgotten insult made in his youth. Morul knew that wasn't the case and that his family's poor luck had been just that; luck. He wanted to rage at them, those whisperers, to tell them they had no right to say that or even think it, and for them to even breathe the idea and give it life was a horrible slight to him.

But he didn't. He knew it to be untrue, but he couldn't bear to correct them. Had he not wondered the same thing aloud in the desperate hours of the night? Had he not prayed at the altars of every known god asking them the very same question? Could he really blame them for thinking such a thing?

Firehorn was supposed to be a new start for their family. Vucar was ambitious and wanted to make a name for himself. He'd been just another fighter amongst the legions of Marblespire, but at Firehorn he'd been given opportunities to show his mettle. He'd even expressed interest at perhaps marrying again.

All for naught. All for naught...

Morul felt his line tug, and he pulled it straight out. It was a small half-blind cave carp, just large enough to be worth eating. Morul held it up and watched as it wriggled, its mouth trying desperately to find water so it could breathe.

Were all things meant to suffer so?

"Good morning."

Morul turned. It was Datan, the militia captain. She wore the undyed gray military cloth of the militia. Some thought it was a bit gauche that she wouldn't wear the uniform of captain of the guard, but Morul found it oddly endearing. They had not spoken often, the two of them, but their conversations had been pleasant.

Still, Morul has not pleased to see her.

Morul put the fish aside and baited his hook again. "Good morning."

"Are they biting?"

"Always. Cave fish always bite. They don't know any better."

"Hmm. I didn't know."

Morul tossed his line in the water again. He found his heart was pounding. "They aren't used to being fished yet. Right now they'd bite your finger if you stuck it in there."

"I imagine that makes your job easier."

Morul's breath seemed taken from him. "Have you had your ale yet?" He offered his flask.

"I have, but thank you."

Morul tried to think of something else to say, anything to delay the moment. He couldn't.

"I'm sorry, Morul."

The dread crashed through him like a wave, cresting, then filling every corner of his mind with fear.

"It happened less than an hour ago. Bomrek tried to find you in your room."

He had tunnel-vision. His mouth was stone dry. "I didn't want to be there."

Datan nodded like she understood.

Morul took a deep breath and gathered himself. "He hadn't spoken in days. There was nothing left to see."

"He never woke. Bomrek said it happened quickly. I'm sorry."

Morul took a drink from his flask, if only to wet his dry lips. "I cleaned his armor last night," he found himself saying. "I thought...I thought he should wear it in the tomb."

"With your permission, I'll recommend Vucar for a procession. Everyone should have an opportunity to honor him. Unless of course, you'd prefer something private?"

"No. A procession would be nice." Morul thought of everyone seeing his son wearing his gleaming bronze armor, the set he'd been so proud of. He thought of the crowds of tradesdwarves putting trinkets of metal and stone on his tomb. It would be a stately thing, almost like he was nobility. "Vucar would have liked that."

"I'll have it done, then."

A long moment passed, and the only sound was of Morul's heartbeat (finally slowing) and the distant drips of water trickling down the cavern walls. The fish beside him flopped and gasped on the stone.

"I know how it feels," Datan said. Her voice was low and quiet, and her eyes narrowed as she stared off into the dark depths of the cavern. "My daughter was taken at eight when the thrall cloud came. She was in the owlery and didn't make it inside in time."

Morul hadn't known that. He'd always wondered why a woman like Datan was alone, but had never asked anyone.

"...Her father?"

"Melancholy. After."

"You carry it well."

"Thank you," she said. "As do you."

Morul dried his wet hands on his pants. He found that they were shaking. He wanted to tell her that he didn't think he carried it well at all, that for a long time he thought his grief would be the death of him like it had for his wife. But he didn't want to give others any more reason to think he was feeble, even though Datan probably wouldn't tell anyone.

"The militia will miss his spear," Datan said. "He was skilled."

And just as she said that, Morul became completely and utterly sure of something. When he gave it voice, it felt as natural as anything he'd ever said.

"I'll take his place."

To her credit, if Datan looked surprised, she didn't show it. For a moment she said nothing, only watched him.

"Have you any experience?"

"No."

"Armor?"

"No."

Datan considered. "I'm certain I could find a spot for you in the reserves. The crossbow platoons accommodate anyone who wishes to train."

Morul couldn't quite explain why that wasn't satisfactory. It would certainly be easier on someone his age, though still by no means easy. It just...wasn't right. His son never wielded a crossbow. He was a speardwarf, and when he faced an enemy he saw them within arm's reach. He looked the evil in the eye when he slew them, and when he took his mortal wound, he saw...

Morul shivered. "No. I want to be with the spears." Morul stared her down, waiting for an argument. She would say he was too old, far too old and not nearly strong enough to endure their training. If he couldn't climb the stairs, how could he expect to drill out in the bitter cold while wearing half his weight in armor?

Finally, Datan gave a kindly smile. It was on odd thing to see on a face so stoic.

"Very well. Be at North Gate at dawn."

She gave him a nod and left. Morul watched her go, and couldn't help but be a little awestruck.

_She understands_ , he thought. Maybe she was the only one alive who did, but...at least there was someone.

The fish was no longer floundering beside him. Its gasps had slowed, but still its mouth pursed open and closed, desperately searching for a breath.

Morul tossed it back in the lake. It sank to the bottom. Then, after a moment, it righted itself and slowly began to swim.

Morul's hands shook. He stared at them a moment. Blue veined and brown with spots. He told himself it was just the cold.

It's just the cold.

# LOR

Clawhand plummeted downward, heading straight for the ground.

Her flight was faster than a fall and difficult to follow; her snowy white feathers blended in almost perfectly with the corpse-pale clouds that perpetually lingered in the sky. At the last possible moment she twisted and spread her wings, and with five quick flaps she stopped her descent a mere ten hands from the snowy surface. She glided above the ground for moment and then started climbing. Within seconds she was high enough to do it all over again.

Lor, a small Dwarf girl aged ten, watched from the owlery window. The first time she'd seen Clawhand make that dive, she was sure the beast was trying to kill itself. The exercise seemed to have no purpose other than alleviating the boredom that often afflicted the huge bird, who was one of the more restless of the bunch. Oddly, no one had taught the owl how to do this; it just seemed to have the innate ability. A few of the younger owls tried it, learning from her example, but their results always paled in comparison. They universally dove too slowly and pulled up too early, and even then they still had to flap more times to right themselves than Clawhand did.

There were sixty-four owls in total. Most were out of sight, having taken off looking for prey. The vast majority would come back famished and disappointed. The Long Night had very little game, and most of the creatures that walked this icy hell were not in the slightest bit edible.

Enush waddled in, his fat cheeks ruddy from the wind. His long sandstone colored hair was matted in tangled curls and just beginning to gray, and his old llama wool pants seemed in perpetual danger of falling down despite the fact that he hadn't lost any weight lately, perhaps ever. "Grayhelm is done, dear."

"How many did she have?"

"Seven. All going to the cooks."

"You can't!"

Enush took his mittens off and put them on a dusty worktable. "Don't argue with me dear, I'm tired."

"But she hasn't had a hatchling since little Onyx."

"The price of eggs is rising, dear. I'd be a fool not to sell all I can. Besides, Dwarves are going hungry."

"But you promised she could have one."

Enush collapsed into a tiny wooden chair that groaned with his weight. "Lor..."

"What if she doesn't have another clutch? She's getting old, she doesn't even fly much anymore. If she doesn't have one this time then-"

"Oh for the love of the gods..." Enush tapped a barrel of ale in the corner and filled a silver stein. " _One_ egg, but no more. And if it doesn't hatch, then that's just your bad luck. Now let your poor father rest."

Lor ran up and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you. And Grayhelm thanks you do."

"I should have never let you name the buggers," Enush grumbled. "And don't think this doesn't come at a price, little one. The troughs need to be refilled tonight. That'll be a job for you."

Lor ran over and grabbed a thick fur coat and scarf. "I'll do it now."

"Wait until later. And it's not that cold out."

"I'm _freezing_ ," Lor said, putting everything on. "And I'd rather do it now than later when it gets even colder."

Enush finished his drink and tapped the keg for another one. "Poor thing, you've got your mother's southern blood. And speaking of blood, ask Doren to throw in an extra few barrels if he has it. I'd like to see the owls put on a little more weight this year."

Lor finished bundling up with an extra scarf and two cloth hoods, then opened the hatch and climbed down the stone stairs. Beneath the owlery was a dark and open space lined with old barrels and wheelbarrows. The walls were still decorated with the old engravings from its military days; Lor saw iron-clad warriors battling Goblins and the shambling horrors of the night, along with a few life-sized profiles of the honored dead. Once the caverns had been discovered, the militia group that trained in the tower had been moved there. Her father had the forethought to be the first to request it for a new use. Now it was a full-time owlery, and as far as Lor knew the rusted old gate with its copper mechanisms and chains hadn't even been opened in her lifetime.

"Goden," she called. "Goden, where are you?"

There came a chittering from the edge of the room, and a filthy black-haired rat ran over toward her. Her father had not approved of her naming the little pest after the duke, but it was a joke most others seemed to enjoy. Lor picked it up and smiled at it.

"Hello, cutie. You staying warm down here?"

Goden squeaked, and Lor sensed that he was telling her that no, he wasn't staying warm.

"Neither am I. Here, you can come with me." She stuffed it in the folds of her coat. It scuttled around for a moment, its claws digging into her as it did, then finally settled into an interior pocket where it found a stale hunk of bread.

The sky was that wan and sickly green that came at high noon. It was as if the sun was unable to penetrate the hazy cloud cover, and the fraction of light that did get through was instantly tainted by the evil of the land. Lor put her hood up and followed the chert walkway, only looking up when she had to. Thankfully it hadn't snowed in a few days (this spring was mercifully warmer than the last) and the walkway was still clear from the ice that she and her father had shoveled away last week. Though she loved the owls and enjoyed spending her days at the tower, it was ruthlessly cold nine months out of the year, and being forced to push the wheelbarrow to the bear pens when the snow was coming down was something she dreaded year round.

She descended the ramp into the pens. The stone floors here were dry all year thanks to the cleverly designed outcropping, but the reek was terrible. There were always at least four Dwarves on duty whose sole job was to shovel waste out of the pens, but that did very little for the smell.

There came a fierce growl, and Lor turned the corner to see half a dozen Dwarves crowded around a young polar bear cub. A huge stone representation of an ogre had been built, and the Dwarves were exhorting the cub toward it. Lor had seen the exercise before; the bear was supposed to rise on its hind legs and put its weight on the shoulders of the stone, crashing it downward. Nothing else save for its full weight would work, and it would not be given its meal until it accomplished the task.

The cub growled, but not at the stone attacker. One of the Dwarves gave it a poke on the side with a barbed stick, causing the bear to flinch and glare his way.

"Come on, curse you," Doren said. He was a grizzled old Dwarf with a stump for a hand. Most figured it had been taken by a bear, but actually it was a goblin. Oddly, the bears treated him with something approaching reverence, and unlike some of the other trainers he'd never had so much as a scratch from them. "Give him another one."

The other Dwarf did, and the bear flinched again at the barbed stick.

"I told you, Mica doesn't like to fight," Lor said.

Doren turned around, and smiled. "He may not like it now, but he will."

"He's gentle."

"No polar bear is gentle, girl. I've seen cubs his size tear through the hides of cave crocodiles."

Lor could take one look at the beast and tell that would never be him. His eyes were warmer, more accepting than most of his kind. He would be a loyal pet for someone, but never a warrior.

"Besides, it's in his pedigree," Doren said. "Hit him again."

Lor glanced to the side. In one of the pens (built larger than the others) was Scar, Mica's mother. Her nose had been cloven in half in some earlier calamity before the hunters had found her, and it only added to her already fearsome aspect. Her eyes held none of the warmth, none of the gentleness of her cub, but Lor understood that it wasn't because she was a naturally cold-blooded killer. She'd had a hard life before her capture, long winters of starving and fighting off the more aggressive males, trying to keep her little ones alive, failing more often than not...

...Or at least that's what Lor sensed. The others often told her that those intuitions were just her imagination at work, but her father was more supportive. Fiction or not, he said, all that matters for a trainer is getting the animals to bond with you and listen, and Lor clearly had a talent for that.

Lor felt Scar's pain and wanted nothing more than to reach out and reassure her, but she knew she couldn't. To her, you were either food or family. The old mother was too far gone.

But her son wasn't.

Mica flinched away from the barbed stick again, trembling. Lor pushed her way forward.

"Move now," Doren barked. "When he's cornered like that he'll take a swipe at anyone."

"Not me." Lor squatted down in front of the beast.

Its eyes implored her for rest. It was hurt, scared, and tired. Couldn't they see that?

Lor calmed it with a touch, stroking the brown-stained fur on its neck. Its breath slowed. Lor walked over to the Ogre statue and stretched (she couldn't reach the top) as high as she could, pressing her full weight on the thing. "See?"

The cub watched her, enraptured.

Lor stepped back, then pointed.

"Attack."

Mica looked unsure. He glanced back and forth between her and the statue.

"Attack," Lor said again. "Do like I did."

Slowly, Mica walked to the statue. It glanced back at the Dwarf with the barbed stick, then looked at Lor.

"It's okay," she said. "Attack."

Gently, Mica rose up on his hind legs and put its forepaws on the shoulders of the statue.

"Good beast," Lor said, grinning. She ran over to a bloody bucket with a slab of meat inside and handed it to him. He ate heartily, and she scratched him behind the neck. "You did finely, Mica. Good beast."

Most of the other trainers looked stunned. Doren only smiled. "He still didn't tackle it."

"And he won't," Lor said. "I told you, he's gentle."

"We'll see how gentle he is when he hits adulthood," Doren said. "Thank you, girl. Now go get your feed."

Lor went about the sloppy business of filling her barrels with bloody meat from a stone bin. With sixty owls to feed, she needed no less than ten trips back and forth in order to fill the trough for the day. By the time she was finished, nearly all of them had come back to feed, their feathery white coats stained with dark red.

Lor shivered. She was cold and exhausted from wheeling all that weight back and forth. "Can I go down and get some food?"

Her father was plowing through the greasy remains of a chicken. "Here, eat with me. We'll talk."

"I wanna get warm. Can I please?"

Enush gave her a sad smile. "You don't want to eat with your father?"

Lor felt a pang of guilt. She knew he got lonely now that it was just the two of them minding the owls. "...It's not that."

"It's alright. Go ahead, dear. I don't mind."

Lor patted Clawhand on the wing as she fed, her bloody beak dipping up and down for more meat. "...Are you sure?"

"Of course," he said, his smile warmer now. "Go ahead."

"Alright," Lor said. "I'll be back later."

Lor liked to fancy that she knew as much about the tunnels and hidden pathways in the fortress as anyone, maybe better. Her father's friends affectionately referred to her as 'the tunnel rat' since she was so often caught using the narrow service tunnels normally reserved for specific workers. They often asked her how she managed to find them all since they were usually trade secrets, but she'd just smile and say nothing.

Her secret was simple: follow the animals.

Firehorn was teeming with pets and strays of all kinds: cats, dogs, hares, capybara, hawks, giant cave bats, toads, rats, aardvarks, badgers, wolves, lizards, mandrills, wolverines, skunks, pythons, kiwi, giant tortoises, and any other thing that could be imported from Marblespire. Accumulating as many pets as possible (the more exotic the better) was a favorite pastime of the Firehorn Dwarves. Every year there was a scramble to the trade depot when the caravans arrived to see what new strange critters they had brought with them, and many Dwarves spent more than they could afford to grab up the latest trendy pet. Last year it was monitor lizards.

Though they all arrived trained, that didn't mean they did as they were told. If there was one thing Lor had learned while working with the owls, it's that you can't change an animal's inherent temperament. You could smooth the rough edges somewhat, but most creatures would always retain some of their innate wildness. For that reason many ran wild and unchecked throughout the fortress, going wherever they pleased whenever it pleased them. It was true that many lingered in the dining halls or the housing areas, but others were more adventurous and climbed on and through and around everything they could. The unlucky ones were unable to climb stairs and Lor pitied them (why would anyone adopt a pet who couldn't climb stairs?) and those were often the ones that would wander into the paths of minecart ramps (being forced to use those to get up and down the various levels) that spiraled down throughout the fortress. Nearly every other day someone's pet python or yak or giant scorpion would be struck by a speeding minecart full of rock or ore and end up wounded or worse. Oftentimes it was Lor herself that found them and nursed them back to health.

Now she was somewhere between the Grand Hall and Cassiterite where she and her father lived. She was heading down to get something to eat when she saw a goat push against a seemingly normal rock wall, only to witness it open before her. Firehorn was filled with secret passages and rumor had it there was an entire network of them reserved for use by the nobles and those serving them. Her father told her that Goden traveled between these because they were often more direct and saved his ailing legs the trouble of climbing too much.

She decided to investigate. The consequences for sneaking through _these_ passageways would be significantly stiffer, though. The nobles liked their secrets kept, especially from the prying eyes of curious children.

Lor followed along half-blindly, for the torches weren't placed as frequently as in the outer halls. Some pathways were well-lit while others were in complete darkness, and Lor found herself bumbling about over pots and barrels looking for the next door out.

After a few minutes of walking, Lor found a nicely-lit hall, larger and with no less than a dozen smaller hallways stemming off of it. One of them was filled with cobwebs so thick as to render it impassible; Lor knew there were some giant cave spiders that made their homes around the fortress, but hadn't known where. She decided she'd try and remember this place so she could come back later and see if there were hatchlings.

She heard a commotion ahead and caught sight of a swish of robes. Someone was coming. She ducked down behind a stack of barrels filled with cloth. The goat lifted its head to her, enquiring.

"Shh," she said.

The goat returned to its cabbage.

Lor heard two sets of footsteps. "I interviewed Nol's husband again," came a female voice. "He swears by the stone gods that Nol would have never gone off into the mist alone on a hunt. She was the one, if you remember, that got lost years before on the trip when Doren found Scar."

"Get to your point Datan," came a grumbling voice, breathing heavy. "My lunch is waiting for me."

"In the first incident Nol and the others were out there in the dark for nearly a fortnight. Her husband says she was so traumatized by the event that it took all the courage she could muster just to go back out on another hunt even years later."

"So?"

"After four years of not hunting she finally goes back, and then, contrary to all logic, she wanders off yet again never to be found."

They stopped walking for a moment. Lor could see Datan standing there holding a torch, the light illuminating her polished bronze bangle. The other Dwarf had his back turned, but he was a big man with vivid billowing robes.

"Allow me to present a scenario," the other voice said. "She thought she was up to the hunt but when the mists came, she became frightened and panicked. Now what is so wrong with that?"

"Nothing. It's the explanation that has fit for years. No one has ever questioned it, save for Nol's husband."

"Then why do you bring it up?"

"My predecessor had the bookkeeper make a record for every death occurring at Firehorn. I've gone over nearly all from the past ten years and found that almost a third of all deaths occurring outside the fortress have been disappearances where the bodies were never found."

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you that hunting is an extraordinarily dangerous business."

"No, you don't. But in many of the cases, the resulting investigations found that there was no mist and no real explanation for why a single person would get lost and never be found."

"You know better than anyone what's out there," the voice said. "Certainly the unnamable horrors of the Long Night are capable of misleading a weary hunter."

Datan considered. "I've seen nightcreatures do a lot of things; I've seen them tear the armor off Dwarves, I've seen them fight while full of arrows and broken swords...but I've never seen them _mislead_ anyone. The evil of this place turns them into dumb, unthinking monsters. There is no intelligence there, only the insatiable hunger of the fallen. They aren't capable of misleading anyone, and without the mists the terrain along the hunting grounds is usually quite easy to navigate. There's something else going on, Goden."

Lor raised an eyebrow. So the duke _did_ use these halls.

"What are you saying?"

Datan's voice became quieter. Lor strained to hear.

"I'm saying this fortress has a vampire."

Lor gasped so hard she had to cover her mouth. She cringed.

"What was that?" Goden asked.

Datan glanced in Lor's direction. "It's only a goat."

Goden sighed. "Be very, very careful how you use that word, Datan. If the citizens think there's a vampire in the fortress, they'll panic."

"That's why I'm bringing it to you. With no immigrants in the last five years, we know that one has been feeding for at least that long. It stands to reason that many of the disappearances are due to this, and if we can narrow the creature down to the hunting parties-"

"Let's not talk about this now," Goden said. He pushed against a seemingly normal wall and it opened, filling the dark hall with torchlight.

Datan followed him. "It needs to be spoken of. If we don't-"

Her voice trailed off as she followed him into the passage. Lor knew that she should take this as a cue to leave, since any number of the duke's attendants could come down the secret hall at any moment and find her. If she got caught here the punishment would likely be harsh, especially if it was handed out by the temperamental duke himself.

But she wanted to hear the rest of what they were talking about. A vampire in the fortress was huge news and terrifying. And Datan said it had been here over five years? Could that really be true?

The secret door was closing. She had to act fast.

Lor ran over and tried to hold the door, but it was automatic; heavy stone on a weighted hinge that would crush her fingers if she kept them there. Quickly, she pulled the top off a rock pot and put it in the way of the door. The hinge groaned for a second, then stopped.

With the door partially open, Lor could see through. It was a shockingly opulent room with racks of weapons, suits of armor, gorgeous wall engravings, and a massive metal and wood table. Goden sat at the far end.

"-done very carefully," Datan was saying. "With research, we may be able to devise a series of tests that can be done in order to-"

"And how would you carry them out without alarming everyone?" Goden said, raising his voice.

"I think there _is_ cause for alarm. A nightcreature is living and working among us and has been for some time. Every moment we wait we're risking more deaths."

"If you have inquiries, make them quietly. With everything else going on we can't afford to give the citizens one more thing to panic about."

"Goden, it would be far easier if I were able to inform just a few key-"

"No. Only you. I won't risk this getting out."

"Goden, I really think-"

"I've made my decision, captain."

Datan stood there for a moment then turned toward the door. Lor saw a look sweep across her face, an expression of...what was it?

...Contempt?

There was no time to decide. Datan was heading right for her.

Lor turned to go, but her foot caught on something. She stumbled, only breaking her fall by latching onto one of the barrels.

The pot top! It was still lodged in the door. If Datan saw it, then she'd know someone had been listening.

There was no time. She had to run.

The door swung open as Lor ran headlong for the nearest path out. The captain stopped in the doorway, her shadow cast on the wall by the torchlight. "Who is that? Speak!"

Lor was spotted, but she dare not stop.

She turned the corner, running hard.

With all the twists and turns around the secret passageways and tunnels, Lor made it away fairly easily. Since it had been dark, she was confident that Datan hadn't been able to identify her.

She and her father normally ate in Mushroom Hall, the dining area owned and operated by the farmer's guild. The animal trainers were a relatively small lot and were closely associated with the food industry, so they had long-since allied themselves with the farmers. The engravings on the walls were all in tribute to the staple crops of Firehorn, with the longer western wall being devoted entirely to plump helmets.

A shaggy yellow mutt wearing a part tin part leather leg brace limped toward her and sniffed her hand. Lor immediately forgot her close call with the captain of the guard, and scratched behind the pup's ears. "Hey Golem! How are you boy?"

The mutt licked her face, and Lor hugged him. Golem was one of the strays she'd found hurt in the minecart tunnels. He'd nearly died from infection after the accident, but ever since he got his brace he'd been almost as mobile as any other dog.

Lor got a bowl of plump helmet soup, bread, and a mug of stout ale and looked for a spot to sit.

She ate her meal alone. She did so usually, for there weren't many kids who would let her sit with them. They said that she smelled like the owls, and they often teased her about spending all day in the tower with her father. She'd rather eat alone than endure that.

But it hadn't always been that way. When her mother was alive she'd eat with her during work breaks. She and her best friend Mora used to eat together every day, but she had gotten turned by the mists. Lor missed Mora.

The two of them had been in the owlery at the time training a pair of mandrills and hadn't heard the militia ringing the bell. Lor had gone down into the storeroom for some food when she'd seen the cloud, thick with a wan pulsing light creeping above the walls of the fortress. It seemed almost alive, white but as thick as soup as if you could reach and pull out a chunk with your hand. She'd been almost mesmerized by it.

Her father had reached her just in time. Before she knew what was going on he'd pulled her into the very dark, very small cellar beneath the owlery and closed the hatch. It had been too late for Mora.

Lor didn't remember much about what happened next. She knew she squirmed away from her father and climbed the tower once the mists had passed. She remembered the militia being there trying to force the door open.

A moment before they rushed in, Lor caught a glimpse of Mora, or something that looked like Mora only the eyes were different, covered in red and crouching over the corpse of one of the mandrills.

She blacked out then. Her father told her what she saw was just a dream and that Mora had died cleanly and simply with no pain. But Lor remembered.

And even if she hadn't, there were the claw marks on the doors...

"Golem, stop."

Despite his physical limitations, the dog remained quite daring. As they wandered through the service tunnels heading toward the forges, the dog saw a small iguana skitter behind some barrels and tried to root it out. The areas above the forges were warmer than any other place in the fortress and thus attracted many of the more exotic strays that had been imported. Lor saw half a dozen mandrills curled up in an old abandoned minecart, asleep and smiling.

When she had free time, this was where she went. The chill that lived in her bones was only slaked by the billowing steam of the forges. She had found the greatest spot too, an open space at the top of the main forge room that-

Golem bolted after the reptile, his metal brace clattering and squeaking as he did. The lizard ran for its life and slipped into a steam vent.

"Golem, quit!"

Shockingly, the dog managed to squeeze into the vent. Lor ran over and tried to grab him, but it was too late. He had already shimmied down the metal vent and dropped down a level into pitch darkness.

"Golem!" She listened and could still hear him running. She was relieved that he wasn't hurt, but he could still get stuck if the vents narrowed.

Lor cut through another hall and found a minecart path that headed downward. She ran and followed it. Maybe she could cut him off when he came out the other end.

When she made it to the next level, she still heard him scrambling through the vents, down yet another level. She followed.

Nothing. The service tunnels were so vast down here that he could be absolutely anywhere, and even if she knew she might not be able to reach him. With nothing else to do, she headed for the northern staircase.

She found that she was on the lowest level before the caverns, well-below the forges. Gods, had she ran that far? No wonder she'd missed him.

As a matter of habit, she glanced out of the windows that gave a glimpse down into the cavern layer. It was only four levels to the surface here, and she could see Hot Lake and its shimmering waters reflected the torchlight below.

The she saw a blur of yellow. Golem was trotting along a minecart path that spiraled around the large rock formation hovering above the lake, supported only by the columns the engineering teams had installed. Lor knew from experience that the path led all the way down to the second level of the caverns, the one not fully secured yet by the militia.

If he made it there...

Lor could already hear the voice of her father echoing in her mind; _Never go down there, Lor. The beasts that dwell beneath the ground are ancient and strange and not for little Dwarfettes to tame._

But as she watched Golem limp his way down the path, she knew she couldn't let him go alone.

She followed.

All was dark. Lor shivered.

It seemed colder on the second level, but she knew that couldn't be the case; the caverns were the same temperature as all the levels of the fortress above. If anything she should feel warmer, for she knew the engineers and mechanics had found and rerouted a magma pipe somewhere nearby.

But no, she felt a definite chill, and it wasn't just because of the fear. As she watched, her torch flickered slightly, as if moved by some distant wind.

Lor sniffed the air. What was that stench? She'd heard her father and a few others complain that the first cavern layer had smelled a little odd lately, but she'd been unable to detect it herself. Now that she was deeper she could; this second layer smelled like...she couldn't place it. Some moist decay like she had never experienced before. Did the second layer always smell this way?

There were only two areas that had any torches set out; the surface-level entrance at the bottom of the stairs where she stood, and the distant minecart path to the east. The rest of the cavern was utterly dark. She had known it would be, for nobody ventured down this way save for the mechanics to tinker with the magma levels and the occasional militia platoon sent to map the caves. Some talk had been made of trying to grow trees and crops and even to place some of the livestock here, but Lor could see that they weren't even close to beginning the task yet. She couldn't picture any sheep or chicken living here for long; it was just too frightening.

The ground in front of her was thick red mud with the occasional spore tree and tunnel tube. She'd have to be careful not to get lost.

"Golem?" Her voice sounded tiny and there was hardly any echo. This place was vast, far larger than the first layer.

She listened, but heard nothing. It was deadly silent, without even the drips and trickles of distant water to fill the silence.

"Golem, come. Come here Golem."

She heard something to her right and gasped. Something was panting and moving in the dark.

Her heart thumped in her ears. She thought of all the horrible things that could out there stalking her at that very moment; troglodytes and rutherers and cave crawlers, jabberers and flesh balls and hungry heads...the stuff of bedtime fright stories and nursery rhymes about curious Dwarven children killed for their foolishness.

She heard a metallic squeak and thought she caught a glimpse of yellow out of the corner of her eye.

"Golem!" It had to be him. She ran after.

The mud was thick and sloppy and slowed her down considerably. Every few minutes or so she would hear another metallic _clink_ as the dog ran further into the caves. She was getting closer, he must be tired. She hoped he wasn't hurt.

After what felt like a long time, she found dog tracks in the mud. She hoped she'd be able to follow them back to the entrance or at least the minecart path; with all the running she'd lost her sense of direction and could no longer see the distant torches. Hers was the only light. She hoped it wouldn't burn out before she could find Golem and get back.

She followed the tracks. As she walked she noticed the rock ceiling was getting lower and lower. Had she reached the edge of the cave already?

She gasped. The tracks led to a low small crawlspace in the wall. It was maybe three hands high and twice that wide; just large enough for a dog to crawl through.

Lor groaned. Curse that dog...no wonder he'd gotten hit by that minecart. He was far too adventurous for his own good.

Lor crouched down in the mud. She shoved her torch into the crawlspace and looked.

The darkness swallowed the light, but from what she could tell it went even further down. Hadn't she been walking downhill all this time already? How much further could it go?

Surely not far. Knowing that her father would cuss her for days if he found out, she got down and crawled on her belly, doing her best to keep the torch in front of her.

She was right about it going even further down. Despite the fact that she was crawling through thick sticky mud (Gods, her father would tan her hide if he knew) she was sliding quickly forward because the incline was so steep. At times she had to stop herself to keep from going too fast.

At last, she reached the end of the crawlspace. The stench she had smelled upon entering the second layer was even more prevalent here. It seemed to soak everything in its grim, decaying, almost fishy stench.

When she stood she noticed the mud gave way to a type rock she didn't recognize; it was dark gray and looked almost uniform throughout. She thought that odd because her mother had taught her all the different rocks native to the north _and_ Marblespire and even had samples for her to feel and look at, and yet she didn't recognize this one.

She heard claws scraping rock, gasped, and looked up.

Golem was there, trotting over to her. His coat was soaked in mud but he looked otherwise unharmed. He licked her hand as if all this were a part of a normal day.

"Bad Golem," Lor said. She brought her face close to his, making sure she had his full attention. "Don't ever do that again, you hear me? It is dangerous down here."

The beast gave her a solemn look, as if he understood. He licked her face in apology, then turned and trotted a few paces away.

"Don't, Golem. You've gone far enough as it is."

He barked, his tail wagging all the while. Knowing by instinct that he was trying to show her something, Lor sighed.

"Fine, but make it quick. My father will sell you for soup if he knows we were here."

Golem didn't go far. Just on the other side of a small bluff of the unknown rock, there was a stream of clear, trickling water. Golem beamed with pride, then lapped at it.

Lor stopped. That was odd; it was said that there wasn't much water in the second layer, only the drippings from the first that served to further soak the muddy ground. But this stream was large, almost like a brook would be on the surface (were it not freezing year round.) Surely if they knew-

Lor gasped. That was just it. Nobody knew because nobody had been here before. Now that she thought of it, there was very little chance that any of the militia would have noticed the tiny crawlspace that led them here, much less gone through it. This was a completely new, completely unsecured place.

She used her torch to look around. It was very close-quarters. The ceiling was no higher than twenty hands high. Maybe this was simply an isolated offshoot of the second layer.

But then she looked closer. The area east (or what she guessed was east) ramped ever downward with each step and disappeared into darkness. All other ways were enclosed by rock.

Content that Golem would stay there and drink for a while, Lor walked to the edge of her vision.

She couldn't have gone further if she wanted to. She realized she was standing on a bluff of the strange new rock, looking over an area that went _even further down._ She tried to calculate how far down she was from the entrance to the second layer and couldn't.

With that realization came complete and total terror. She wasn't on the second layer any more.

She was on a third.

No one even knew about a third. There were no staircases beyond the second. Once the miners had found the magma pipe on the edge of the second layer, there had been no reason to dig further.

Whatever innate curiosity Lor had was completely and utterly surpassed by the realization that she needed to leave and _now._ There could be anything in these caves, any horror imaginable.

And of course, those that could not be imagined.

Golem barked, and Lor flinched so hard she nearly dropped her torch.

The dog whimpered as he looked off into the western darkness. His tail pointed straight downward, and he backed up.

"...What is it boy?" Her voice had never sounded so small and so frail. She could barely hear herself.

Something very heavy scraped against the stone to her right. She pointed her torch, but there was nothing, only darkness.

"...Who's there?" The rational part of her brain realized it was a foolish question. There was nothing this deep in the ground that could speak, and even if it could it would be the voice of madness.

_Thump_. The entire cavern shook. Golem squealed out a bark, then bolted for the crawlspace. Not even he was loyal enough to stand there and wait for what was coming.

Lor felt detached from her body. She could not move. All she could do was wait, rigid with fear, watching as the darkness was split by a stark white form, something that seemed almost as tall as the ceiling.

And then her vision was filled with leathery white wings spreading from one end of the cave to the other. Though terrified beyond words she could not help but marvel at it. She waited for death to come.

It was beautiful.

#  About the author

J.C. Bass is a 28 year-old writer from Kentucky. In 2010 he won the Dantzler fiction award for his short story _Parking Lot Follies_. He's got noisy neighbors, too many bills, and a smart-ass sense of humor. He is the author of three humor novels: _Unwise Guys_ , _The Poet and the Bastard_ , and _A Man and his Lawn._ He also writes thrillers under the name Dealey Ford, and recently published a novel called _Killing Houston._

