The Mountain Unsundered
The Re-birth of Gillar Morathak
The Mountain Unsundered
As legend has it, told long before the dawn of modern man, in another world called Valherus, there lived a king. This is the tale of that king, his rise, his fall, and his redemption. Sit back, put your feet up by the fire, and drift away across the bridge of the Between, to another world, where magic is more common than science, and the heroes loom so large that their tales drift into this world. This is such a tale.
Let me start at the beginning, for that is the place where all tales worth telling start.
Kertagh, the king of Gillar Morathak, ruled the lands north and south of the Drakstag Mountains. His greed was great and he took what he wanted. He ruled all of the dwarves of the Artiplan Mountains, but this was not enough. He stretched his rule and made thains of the forest men, the humans of the plains, and even the southern Mutari elves, with the threat of force they could not bear. Each feared the dark king, and his power and hoard grew. The people, elves, and dwarves that he ruled were downtrodden, and as the old sayings go, when the downtrodden stand together, the mighty oak may be felled.
It is said that Kertagh made dark deals with dark gods to gain his power, but to hold it he needed no god. He made a deal with a demon that no one would rule under the mountain, nor touch his treasures, except him, until he died, and then his sons would rule. The dark king was not careful enough when dealing with a demon. He forgot conditions, and phrases, and protections for his deal, but he was used to getting what he wanted through power, not finesse. The demon agreed to his terms.
Within a month, again at the demon’s actions, coercion, and trickery, the uprising of those under the thumb of the dark king began. The demon appeared to Kertagh and asked if he was ready to consummate his rule. Kertagh knew that the days of his rule were numbered, for too many had amassed against him. He demanded the demon keep up his bargain, and the demon demanded his payment. Kertagh was to give his wife, whom he called his soul, to the demon. In return the demon would summon an immortal dragon that would defend his keep for as long as it lived, and only Kertagh, or his male descendants, would be able to command the dragon, thus being the rulers under the mountain.
Kertagh reluctantly agreed, but only because the greed that had filled his heart was too great. He would lose the only thing he loved, but he would establish a dynasty that would far outlast him. He could marry again.
The demon was true to his word. He sacrificed Kertagh’s one true love, Kahsep. In doing so, a dragon, of crystal blue like the eyes of Kertagh himself, rose up from the stone. It looked as if it were made entirely of a crystalline jewel. Kahsep’s screams of agony, as the dragon rose up out of her, were so loud that the mountain itself shook and shivered in pain, but the deed was done.
Upon seeing his true love destroyed, Kertagh immediately regretted his decision and begged the demon to take it back. The demon refused, but offered him a gift. He promised to make Kertagh not feel the pain, and to give him a weapon that could destroy anything in the world with one blow, except of course the dragon.
Kertagh was in great pain at the loss of his love, and at the knowledge that it was his own fault. The demon was true to his word. He declared that he would sunder the heart and soul of the mountain, and that none but the line of Kertagh would rule under the mountain, as long as the heart and soul of the mountain remained separate. He pulled out Kertagh’s heart and squeezed it in his hand, which made the pain of his loss, as well as any love of anything but power, leave him forever.
The demon placed the stone into a weapon of such exquisite forging and magic that there was no equal to it in the world. It was dark brown, almost black, and it weighed nothing in Kertagh’s hand, even though the weapon should have weighed heavy in an ogre’s hand. The demon instructed Kertagh to take his new weapon and the immortal dragon, and defeat his enemies. The demon’s last declaration was that the heart and soul of a mountain sundered could not be brought back together without a miracle. The dragon would stand forever unless the sundered became whole again.
During the battles that followed, no arrow, sword, axe, or hammer touched Kertagh, but in one battle he fell, still. Some say he jumped in sad desperation at the loss of his wife. He had no heart. All we know is that he fell from the greatest height within the mountain, through the chasms and tunnels, to the roots of the mountain, where he greeted death with a smile.
No one knows the name of the wizard who spirited away before the battle was over. The dragon decimated the armies that had risen up against Kertagh and remained there, undying, until this day, waiting for the next battle, or for someone that could command it. None ever came.
This tale is the tale of the fall of Gillar Morathak, a mountain sundered of heart and soul, and a king who gave one to gain the other, only to lose both.
But there are other tales in the world.
The following does not begin at the beginning, nor even at the end. It begins in the middle, as some tales must, when the players are not yet known to one another.
Stoke your fire. Draw your blanket close. Pour your tea.
You are about to meet an orphan.
SECTION ONE: GANTON’S KEEP
Volkis was an orphaned dwarf living in the streets of Ganton’s Keep, at the base of the Artiplan Mountains. Here the forest, farms, mountains, and streams met in a confluence of natural beauty, hardship, and true danger. Ganton’s Keep sat at the base of Ganton’s Pass, named for the famous warrior who had not tamed the area, but had survived it for more years than most could count. Ganton’s Keep was just past the edges of civilization, between where two great kingdoms met, divided only by a no man’s land some one hundred miles wide and nine hundred miles long. This was not a man-made barrier. It was the vestiges of an older kingdom, inhabited by beasts and monsters that could not be tamed. Among the monsters that lived in the divide between the countries of the Soulans and the Norlans was a creature so vile that neither army dared set foot in the Drakstag forest.
Clearing muck from stables, paid for by travelers that passed through Ganton’s Keep, was not a glorious job. Many said it was beneath the bloodline of a dwarf, but a dwarf who was an orphan of unknown parents had no bloodline to speak of. Volkis was young for a dwarf at forty-five years old, but he was a hard worker with a strong back and arms. Once every few moons he would tend to horses that were different from the rest. These weren’t the horses that pulled wagons, carried farmers, or drew a plow. These were horses that carried warriors, adventurers, and knights. Volkis called them the ghost horses. They were strong steeds, brave and true, but he never saw any one of them a second time. They would venture with their riders into the Drakstag Mountains and would never return. Volkis gave these steeds extra care because he knew these were their last days, even if they did not.
Being the only dwarf in a city of mostly humans had never been easy. When he was young he was already too old to play with the children who were the same age as him mentally. Dwarves lived long and grew slow, which included their maturity, though they were dark and broodish even as infants. This didn’t make for lasting friendships, but Volkis had one friend. Aedan, who was middle-aged now, was still one of Volkis’s dearest friends. He was far more traveled than Volkis, being that Volkis was still very young in the mind, while Aedan had grown out of youth and into his adulthood proper.
Aedan had told him of other dwarves, sundered from their mountain homes, that lived in other villages in the Norlans, but Volkis had seen only a few of them. He was shunned by the dwarves for being what they called a human pet, doing chores for the humans that had adopted him and living much as they did. Volkis had to admit that they were right. He lived in wooden houses, cut trees, and scraped up the leavings of animals. He had never seen a keep, or felt the stone in his hands. He doubted the other dwarves had either, but the fact that he didn’t know if they had, and knew for certain that he had not, made him think them instantly better than himself.
There was one dwarf he saw briefly, on occasion, and only from afar. She was Khelag. A beautiful dwarf by any right, with toned muscles, a small and elegantly braided beard that matched her long head braid, and the deepest, darkest brown eyes Volkis had ever seen. Looking at her from a distance, of course, was like looking deep into the mountains and hearing the drums like a heartbeat thumping through the world. He always admired the intricately engraved gray steel war hammer she carried at her back, as well as the handmade matching armor, which he was certain were true dwarven craftsmanship. Looking at her was like looking back through the mists of time, to when the dwarven kingdoms thrived and the mountains rang with the sound of hammers and the smell of molten gold.
Volkis had never spoken to her. She was the niece of a dwarven king, which would be a lord by human standards, but any dwarven leader of a clan was a king. Volkis was orphaned, had no kin, no clan, and no stone to call his own. The king would be within his right to slaughter Volkis if he were to even suggest he was of high enough standing to speak to his niece. The king, Dorrin, would not do so in the midst of a human town or city, out of sheer diplomacy, but the right would be his.
SECTION TWO: THE STABLE
One night, as Volkis was working in the stables, covered in filth and muck from his duties and preparing himself for a large meal from his ma, Aedan came strolling in through the stable doors. The evening air that drifted in with him was warm and thick with the smell of pine resin and livestock.
“Aye, ma boy. How are you tonight?” His voice was smooth like silk, with deep undertones beneath a musical tenor quality.
“Aedan.” Was all Volkis said at first, as he threw a pitchfork full of hay into the back of a wagon pulled by a mule named Ruby.
“’Tis alright, but a bit of a warm night fer my taste.”
“Well, your girlfriend is in town, and they will be coming by here to stable their yaks.” Aedan smiled wryly. “Thanks to a certain person that knows a bit about dwarves, has learned their customs, and has a best friend that happens to be a dwarf.” Aedan looked proud. “I am sure ma and da will thank you with all you can eat, and that is substantial.” He kept shoveling, ignoring the scent in the air and the warmth of the evening.
“Did ya charge yer normal service fee?”
“No, as a matter of fact, I didn’t.” Aedan slapped Volkis on the back, harder than intended, but Volkis didn’t seem to notice. “I’ve made a decision.” He tried to spin Volkis around, but instead just tugged on him a bit. Volkis took the hint and turned to face his friend. “I’ve decided tonight is the night. I will get them here and I will distract the lord’s guards, and you’ll finally talk to the girl.”
“He’s a king, not a lord.” Volkis corrected. “And no. She’s above me station, she’s got guards that are itchin’ to kill me because I’m a human pet, and I am covered in more pig shit than any man or dwarf would like to admit.” He started to turn and return to his chores.
“Your ma is in on it too, and there’s a bath drawn out back to make you not smell like a pig. Clean clothes too. I will distract the guards, you just talk to her, so you can stop staring at her from the stables after all these years.” He looked at Volkis in a pleading manner. “Please, before I finally die of old age, I want to know you kissed a girl, and since you think human girls are ugly, we gotta go with the one you already like.”
“Shut up.” Volkis blushed, or almost blushed, as his thick dwarven skin didn’t allow for true blushing, but Aedan noticed the warmth creeping up the back of his neck all the same. “’Sides, what if she don’ like me, or gets offended, an’ calls her guards in.” He looked around. “Speakin’ o’ which, where is her uncle gonna’ be? Why is he sendin’ his niece ta do servant work? What’s the catch, you lanky bastard?”
“No catch. You saw her earlier, I’m sure. She was across the street, and you never miss a chance to stare longingly at her.” He nudged Volkis. “Come on, you know you saw her, in that armor, over there by the marketplace.”
“Yeah, I saw her all dressed up. Must be an official function or somethin’.” Volkis threw another pitchfork full of soiled hay into the wagon. Ruby snorted.
“Wrong again, my friend.” Aedan smiled that smile that instilled confidence and made a deal go easier. “I found out that they are heading on a journey, to the Soulans. Something about old paths. Dorrin is trying to set up trade routes. I think the old dwarf is interested in expanding his empire beyond his clan.” Aedan winked.
“How did ya’ come up with that notion?” Volkis had known Aedan since Aedan still couldn’t control his own bowels. He knew his tricks, methods, and style. “Drink, drugs, gamblin’?”
“Well, to be honest, all three.” Aedan looked smug. “Not with Dorrin, mind you. I like my pretty head. But his guards, loyal as they are, are a bit greedy and somewhat braggadocios.” Aedan, still looking smug, added, “They are getting a share of the profits, you know, dwarven tradition and all, and they are quite proud of themselves.”
“So that’s why she’s in the armor? Not an occasion, but a mission?” Volkis smiled. “She must be a hell of a warrior to be included like that.” He smiled as he thought of her in battle, swinging that hammer. He imagined the weight of it and the sheer power with which she wielded it. He looked at Aedan. “Finish that corner over there for me. I need to go...um...I need a bath.”
“That’s my man!” Aedan shouted, proud of his friend. “Well, my dwarf. Remember, just talking about the weather or something dull like that won’t win the heart of a warrior. You need to steal that heart like a Salistian burglar.” He shot Volkis one last look. “Now go not smell like a pig.”
As Volkis hurried off, Aedan hoped his friend could get up his nerve enough to do well. Dwarves were scarce around these lands. Dwarven women were harder to find. Ones that wouldn’t break your bones for the audacity of telling them they were pretty, now those were the rarest of all.
It was some time before Volkis had finished his bath. It had been a long time since he had bathed properly, as bathing was usually reserved for the boarders or paying guests that his adopted parents took in. He had to use a horse brush to scrub effectively, and when he was nearly done, his ma had brought him a cake of sweet-smelling soap that she often purchased from the local market, made from mud, lava stone, and sweet-smelling herbs from the very edge of the forest. With all of that, Volkis had managed to not smell like a soiled pig and had even combed his hair.
It seemed like everyone wanted Volkis to talk to Khelag, except for maybe Khelag herself, as if talking to the only female dwarf around assured him a life with her. Volkis wasn’t sure he even wanted to talk to her. They had little in common except ancient heritage, and Volkis wasn’t sure he was even full-blooded dwarf, though everyone else was certain of this.
By the time he was dressed in his special occasion clothes, on which both of his parents were adamant, Aedan had managed to finish cleaning the stalls and had even combed out the manes on a couple of the horses. Volkis decided the man had probably used one of the spells he knew to accomplish this task. Volkis was not adept at spells because his dwarven bloodline, whichever bloodline that was, denied him the ability to cast magic well. The most he had ever managed was a decent fire spell, for starting the small forge they kept for the repair of horseshoes and implements.
Aedan was just finishing up, looking as though he had never touched anything foul in his life, sweeping the floor to rid it of any leftover dirt that might dare to touch Khelag’s feet. He saw Volkis entering from the back. “Well, you still clean up nice. The shirt sets off those crystal blue eyes of yours, and the comb really shows that you have hair on your head, instead of a pile of matted multi-species feculent matter.” Aedan winked. “You look good, my friend. Now it’s all on you. Talk to her and make her want to talk back.”
“I’ll talk to ‘er.” Volkis shook his head. “You all seem ta’ treat ‘er like a dragon instead o’ a dwarven woman.” He shrugged. “I have talked to a female before, you know.”
“Yeah, but they were human, and that one elf. Your eyebrows grew back nicely, by the way.” Aedan examined Volkis’s face. “Bushy as ever. But anyway, this is the first dwarven woman you’ll have talked to, and one you obviously really like. Need any pointers?”
“I know. No talkin’ ‘bout the weather.” He smiled. “Maybe ‘er armor, or ask her about ‘er battles.” Volkis shrugged. “She’ll fall deep in love and ask me to take ‘er away from all that royalty drudgery she ‘as to endure.” Volkis chuckled. “And ya’, I’ll try to look her in the eyes and not the boobs.”
With that, Aedan heard noise out front in the livery area, nodded to Volkis, and ducked out the back with only one phrase escaping his lips in a whisper.
“Courage, my lad.”
SECTION THREE: KGOL AND KHELAG
In the front, stepping up to the stable doors, were two well-armored dwarves wearing battle armor. Their armor was no match for the elegantly decorated and engraved armor that Khelag had been wearing earlier, but it had something else. This armor bore symbols of defeated foes, along with the normal dents and deep scratches one would get from weapons in real battle.
One of the dwarves was a stocky fellow with a scar tracing around his left eye and a brown beard with traces of red and the first hints of silver. He looked at Volkis. “This place secure, or is it weak like the rest of this pitiful village?”
In dwarven circles this would have been considered a formal greeting. It was polite in suggesting that Volkis’s protection could be considered secure, while insulting the abilities of anyone but him. Volkis, unaware of many dwarven customs, did not take the statement that way. He stepped forward, facing the older, more seasoned warrior.
“This village has stood since the pass fell, and not a monster has made it past the defenses. This entire village is secure.”
“Hold, child. No offense was offered and none meant. I was simply asking, may the daughter of a king feel safe in your walls?” He shrugged. “She insists, everywhere she goes, that her mount be treated with honor, so she will be dropping the beast off herself.” He leaned down, brown eyes staring directly into Volkis’s soul. “But she won’t be doing that until I have given the all clear. So I ask again.” He spoke through gritted teeth, another custom Volkis didn’t understand was a sign of respect. “Is this stable, the grounds, the livery, and the inn secure enough for the king and his daughter?”
“No harm will come to her in this house. My ‘pa was a warrior in the last war, ‘ma was a shield maiden, my brothers are trained as warriors, and I...” Volkis turned his back to the warrior, a sign that there was nothing the old dwarf could do to scare him, though secretly he thought he was very close to meeting his end in this stable. “I am a dwarf through and through. No safer place this side of Gillar Mantorum.”
The insult of the younger dwarf turning his back bit at Kgol Rocktender, but he let it go. He was sent to make greeting and ensure that no traps were laid, and that was done. While he was speaking to young Volkis, his four contingent had been searching outside the stable, while he was looking at every crevice inside it. Other than some freshly mucked hay and swept floors, the place was clear.
He walked over to the wagon, which was dwarven height to accommodate Volkis, and looked at the hay stacked inside it. Without a word, or even a flinch, he quietly drew the longsword at his hip. The old dwarf jabbed the hay in the wagon several times, not hard enough to kill, but hard enough to injure and surprise anyone or anything hidden within. Nothing in the wagon moved and Kgol felt no resistance to his blade, as it should have been. He was satisfied that no would-be assassins were hiding within the barn. There hadn’t been an assassination attempt on a royal in nearly fifty years, but Kgol was never careless in his assigned duties. A diligent subject is never surprised, and one who pays no attention is surprised by the things most obvious. He lived by those words.
He went to put his sword back into its silver-adorned scabbard when his nose wrinkled and a scowl crossed his face. He held the sword away from himself, at arm’s length, by two stubby fingers.
“What have you gotten on my father’s sword?” he growled.
“What did ya expect to find in a muck wagon, roses?” Volkis said below his breath as he snickered. Then he added louder, “Sorry, lord, but I’m finished cleanin’ the stalls now. I’ll git rid o’ the wagon if you’ll be bringin’ in yer mounts.”
Volkis took Ruby by her reins and led her out the back door. When he returned he saw a total of eight yaks, of varying colors, in the open area between the stalls, and a dwarven warrior standing next to each. Each led their yak to a stall, and one by one rattled off very long names, descriptive to their yak, before closing the door, bowing to Volkis, and asking his vow that their mount would be safe until battle called it again. Volkis bowed deeply each time and made his vow in rough, poorly enunciated dwarven.
“Your dwarven is atrocious, but I thank you for the attempt.” One dark-haired dwarf replied, before bowing and stepping out the front doors of the stable.
Then he saw her.
As white as snow, with long silky hair and big eyes. She was the finest yak Volkis had ever seen, with a fine supple leather saddle that looked as soft as rabbit suede, barded with gray dwarven steel decorated with fine silver filigree and scrollwork. The saddle alone would be worth more than his parents’ inn, but the yak that carried it would command a small fortune in any human lands, let alone dwarven lands.
Then she stepped out into view from behind the yak.
Khelag was not wearing her armor now. She was dressed in a white leather gown with a rabbit fur collar and belt, and boots to match. No jewelry adorned her, with the exception of a choker-style chain made of thick gray steel, with a large blue gem the size of a baby’s fist affixed to the center. Volkis had no idea what kind of stone it was, but the crystal blue color was beautiful in contrast to the white gown, Khelag’s dark brown intricately braided hair and silky beard, and of course her thin, stern-looking lips.
She was the most beautiful dwarf that Volkis had ever seen, or heard of for that matter. And here she was, standing in his parents’ stables.
Volkis was in his finest attire, looking like the lowest beggar compared to Khelag. Something took over in Volkis. Something he didn’t expect, and something he had no control over. His legs felt weak. He could feel the weight of the world on his heart. He had always loved seeing her on the rare occasions that she graced the village with her presence. He thought he just loved seeing her, like a boyhood crush. This was different now that he was actually in her presence. This was deeper than the physical. He longed to make her happy.
Without a thought, Volkis dropped to his knees and bowed his head. “I will treat your mount as if it were a god, milady. No harm or discomfort will come to it while under my watch.” It was an oath, a promise, and a vow. He meant it, but more than that, it was all that he could think of to say. He paused, eyes on the floor, patiently awaiting her response. Like a monk waiting for a voice to answer a prayer.
“Of course you will.” Her voice had music to it, but the sound was hardened by her stern words. “Why would my father entrust my Yazuniakhaltanus to anyone that would allow her discomfort or harm? Why would you even bring that up? It is expected. Are you daft, or have you suffered a severe head injury that would explain this?” She didn’t even look at Volkis, but instead spoke to him from above as she caressed and doted on her yak. Then she looked down at Volkis, who was still staring at the floor to avert his eyes. “Will you please get up? I am not a fan of those that bow and kowtow to anyone. Stand up, pull up your armor, and decide. Either be a man or be a dwarf, but make the choice and be that, or leave my presence at once and I will find someone else to care for Yazuniakhaltanus. I will not have a human pet taking care of something so precious as her.”
She turned and looked at him. Volkis had lifted his eyes and was in the act of standing when her deep brown eyes caught sight of his crystal blue ones. She was startled, but it only showed for a split second before she recovered. She stared into those eyes, the color of the gem she wore on her neck.
“So there is at least one thing about you that is not average.”
“Wha’s that, milady?” Volkis was standing erect now. He was only a little taller than her and average height for a dwarf, though he was a little broader in the chest than most. He thought she was referring to his broad chest and hinted for the compliment, as it was one of the very few attributes Volkis was proud of.
“You have Beykahn eyes, of course. Very rare.” She looked at him like he should know what this meant, but when it became clear that he didn’t, she explained, shaking her head as if exasperated at his ignorance. “The color of your eyes. That blue. A very old trait that has almost disappeared.” She caught herself staring into those eyes and decided quickly to look back at Yazuniakhaltanus. “Soon it will be gone from the world forever. It’s not a highly sought out trait.”
“Dwarven women always looks away from ‘em. I am sorry they’re so hideous, but they are what I was born with and it’s wha’ I’ll die with.”
Khelag almost giggled, the sound nearly girlish, before a small cough suppressed it. “No, you dolt. It’s not that they are ugly. The Black King, Deagus Stoneheart, you know him, don’t you?”
“Aye. Ma ‘da told me the stories. He’s the last king of dwarves, all o’ ‘em, but he was true to his name and had a stone heart. Dina care one lick for his people. Only the wars and power.”
“It was much worse than that, but yes, you have the gist of it. He’s why we are scattered, so having his color eyes has long been thought an omen. Dwarves with that color didn’t make children, in case they would pass on eyes of that color.” She was staring at his eyes again and looked away. “Your parents were careless.”
“Prolly so. Don’ rightly know, as I never met ‘em. Died before I was old enough to remember ‘em.”
“I am heading to bed because I have many meetings before we start off tomorrow.” She turned to leave the stable and gave Yazuniakhaltanus a few soft pats on her nose before striding confidently away.
“Where are ya headin’ off to tomorrow?” Volkis asked, hoping she would stay just a bit longer.
“To where my uncle says, like the rest of them.” She shot Volkis a wry smile that told him he would get no information from her on this subject. “What is your name, stocky inquisitor?”
It was a tease, a jab, a compliment, and an insult at once. Khelag was every bit the tactician that her uncle was.
“Volkis Gellerman, milady.” Volkis bowed as deep as he could, in the fashion of the people of this land.
Khelag was not impressed. “Not a very dwarven name,” she said as she passed through the doors into the night, heading off to slumber.
“It’s my given name,” Volkis muttered under his breath. “It’s my ma’ and da’s name.” He stood up straight, not entirely sure she had truly gone. “It’s a good name,” he added, a bit defensively.
He watched the door for a moment, hoping and fearing she would show back up to cut him to the bone, or to lay his heart bare. As he watched, the silence was thunderous. All he could hear were the yaks breathing, the floorboards creaking under their weight, and the drip, drip, drip of water from the pump. The stable was pumping like a heart, while Volkis’s own heart feared to pump at all.
“You’re damned right it’s a good name! It’s a proud name of a proud family.” Aedan’s voice broke the silence.
Volkis looked back to see Aedan leaning against the door frame of the back door of the stable. He was smiling as big as Volkis had ever seen.
“I don’ think she liked me tha’ much.” Volkis walked over to the tool rack against the wall, pulled down a bucket and some soap, and started filling the bucket from the hand pump.
“Didn’t like you? Were you there, lad?” Aedan hurried over to his friend’s side and clapped him on the shoulder. “Here I thought you were going to talk about how warm the weather has been, and you get her talking about fallen kings. I think you want to run away and she tells you to choose to be a dwarf. High praise from a royal dwarf, if I must say.” Aedan laughed so loud it reverberated from the rafters of the stable and carried into the air outside. “She threatened to have someone else watch after her yak.”
Volkis shrugged. “But who’s the one tending to her precious yak?” Aedan motioned to where the white yak was stabled. “She asked you your name.” He paused to let that sink in for a second. Volkis was soaping up a sponge and didn’t seem to get the point of the statement. “She asked you! You didn’t offer. You didn’t ask hers. She asked you your name so she would know what to call you!” Aedan was smiling and laughing.
“She was right about something though.”
“Wha’s that?” Volkis was smiling now too, as the depth of what Aedan had said sank in.
“You are daft. I remember a few hits to the head, but never one that bad, so you must have been born daft.” He chuckled. “So you heard every word, huh?” Volkis punched him in the arm. “How did you hear? Could everyone hear? The other dwarves?”
“No. Someone accidentally left their gaming tiles and a keg of beer by the front gate. They helped themselves, though they were well out of earshot.” Aedan made a drinking pantomime. “They won’t be in trouble though, they could clearly see the front and back entrance to the stable, so no one was in danger.”
“So how’d you manage ta hear?”
“I was hiding in the tree by the back door. You two aren’t really that quiet, you know.” He ruffled Volkis’s hair and smiled. “You really are daft sometimes, you know.” He tugged on Volkis’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of here and maybe grab a beer, in celebration of course.”
Volkis smiled and it was a genuine smile. Aedan was the best friend he could have asked for. “Nah. You go ahead. I gots some chores to do.”
“I can help. Get them done then we can go drink.”
“I think these are chores I needs ta do by my lonesome.”
“Oh, those kinds of chores. I get it.” Aedan winked.
“Nah! Git yer head up in the air. I mean actual chores. Been paid to take care o’ the critters and I intend to do it, but I kinda wants to do it alone.” Volkis clapped Aedan on his shoulder. “Now go get drunk enough for the both of us. I expect a hangover in the mornin’.”
Aedan knew when Volkis had made up his mind. He also knew that Volkis was dwarf enough that he wouldn’t be swayed, and that he meant it when he said drunk enough for both of us. Aedan smiled. “Enjoy your job and you’ll never work a day in your life.” He winked. “You go to your job and I’ll go to mine.” He paused. “My job is the drinking part, in case you are too daft.” With that he moved away with the easy step of a boy. He had always moved with a fluid grace that Volkis could never attain.
SECTION FOUR: THE GODS OF STONE
Aedan left and Volkis went to tending the yaks.
Volkis spent his night working. He washed and combed out the eight yaks, all except for Yazuniakhaltanus, just so they would be ready for travel in the morning. It was a standard of his caretaking. It wasn’t rushed by any means, but it was something he would do for any that paid the price to have not just a stable, but a groomsman for their mount. They would leave refreshed, clean, and ready for whatever adventure awaited them. The yaks let out happy sounds as he bathed them, combed them, and trimmed their hooves. Volkis liked the sounds of happy animals. It meant he was doing his job right, but it also meant that the animal, no matter what had happened during the previous days, got a small dose of contentment.
He treated each with the same care.
With Yazuniakhaltanus, this was not the case. This was her yak. Volkis cleaned the bucket several times when washing her hair, to ensure that dirty water was not used. He used extra soap to lather and un-mat any tangles. Once she was clean, he used a special brush, one he had purchased for use on animals with especially matted hair. Yazuniakhaltanus was not especially matted, but this brush pulled the hair less. Finally he used a fine comb his ma had given him years ago. With this he carefully combed until each hair was straight and had its own path, not tangled with even one more.
During the wee hours, when the washing, combing, and feeding were all done and Yazuniakhaltanus had fallen asleep, Volkis began one more task. The stones he had pulled from her hooves, small round road pebbles, he gathered from the floor and stored on a little piece of leather that he laid in front of him. Using all of his tools he began to carve the stones. He tried to include dwarven runes, but he knew so few of them that they were sparse. He did know the gods of Ganton’s Pass, as well as those of other travelers, some of which were dwarven. Volkis carved each stone into the visage of the head of one of the gods. Mostly gods of protection, but Khelag was a warrior, so he included those as well. He didn’t know their proper names, so he gave them names he could think of, and prayed they would serve her. He carved Fenous the hammer-wielder, Bolunda the healer of flesh and archer of the stars, and many others. The last one he made was Heart, the healer and protector of the soul.
When he was done carving, and the sun was threatening to climb the sky over the mountains, Volkis completed his last stone. Each one had the face of a god, a dwarven rune or two, and a hole drilled through the stone so that it acted as a bead. He then wove these beads into Yazuniakhaltanus’s chin beard, braiding the beads intricately into the fine hair. He did this in a manner that each bead could strike the ones on either side of it, making a clacking sound. He also did this with such meticulous care that the stones would clack against each other in rhythm with the stride of the yak, making a drumbeat music as she walked.
His work done, Volkis fell asleep against the wall, chuckling to himself over praying to stones he had carved, of gods he had made up. When sleep took him, he dreamed of those gods smiling down at him, with his hand resting on Yazuniakhaltanus’s nose and her licking his hand.
SECTION FIVE: THE MORNING
Volkis had only slept a couple of hours when he woke to noise outside the stable. Yazuniakhaltanus was busy cleaning his face with her tongue, lovingly. Volkis didn’t jolt awake. He wasn’t a dwarven warrior on a dangerous trail. He was a stable hand in a relatively safe village. When his brain finally became aware, he opened his eyes and they slowly came into focus.
There, standing in front of him outside of Yazuniakhaltanus’s stall, was Khelag, dressed in that armor again, with her war hammer in her hand, as if she were ready to crush a goblin. Realization hit Volkis. He was the goblin she was ready to crush.
She had a stern look on her face. “Volgas, was it?” Her voice was speaking through a clenched jaw and tight teeth. “What have you done to Yazuniakhaltanus?”
“Milady, I treated her all special like. I washed her up real good, not a scrap of dirt on her from tip to toe, so to speak. I combed ‘er out real nice to show how silky she is. She’s got a beauty o’ a coat. I even polished the saddle.” Volkis looked proud. “And the name is Volkis, after my da’s friend. He was a dwarf too.”
“I’m sure he was. So, Volkis.” She said his name as if it were a curse word and bitter to the taste. “You are telling me you did all this?”
“Yeah, milady, every bit o’ it.” Volkis smiled proudly, lighting up the room like a beam of sunlight cutting through stable dust.
“Imbecile.” She stated flatly and stepped into the stall. “So you made Yazuniakhaltanus bright white before I travel into dangerous lands, making her stick out like a sore thumb.” Khelag took a step closer to where Volkis and Yazuniakhaltanus were leaning. “You combed her hair and took out all the matting, so that it can blow in the wind, making the bright white yak move in the breeze and call attention to itself?” She took another step. “You polished my saddle so the silver can shine in the bright sun and can be seen for miles around.” She grabbed one of the beads Volkis had carved. “And what are these? They weren’t there yesterday.”
“I,” Volkis hesitated but figured honesty would be the best policy. “I carved those last night, milady. They are gods, of a sort, and they make her look pretty, and well, they will clack together when she walks, like a drumbeat, to remind you of the great battles of the past.”
Her brown eyes flashed and she leaned down to Yazuniakhaltanus’s muzzle. Even though she appeared angry, Khelag was gentle with her yak. Slowly and deliberately she began to undo the strands of the yak’s beard hair, removing the braids. “So you put clacking beads in my mount’s hair, to make noise as I ride through dangerous territory?” She undid the first braid, ran her fingers through the yak’s hair, and scratched Yazuniakhaltanus’s chin as she removed the bead Volkis had carved into the god he had named Heart. She dropped it onto the floorboards, where it hit with a dull thump like a tiny drum.
One by one she undid the braids and dropped each stone bead, carved into the head of a god, onto the floorboards, almost gently, making a pile of the stones by Volkis’s feet. When she had removed the last braid and bead and dropped it into the pile at his feet, she removed four small rabbit fur booties from a leather pouch on her belt. One by one she placed the rabbit pelt leather socks onto Yazuniakhaltanus’s feet and tightened leather laces to keep them on. As she did this she tried to glare at Volkis, but found it difficult to hold a glare when it meant looking into his eyes. She would look away, pretending to need to concentrate on the task at hand.
When she was done she stood back up to her full height. Finally she spoke.
“Where I am going I need to not stand out. I spent five days riding Yazuniakhaltanus to dull and mat her coat. Now simple mud will have to do, but her coat is clean and silky, which will make that more difficult. My saddle is going to shine like an elven star as I try to hide in the trees. And you tied clacking beads to my yak so that she made noise as she walked.” She grabbed Yazuniakhaltanus’s reins and turned to walk out, but Yazuniakhaltanus hesitated, giving Volkis two more nuzzling kisses before being pulled away. “Are you seriously trying to kill me, or is that stupid thing again?”
Within minutes Khelag and all of the dwarves and their mounts were no longer in the stable.
One large dwarf with a gray-streaked black beard that reached his waist remained, and behind him was a very large black ram with an ill-tempered look. Both were wearing armor that closely matched that of Khelag. On the dwarf’s back was a large gray steel battle axe that looked as if it could have been forged at the same time as the world. Volkis knew instantly that this was Dorrin. The dwarf looked at him with jet black eyes and a snarl that was not meant as anything but a threat.
“Stay away from her, or I’ll kill you, in the old ways.” Without another word he jumped and used the ram’s horns to mount the beast. Volkis could hear him riding away for some time as the ram stomped with every step.
Volkis could feel the tears welling in his eyes. He was glad no one was here to see this. To Aedan, who could be anywhere, he said aloud, “If yer here and watchin’, I’ll beat you within an inch. I mean it. Go away.”
The tears flowed down his cheeks as he began to slowly gather up the discarded gods from the floorboards, taking his time with each one to examine it and remember the name he had given it. He did it slow because it was his chance to hold anything that had touched her. This would not, could not be rushed.
There among the remains of the gift he had given her was a small blue stone. A gem. It was from her necklace, but it wasn’t whole. Volkis picked up the stone and held it in his hands. His da’ had taught him early how to tell the feel of a gem from glass, and Aedan had reinforced those lessons. This was no gem. It was finely faked and crafted glass. Just a shard that had chipped off her necklace when she was berating him and removing the gods from Yazuniakhaltanus.
He had no idea why she would wear a fake like this, but she was.
Volkis wiped the tears from his eyes and dried the rivulets that stained his cheeks, then ran out of the stable to catch the dwarves. They were already gone. He had missed them while he was crying to himself and picking up the stones. He didn’t know where they had gone and he couldn’t hear them, but he knew a bit of where they were headed. He ran back into the stable, stone gods and a piece of glass clutched in his hands, and opened a long box.
Inside were two things. His da’ had given them to him long ago and said they belonged to Volkis’s real father. Inside, wrapped in a leather cloak that had not belonged to his da’, was a hammer and a helmet. Both were old and dusty but they were clearly dwarven-made, with the skill of masters and the power of the mountains that gave them birth. He carried the hammer in his right hand, poured the gods and the glass shard into the helmet, and took off running while putting the cloak on.
She had to know that her birthright gem was a fake. What was Dorrin up to?
SECTION SIX: THE CHASE
Volkis was running down the street, looking for any sign the dwarven contingent was still here or what path they had taken. He knew he was not inconspicuous, a dwarf running down the main path in the direction of the old pass, carrying a hammer and a helmet while wearing a cloak of the old Camelotian guard. He was certain that everyone in town had seen him, and everyone that had not seen him would be aware of his actions by noon.
His parents would be worried, of course, but they would understand. His ma’ always told him, her voice full of awe, that he had been meant for some greater purpose, and that when that day came, she would support him in any endeavor. She would understand. His da’ had been a warrior in the old Camelotian guard in the great war with the horde, so Volkis was sure he would understand his son running off to adventure.
The dwarves were nowhere to be found as Volkis searched the village for signs of a ram, or yaks, or a contingent of dwarves. They were gone. As he ran down the street looking this way and that, he passed villagers. Each of them smiled at him pleasantly. Human pet or not, they had always treated him like family. Each time one would smile they would also raise their arm and gesture in the last direction they had seen the dwarven contingent headed.
Volkis knew he would not find them soon. They were on yaks and probably at full gallop, which could easily outrun his dwarven legs. He had no pony, no yak, and no mount of any kind. If Volkis were to find them and give the shard back to Khelag, he would have to use endurance, not speed.
He took a moment, there in the street in view of several of the villagers, to empty his helmet of the fallen gods and the glass shard into his hand, and then placed them carefully into a pouch tied to his belt. The hammer he strapped to his back by the tooled leather strap handle, and then placed the helmet on his head unceremoniously before setting off again. This time he jogged, with purpose and intent, toward the Drakstag forest.
As he jogged he realized the broken glass shard had little to do with him running off. He was worried about Khelag’s safety. The necklace she wore was clearly an emblem of her status, that status bestowed upon her by her uncle. An act of great care in most circumstances, but now? Now he dragged her along on a journey, wearing a fake glass emblem of power, with only eight older warriors as contingent. Volkis also noted that of those eight, all wore battle-worn armor and had gray in their beards. He had sent old warriors. They were headed into the most dangerous forest Volkis had ever heard tales of. Even in the old stories his parents used to tell him, with dwarves and monsters and such, the heroes would avoid this forest unless there was no other choice, which in the tales was often the case. These dwarves were riding in openly, dressed for battle, as if they could defeat the forest.
Dorrin had to know the old stories. This seemed a bit like a suicide mission.
Now Volkis did the same on foot, heading into danger for Khelag, whom he had actually met once and who had insulted him at every turn. He couldn’t explain it. He had taken no vow, made no promise, and she probably didn’t even remember his name. None of that mattered. Something told Volkis she was in grave danger, like a gut feeling you can’t shake, or a drum deep under the mountain calling a long-forgotten name. He heard the call and wanted to ignore it, but his legs were jogging, his arms were pumping, and his heart was thumping as it never had before. He had to catch them, to find out what danger she was in, and to stop it.
It took only minutes to get out of the southern edge of Ganton, and even here the trees grew thicker and darker than on the other side of the village. The trees, mostly conifer, were thick-bowed but short-limbed, with dark needles tipping their branches. The air changed the moment the last building fell behind him, turning cooler and smelling of deep earth and pine sap. Something old lived in the shadows under those boughs, and Volkis could feel it watching as he ran.
He had been running, then jogging, for only minutes when something slowed him. It wasn’t his breath. It would be hard for eight Artiplan yaks and an Essign goat to pass anywhere around here without leaving even a trace. They would be faster, but they would leave sign.
Volkis stopped at the edge of where the pass started to incline up and over the mountain, looking for any sign that the contingent had left the road. The road, from what he had heard over the years from travelers, was the most dangerous path in Ganton’s Pass. It was what the pass was named for, cut through the stone of the mountain in a wide path that could easily be traveled by up to four wagons at once. It was also the perfect perch, hideout, or hunting path for the vile creatures that inhabited these mountains, giving them a direct route to travelers who were easily trapped within the stone sides of the pass.
There were no obvious tracks, which made sense if they were trying to conceal their movements. Volkis thought for long moments about every ancient story, poem, or myth he could think of involving the Drakstag forest, the Artiplan Mountains, and dwarves, trying to find a clue, or something that would tie them all together. Most of the old ones were older than Ganton’s Pass itself, so they were of no help. How did people get over the mountains before the pass was cut through the stone? He thought harder, sitting on the edge of the cut stone pass, but there were no old bits of information that would help him.
“Which way did they go?” He asked the air, knowing it wouldn’t answer.
But it did answer.
“They went to the west.” That wasn’t the air. Volkis recognized Aedan’s voice immediately. “They went south, with the other dwarves that were here already. Gruff-looking bunch of old warriors. Too old, if you ask me, but the caravan that stayed in Ganton last night met up with another twelve today, just down the slope over there.” Aedan pointed to a low-lying dip in the rising hills. “Unlike you, I wasn’t sleeping with a yak until breakfast was gone. I knew they were leaving, so I got ahead and followed them from the front.” Aedan stepped out from behind a thick oak tree mixed among the rough pines, dressed in leather dyed greens and browns to fit into the woodland colors. “It’s amazing that people who expect to be followed pay most of their attention behind them, instead of looking ahead. Why would someone be so obvious as to follow from behind.” He looked down at Volkis and smiled. “No offense, old friend.”
“None taken. It makes sense. I couldn’t get ahead of them though.” Volkis looked in the direction Aedan had pointed. Something in him stirred. He felt the uncomfortable stirrings of emotion at the thought of those dwarves, with Khelag, entering the mountain. “Well, we better get moving. With the delays they have an hour on us.”
Aedan turned and started walking. “Us?”
Volkis looked confused. “I am not even sure why I am trying to catch them over a broken shard of blue glass.” He scratched his head. “I know I am going to keep trying. I am just not sure why.”
“Of course it’s us.” Aedan smiled that smile that said everything would be all right. “If I hadn’t been here you would have headed west instead of east. You are walking into the Drakstag alone, and I have known you since I was a baby. You’re my oldest friend. Of course I am coming with you.”
“You are a good friend, Aedan.” Volkis thought for a moment. “How old was I when we met?”
“I don’t know. You’re an orphan that barely ages at all. You looked then like you do now, I think.” Aedan scratched his head. “Your ma’ and da’ were already old as hell then too.”
Volkis didn’t say a word. He clapped his friend on the back and turned, heading east, looking for hoof prints as he went. There were none to be found. Probably because the damned yaks were wearing leather booties to soften their strides and change their tracks. He looked for soft scuffing marks, and then he found them. The trail led in the exact direction Aedan had pointed out.
Volkis hurried off in that direction, and Aedan with his longer legs was able to catch up in just a few moments.
SECTION SEVEN: INTO THE DRAKSTAG
Soon they were in a small clearing where the sun still filtered through the canopy, casting light on the darker green foliage and making it appear as if the whole clearing had a halo. Aedan paused to take it in, aware of its beauty, but Volkis was unmoved. He appreciated beauty as much as the next dwarf, but he was preoccupied. That feeling of dread was growing. They were closer to the mountain, as was Khelag, and he could feel the danger to her growing. He still couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but something loomed over her head.
He ignored the beauty of the little clearing and immediately began looking for the telltale signs, now that he knew the booties were changing the tracks. They had had a fire, but the fire had been put out and the ashes and remnants spread throughout the clearing to hide the evidence. Here and there were flattened grass patches, both large and smaller. They had camped here with their yaks. These dwarves were not afforded the comforts of the village. Finally, after looking around, he found the tracks of the yaks in booties, dragging makeshift sleds behind them, presumably to carry supplies. The tracks of the dragged sleds were also disguised, which was smart, but not with someone like Aedan around.
Aedan pointed out that those tracks were made over rocky areas, which the sleds would hide on more easily and would not leave marks in stone, but when they came off the stone every once in a while, the marks where the sleds had dug hard into the ground were evident.
The path was not clear, but it was clear enough to follow, although Aedan had to take the lead, which put Volkis on edge. He now had to protect his friend from dangers ahead while hurrying to find Khelag. Within moments they were off again, heading southeast along what was most likely a game trail. The yaks would have fit, but the sleds would not have.
“They pulled the sleds on a parallel path, but you can see that they were on this trail.” Aedan nodded to Volkis. “Actually pretty smart. It lets them both move freely, and leaves two trails.”
Aedan continued on, meandering with the game trail, while Volkis kept an eye on the other trail, losing it often but picking it back up when the rocks were more sparse. They weren’t making good time, having to track the contingent. Still, it was far easier than tracking one.
Aedan was picking up tracks off the yaks when Volkis stopped him with a hand on his arm. “They stopped here and the sleds went away to the north.”
“The yak tracks without the sleds turn more south here. They split up.” Aedan confirmed.
“One of them, maybe more, is pretty danged smart. Loaded the sleds with heavy stone to make the tracks deeper, so we’d follow the sleds.” Volkis was looking around. “They could have released the yaks and all climbed on the sleds.”
“No.” Volkis pointed to several divots in the surrounding trees, just dents in the ground with exposed dirt. “They unloaded the equipment and then split up, but they stayed on the yaks and sent the sleds away.” He pointed to the sled tracks and the divots. “The tracks are deeper, going through soft dirt instead of rocks, and there are several large rocks missing from the clearing.” He looked at Aedan. “We follow the yaks.”
“Why are we following them again? A shard of glass?” Aedan shook his head.
“To tell the truth, I’m not sure why we’re followin’, but I know I gotta do it. If I don’t, I feel like somethin’ bad’s gonna happen.” He looked at his friend, stone-faced and showing no expression. “Turn back if ya need to. But somethin’s got my hair on end, and I intend ta make it go away.”
Volkis moved through the undergrowth like he’d walked it a hundred times before, though he’d never set foot here in his life. The forest pressed close, dark conifers bowing under their own weight, needles thick on the ground, roots twisting up like old fingers trying to trip them. Three miles, maybe more, along what had once been a path and now was only a memory of one.
Volkis didn’t look for broken twigs or scuffed bark the way Aedan did. He just walked. Step after step, boots finding the places where the earth felt firmer, where the air smelled a little less of rot and a little more of stone. He didn’t think about it. He felt it.
Aedan followed a half-pace behind, eyes darting, one hand on the dagger at his belt. “You sure about this trail?” he asked, voice low. “I’m not seeing much. No boot prints, no yak droppings, nothing.”
Volkis didn’t answer right away. He paused, crouched, ran his fingers over a patch of moss that looked no different from the rest. Under it the ground was worn smooth in a faint line, not wide enough for a wagon but exactly wide enough for a single file of dwarves moving careful and quiet. He nodded once. “This way.”
Aedan squinted at the moss, then at Volkis. “How in the hells do you know that?”
“Don’t know,” Volkis said, already moving again. “Just do.”
They walked on. The forest stayed quiet, too quiet. No birds, no small rustlings. Only the soft crunch of needles underfoot and the occasional snap of a twig Aedan couldn’t quite avoid. Volkis moved lighter than he ever had in the stables, shoulders loose, head up, like the weight of muck and wood had finally fallen off him. His breathing settled into a steady rhythm that matched the faint drum he’d been hearing since the stable door opened that morning. Not loud. Just there. Guiding.
Aedan stopped short. “Wait.”
Volkis paused without looking back.
“Tracks,” Aedan whispered. “Fresh. Hobgoblins. Six, maybe seven. Hunting party. They crossed right over the line you’re following.”
Volkis turned then. His eyes, crystal blue, caught the thin light filtering through the canopy and held it like ice on a lake. He studied the ground for a long moment, then looked up toward the direction the tracks had gone.
“We go around,” he said.
Aedan raised an eyebrow. “We could take them. Seven against two? I’ve seen worse odds.”
Volkis shook his head once. “Would take time. Noise. Blood. We don’t have time.”
Aedan opened his mouth, closed it. Looked at his friend again, really looked. The dwarf who used to go warm at teasing now stood like he’d been carved from the same stone as the mountain ahead. No hesitation. No bluster. Just certainty.
“Lead on, then,” Aedan said quietly.
They skirted wide, moving slow and low. Volkis picked the route without pause, through a thicket of low pine, along a dry stream bed, up a shallow rise where the ground felt older and harder. Twice Aedan thought they’d lost the faint dwarven trail. Twice Volkis found it again without breaking stride. He didn’t speak much. Didn’t need to. The drum kept time for him.
Another hour passed. The trees grew taller, darker. The air turned colder, sharper, like breathing near iron.
Then, a low rumble ahead. Not thunder. Something heavier. Something breathing.
They dropped flat behind a fallen log. Aedan’s dagger was already out. Volkis laid a hand on his wrist, gentle but firm. Through the branches they saw it: an ogre, easily ten feet at the shoulder, gray-green skin mottled with lichen, a club the size of a small tree resting on one shoulder. It lumbered along a game trail, sniffing the air and grunting to itself. One wrong step and it would be on them in seconds.
Aedan tensed, ready. Volkis shook his head.
“We can take it,” Aedan whispered.
“Could,” Volkis agreed, voice so low it barely carried. “But it’d be loud. Long. And we’d bleed unnecessarily for it.” He looked at Aedan, eyes steady. “Not worth the risk. Not today.”
Aedan stared at him for a long second, then nodded once. “Your call.”
They waited. The ogre passed within twenty paces, close enough they could smell the sour reek of its hide and the old blood on its club. It never looked their way. When its footsteps finally faded into the trees, Volkis rose without a sound.
“Come on,” he said. “We’re close.”
Aedan stopped, peering through the underbrush. “Volkis!” It was a whisper but loud enough to carry. Volkis looked over, a flat look on his face, and lifted a finger to his lips. Aedan took the hint. He waved his hand in a come-here motion and tried his best to look concerned and anxious.
Volkis didn’t hurry, as it wasn’t far, but he walked as quietly and quickly as he could. When he reached Aedan, his friend was hunched over some underbrush, ferns, pine needles, and forest debris. Under the underbrush Volkis could see part of a face, with dried blood on it, and a cold dead eye staring up at the canopy. He brushed some of the underbrush aside and revealed that it was a dwarf. Not one of the ones from the stable, but dressed similarly. It wasn’t all of him either, but it was most of him. He had been torn, like something big had bitten him in half and dragged the rest away. The remainder lay here on the ground, axe haphazardly beside him, covered in forest debris.
Aedan felt the wells of sorrow rising deep inside, for the dwarf and the brutal manner of his death. Volkis stared at the remains with those crystal blue eyes. There was no expression on his face.
“That,” his voice became a growl as he tasted the word, “troll.” The sound of it broke the deafening silence of the forest.
A quick search showed that three more dwarves had met the same end. Each one quickly covered by underbrush, twigs, and debris. Some had their weapons in their hands, and some had no weapons, or no arms left to hold them. This was the scene of a slaughter. Four dwarves killed fast, near the base of the mountain, in the Drakstag forest. Whatever had done it, and Volkis was certain it was the troll they had encountered sign of earlier, had been brutal in its attack and powerful enough to rend four full-grown, battle-tested dwarves.
“A shame, it is.” As they found them, Volkis replaced the haphazard coverings of forest brush over each one. “As far as I know, trolls don’t cover the remains. Too stupid to come back for more. They just leave the forest to do its job with the bodies.”
Volkis shook his head as he covered the last body again. “Trolls don’t, but a group o’ dwarves hurryin’ and not wantin’ others ta know which way they went might.” His eyes caught Aedan’s, and Aedan was forced to take an involuntary step back.
Volkis had always been a friendly face. The face Volkis was wearing now was determination mixed with anger, hard and set like forged steel.
“We need ta keep movin’. The souls o’ these dwarves ain’t no longer here, or they’re wanderin’ the wood. Either way, we ain’t needed here.” He turned and began walking toward the mountain again, following that faint trail.
SECTION EIGHT: UNDER THE MOUNTAIN
They kept descending. Boots clicked on polished stone floors, the sound sharp and clear, echoing a little too loud in the narrow passage. Volkis walked ahead, steady, like he knew the way without thinking about it. Aedan followed close, eyes darting, trying to see what Volkis seemed to see without effort.
The walls were smooth, cut clean long ago. Old dwarven tools still hung here and there, rusted but proud. Picks with wide blades, chisels thick as fingers, hammers with heads shaped for splitting rock or shaping steel. Volkis glanced at them once, nodded to himself, kept moving.
Aedan stopped short. “Look at this.”
Volkis turned. Aedan was pointing at the floor. Long grooves ran parallel down the center of the passage, worn deep into the stone. Wagon tracks. Not ordinary cart marks. These were wide, even, and deliberate. Along the walls ran matching channels, lower, like rails that had once guided something heavy.
“Assisted wagon train,” Aedan said. “See the grooves? They let the animals pull without bearing the full weight. Gold, ore, whatever they hauled out of here. The channels took the load. Smart.”
Volkis looked at the tracks for a long moment. “Aye. Smart.” His voice was quiet, almost respectful. He touched one of the wall channels with his fingertips. “Heavy work. Old work.”
They kept going.
Further on, Volkis slowed. He lifted his head, studying the walls again. Small, evenly spaced holes ran along both sides at three different heights. Neat rows. Murder holes. Thick enough for armor-piercing spears to thrust through. Volkis stepped closer, traced one set with his finger.
“Three levels,” he said. “Short folk. Medium. Tall. Goblins. Orcs. Ogres, maybe. They built it so no matter what came down this hall, something could hit it square.”
Aedan looked at the holes, then at Volkis. “You see all that?”
Volkis shrugged. “Just makes sense.”
Aedan shook his head. “You didn’t see any of this stuff in a stable.”
Volkis didn’t answer. He kept walking.
The passage grew darker. Aedan couldn’t see much anymore. Volkis moved like the dark didn’t matter. Aedan reached into his pack, pulled out a small oil lamp, corked tight. He uncorked it, struck flint and steel, brought up a small flame.
Volkis turned fast. “Put that out.”
Aedan froze. “I can’t see.”
“Exactly.” Volkis’s voice was low and firm. “Light ruins your night eyes. And it tells everything in here exactly where we are. Stay behind me. Close. You’ll see what I see.”
Aedan hesitated, then snuffed the flame. “Fine. But if I trip over you, it’s your fault.”
Volkis grunted. “Stay close.”
They moved on. Volkis led, boots quiet now, almost silent. Aedan stayed right behind, hand on the back of Volkis’s cloak so he wouldn’t lose him in the dark.
A little further on the smell hit first. Rot. Meat. Something sharp and sour. Then the sounds. Clicking. Wet tearing. Low chittering.
Volkis stopped. Held up a hand.
Ahead, in a wider section of the passage, four large black insects worked over two dwarven bodies. Vinegarroons, but bigger. Thick whip-tails, pincers cracking bone, mandibles tearing flesh. The dwarves had fought. One still gripped a broken axe. The other had a dagger buried in one of the bugs. It hadn’t mattered. They were gone.
One insect lifted its head. Antennae twitched. It saw them. The chittering stopped.
Volkis stepped forward, hammer already in hand. “Stay back.”
Aedan dropped the lamp and pulled his second dagger. “Not a chance.”
The bugs came fast.
Volkis met the first one with a single swing. Hammer met carapace. Crack. The bug folded like wet paper, legs twitching once and done. Another lunged. Volkis sidestepped, brought the hammer down again. One blow. Clean. The thing burst open, ichor spraying.
Aedan moved quick. He dropped low, rolled under a third bug, came up behind it, drove both daggers into the soft joint where tail met body. Twisted. Pulled. The bug screeched, whipped its tail. Aedan ducked, stabbed again, fast, twice more. It dropped.
The last two rushed Volkis. He planted his feet, swung wide. One bug went flying, hit the wall, slid down broken. The other leaped. Volkis caught it mid-air with the hammer head, slammed it to the floor. One strike. Done.
Silence returned. Only breathing and dripping ichor.
Aedan wiped his blades on a dead bug’s leg. “Nice work.”
Volkis didn’t answer. He stepped past the bodies, looked down at the two fallen dwarves. Older. Battle-scarred. Gone now. He crouched. Picked up one of the fallen swords. Curved, thick blade tapering to a wicked point. Dwarven make. Heavy. Balanced. Good steel.
He stood. Turned to Aedan without expression. Held the sword out.
“Use a real blade,” he said. “Dangerous things livin’ down ‘ere.”
Aedan took it. Tested the weight. Nodded once.
Volkis turned and kept walking. Boots ringing again on the stone. Aedan sheathed his daggers, picked up the lamp, and hurried to catch up.
The tunnel kept descending. The drum beat on. Steady. Guiding. Deeper still. The mountain waited.
SECTION NINE: THE GOBLINS
From the shadows ahead came the faint sound of claws dragging across the smooth stone. Low growls seemed both far away in echoes and yet too close for comfort. Aedan heard a wet snarl off to the left. Then shapes moved into the dim glow.
Goblins. Ten, maybe twelve. Medium-sized ones, maybe a few inches shorter than a man but broader. Each carried jagged blades and notched shields. One stood taller than the rest, head and shoulders above the others, broad as a barrel. The chieftain. Paint covered his face and silver tipped his tusks. Scars crisscrossed his hide, yellow eyes burning. He carried a crude axe made from a broken dwarven blade lashed to a thick haft. He locked eyes with Volkis almost immediately. The rest spread out, circling slow, teeth bared.
The chieftain pointed its axe at Volkis. Spat something in a guttural tongue. The others hissed and laughed.
Volkis stepped forward. No words. Hammer already raised.
The goblins charged.
The first three came low and fast. Volkis met them in the middle. Hammer swung in a tight arc. Caught the lead goblin under the chin. Lifted it off its feet. Bone cracked. The body flew back into the others. Two went down under it. The third leaped aside. Volkis pivoted, brought the hammer around low. Caught the dodging one in the ribs. One hit. Ribs folded inward. It dropped without a sound.
Aedan moved at the same time. He ducked a wild swing from a smaller one, rolled under the blade, came up behind. Sword flashed twice. Quick cuts to the hamstring, then the throat. The goblin gurgled and fell. Aedan spun, parried another blade, drove his elbow into the attacker’s nose, then thrust the sword through its chest. Clean. Precise. Years living next to the Drakstag had taught him how to fight dirty and fast. He was no soldier but he was a survivor.
The chieftain roared and charged Volkis. Axe high. Volkis planted his feet. Hammer met axe in a ringing clash. Sparks flew. The chieftain pressed, muscles bulging. Volkis did not give ground. He twisted his wrists, slid the hammer haft along the axe blade, hooked the head, yanked hard. The chieftain stumbled forward. Volkis stepped in close, drove his elbow into the beast’s throat. The chieftain choked. Volkis swung the hammer up under the chin. One clean strike. The head snapped back. Neck broke. The big body dropped like a felled tree.
The rest of the goblins, and reinforcements filtering from the tunnels, hesitated. Volkis did not. He stepped onto the dead chieftain’s chest, hammer already moving again, using the body as both high ground and a declaration. Two more goblins, nervous now, rushed anyway. Their nerves made them swing wildly, trying to hit the dangerous dwarf anywhere they could. Volkis caught the first in the chest. Hammer punched through hide and bone. The second swung low. Volkis lifted one leg, let the armor take the brunt of it, then brought the hammer down on the goblin’s skull. One blow and this one fell too.
Volkis was impressed with his father’s hammer. It was no ordinary weapon, to be sure.
Aedan finished the last two that hadn’t already thought better of things and run. One of them tried. Aedan threw his dagger. Caught it between the shoulder blades, dropping it to the ground, arms useless, legs pushing it slowly toward the darkness. The other swung at him. Aedan parried, stepped inside the guard, drove the sword up under the ribs. Twisted. Pulled free. The goblin slid to the floor.
The injured goblin was pushing itself along the ground with its legs, unable to move its arms because of the blade so close to its spine.
“You got plans o’ finishin’ him, or let him crawl till he finds a bigger goblin party to help?”
Aedan started to walk over to where the goblin was struggling, slow and plodding, like a man with a distasteful duty that had to be done. When he reached the goblin he pulled the dagger free from its back and looked down at the creature suffering on the ground. It was not something he wanted to do. He lifted the sword he still held in his main hand and readied to strike.
He felt a hand on his back, gently pulling him away. Aedan stayed his blade and turned to look behind himself, then downward, to see Volkis’s crystal blue eyes staring up at him with a look of compassion that Aedan found himself suddenly grateful for.
“Yer the one that’s still got his memories. Let me take care o’ this. I’ll probably forget it anyway, and this way it don’ haunt ya.”
Volkis knew he wouldn’t forget this, but he wanted to do it for his friend. Aedan shook his head, determined to do his duty, and started to raise his hand again. Before he could get the sword hesitantly raised and ready to strike, Volkis acted. Lightning fast he raised his hammer and brought it down hard, crushing bone, muscle, and skull. The thing stopped moving instantly.
“Don’ think twice ‘bout it, friend.”
This, in Volkis’s mind, was two compassions in one. He saved his friend from the gruesome act of killing an unarmed foe that was desperately trying to escape. He also saved that unarmed enemy from a worse fate, for there were still denizens of the dark down here that ate goblins and preferred them unable to fight back, and didn’t care if they were still alive when the eating began. Volkis saved the beast that indignity and pain. He didn’t explain this to Aedan, who didn’t quite understand what had just happened, because Volkis believed it was just a common courtesy, friend to friend and warrior to warrior.
Was he a warrior now? He didn’t know yet, but he knew he wasn’t a stable boy.
Silence fell again. Only breathing and dripping blood.
Aedan wiped his sword on a dead goblin’s tunic. Looked at Volkis. Volkis stood over the goblin’s body, hammer dripping, chest rising and falling slow. No smile. No triumph. Just steady eyes. He turned to Aedan.
“You hurt?”
Aedan touched a cut on his forearm. Blood welled and flowed slowly. “Nothing too deep. I’ll live.”
Volkis nodded once. He knelt by the nearest dwarf corpse, tore a strip from the dead warrior’s cloak, and wrapped Aedan’s arm tight. No fuss. No words. Then he stood and wiped his hammer on the chieftain’s hide.
He took another piece of cloth and removed a greave from his own leg. There was blood covering his left calf. Lots of blood. He tore the cloth into strips, dampening them with his own saliva to assist in the healing, and bandaged the wound. The greave had been pierced and creased, making a sharp jagged edge that curved inward toward the inside of the leg, making it useless. Volkis picked up the greave and placed his fingers on each side of the wide gash made by the goblin’s sword. With some little strain, his fingers began to twist the steel back, curving the gash outward so the jagged side was pointing away from his leg.
Aedan’s eyes went wide watching this, but he didn’t want to interrupt.
Then Volkis, using his fingers on the outside of the greave and a chunk of smooth stone on the inside, bent the steel back until it was smooth, looking as if it just had a blade-sized crack in it.
“We need to talk, Volkis. You are tracking dwarves over stone, killing monsters with one blow, opening locked doors that have not even a keyhole, and bending dwarven steel with just your fingers.” Aedan’s breath was rushed and shallow. “You just don’t seem like the Volkis I grew up with, at the moment at least. Do you feel all right? I’m wondering if you are under a spell or something, running off like you did and showing these, traits.”
Volkis thought about this for a moment. “You know, I can’t rightly say, but ya got good points.” He looked down the tunnel his body was urging him toward. “If I become a threat, you got my pardon fer killin’ me outright. Just in case it’s an evil spell or somethin’.” He picked up his hammer and looked down the passage. “Fer right now though, I gotta go that way.” He pointed to one of the tunnels past the dead bodies of the goblins. “South and west. Downward. That’s the way.”
Aedan sheathed his sword. “How do you know?” He sounded exasperated.
“Maybe it’s dark magi or somethin’.” Volkis said quietly and snickered. He started walking again. Boots ringing on the stone. Aedan followed.
The drum in Volkis’s chest beat steady. Louder now. Deeper. The tunnel kept descending. The mountain was calling.
SECTION TEN: GILLAR MORATHAK
The great city of Gillar Morathak stretched miles wide beneath the mountain. It had been carved from living rock with love and care, every hall and chamber shaped by hands that knew stone the way a mother knows her child. The ceiling soared high enough that clouds of pale lichen drifted like mist. Layers of houses climbed the cavern walls in neat rows, some small and sturdy, others grand mansions with wide doors and deep windows. The stone rose from the floor in gentle curves and sharp angles, as though the mountain itself had decided to grow homes for its people. Bridges of carved rock spanned gaps between levels. Stairways spiraled upward like the trunks of ancient trees. The city could hold fifty thousand dwarves and still feel empty in places, because it had been built for more than bodies. It had been built for memory.
In the center lay the great square. A marketplace once loud with hammers and voices and the clink of coin. Now it stood quiet. Wide flagstones covered the floor, worn smooth by generations of feet. Pillars rose at the edges, thick as old oaks, each one etched with runes of protection and trade. At the far end of the square stood the palace. Spires climbed from the floor like stalagmites reaching for their mates above. Stalactites hung down to meet them, forming natural arches of living stone. The walls gleamed with veins of silver and gold, set with gems that caught torchlight and threw it back in quiet colors. It looked like the seat of a king of kings, a place where dwarves had once ruled all the deep places and the mountain had answered with pride.
Now the square held only battle.
Dorrin stood near the center, war axe in both hands, gray-streaked beard matted with sweat and blood. Around him fought twenty old dwarven warriors. Their armor bore dents and scratches from battles older than most of the goblins they faced. They moved with the heavy grace of men who had survived too many fights to die easy. But there were too many enemies.
Fifty hobgoblins or more poured across the flagstones. Tall and lean, with long wiry arms ending in claws. Horns curved back from their skulls. Tusks jutted from wide mouths. Armor of scrap metal and leather hung on their frames. They carried jagged blades, crude spears, and clubs studded with iron spikes. Their eyes burned yellow in the torchlight. They howled and laughed as they came.
The dwarves held a tight ring. Axes rose and fell. Shields cracked under heavy blows. One old warrior took a spear through the shoulder, roared, and drove his axe into the hobgoblin’s chest. Another lost his leg below the knee, fell, and kept swinging from the ground until three blades found him at once. The ring shrank. The dwarves were certain to lose this fight.
At the heart of the hobgoblin swarm stood the chieftain. Larger than the rest, almost twice the height of a dwarf. Muscles bunched under gray-green skin. A crown of broken blades sat crooked on its horned head. It waded forward without hurry, throwing dwarves aside left and right. One warrior flew ten feet, hit a pillar, slid down, and did not rise. Another charged with axe high. The chieftain caught the haft in one hand, twisted, snapped the wood, then drove its fist into the dwarf’s chest. Armor crumpled. The warrior dropped.
The chieftain locked eyes with Dorrin. Then with Khelag, who stood beside her uncle, war hammer raised, face set in grim lines. It grinned wide, tusks gleaming, and pointed a long finger at her.
The dwarves closed ranks tighter. They were tired. They were bleeding. They were not enough.
The chieftain took another step forward. The square waited for the end.
SECTION ELEVEN: THE BATTLE OF THE GREAT SQUARE
The chieftain stopped. Drew in a long, rattling breath through wide nostrils. Tasted the air. Then it roared, a sound that rolled across the great square like breaking stone. The roar was aimed at Dorrin first. The old king stood tall, axe gripped in both hands, beard streaked with blood and sweat. The hobgoblin recognized strength there. A leader. Then its yellow eyes slid to Khelag beside him. War hammer raised. Face hard. It saw her too. Another leader. Stronger, maybe.
The chieftain chose.
It squared off with Dorrin. The old dwarf did not back down. Stepped forward. Axe ready. The chieftain charged. Weapons met with a crash that echoed off the cavern walls. Dorrin swung low, aiming for the legs. The chieftain leaped over the blade. Brought its spiked axe down in a brutal chop. Dorrin rolled aside. Axe head struck flagstone. Shattered a piece of it. Sparks flew. Dorrin came up swinging. Caught the chieftain across the thigh. Green blood sprayed. The beast snarled. Kicked out. Hoof struck Dorrin’s shield. The old dwarf staggered but held ground.
Khelag tried to move to her uncle’s side. Hobgoblins swarmed her. Five at once. Blades flashing. She swung her hammer in wide arcs. Crushed one skull. Shattered another arm. But they pressed close, stabbing at her legs and sides. She took a shallow cut across the ribs. Blood welled through armor. She growled. Spun. Caught another goblin in the chest. It flew back. Still more came.
Across the square Volkis ran. Aedan close behind. Dwarf boots pounded stone. Eyes fixed on Khelag. The drum in his chest thundered now. Louder than ever. Guiding.
A hobgoblin leaped at Volkis from the side. He did not slow. Hammer swung up in a tight arc. Caught the creature under the jaw. Lifted it off its feet. Bone snapped. Body spun away. Volkis kept running.
Another goblin blocked his path. Volkis lowered his shoulder. Crashed into it. The goblin flew back. Hammer followed. One blow. Done.
Aedan stayed at his heels. Sword flashed. Parried a thrust. Cut a throat. Kept moving.
The chieftain pressed Dorrin hard. Axe rose and fell. Dorrin blocked. Parried. Gave ground. Sweat ran into his eyes. Arms shook. The chieftain roared again. Swung low. Dorrin jumped back. Too slow. Axe caught him across the shoulder. Armor split. Blood poured. Dorrin dropped to one knee.
The chieftain raised its weapon high.
Khelag saw. Shouted. Tried to break free. Hobgoblins clung to her arms and legs. She swung. Missed. Took another cut across the thigh.
The chieftain turned toward her. Grinned wider. Started forward.
Volkis saw it all.
He sprinted harder. A fallen hobgoblin lay in his path. Volkis planted one boot on its chest. Launched himself upward. Aedan saw. Dropped low. Put both hands against Volkis’s back. Shoved with everything he had.
Volkis flew.
The chieftain raised its spiked axe. Aimed at Khelag’s head. Began the downward swing.
Khelag turned. Saw the axe coming. Saw Volkis flying toward her.
Time slowed.
Volkis twisted in the air. Hammer spun in his hands. Met the axe mid-swing. Steel rang against steel. The spiked head shattered. Shards flew outward like broken glass. The blow deflected. The axe glanced off Khelag’s shoulder. Cut shallow. Nothing more.
Volkis landed beside her. Momentum carried him through. Hammer spun in a full circle above his head. Came down hard. Struck the chieftain square in the chest. Bone cracked. Ribs caved. The big body staggered. Eyes widened in shock. Then it dropped. Dead before it hit the ground.
Khelag stared at Volkis. Their eyes locked. Only a heartbeat. Brown meeting blue. Something passed between them, recognition, relief, something older and long forgotten, but there nonetheless. Then the moment broke.
The remaining hobgoblins faltered. The dwarves saw. Old warriors, bleeding and weary, found something left in them. Axes rose again. Shields locked. They pushed forward. One more dwarf fell, a blade through the throat. The rest fought on.
Volkis and Khelag fought side by side. Hammer and war hammer moving in rhythm. Goblins fell. One after another. The square filled with green blood and broken blades.
When the last hobgoblin dropped, silence returned.
Twelve dwarves remained. Four of them were the same warriors who had stabled their yaks at Volkis’s inn that first night. Kgol Rocktender among them. They looked at Volkis now with new eyes.
Dorrin lay on the stone. Spear through his shoulder, pinning him down. Blood pooled beneath him. Khelag knelt beside him. Broke the spear shaft. Pulled the point free. Pressed cloth to the wound. Dorrin grunted in pain. Managed a weak nod.
Volkis stood over them. Hammer still in hand. Breathing steady. No triumph on his face. Only quiet purpose.
The mountain waited. The drum inside him beat on. Stronger now. Clearer. Like a heartbeat.
SECTION TWELVE: THE REST
The group rested in a side chamber off the main square. No fire. No light beyond the faint glow of lichen on the walls. They sat on cold stone, backs to pillars, passing a meager meal of hard bread, dried meat, and water from skins. No one spoke much. The only sounds were chewing, the drip of distant water, and the low breathing of wounded dwarves.
Three of the old warriors knew a bit of healing magic. Not grand spells. Just small workings passed down from clan elders. They started with Dorrin. The old king lay on his back, shoulder still oozing where the spear had pinned him. One dwarf knelt, placed callused hands over the wound, and muttered low words in old dwarven. A faint warmth spread. The bleeding slowed. Flesh knit enough to close the hole. Dorrin grunted, sat up slow. Face pale. But alive.
They moved to Khelag next. She sat against a pillar, armor dented, blood drying on her side and thigh. The same dwarf knelt again. Hands glowed soft. Cuts sealed. Bruises faded to dull yellow. She flexed her shoulder, tested her grip on the hammer. Nodded once. Said nothing.
Then they came to Volkis. He sat apart, hammer across his knees, staring at nothing. One of the healers approached. “You fought well, stranger. Let us help.”
Volkis looked up. Eyes steady. “Save it fer yerselves. I’m fine.”
The dwarf hesitated, then placed hands on the gash in Volkis’s leg anyway. The wound closed most of the way. Pain dulled. Volkis flexed the leg. Stood. Gave a short nod. That was all.
The three healers turned to their own wounds last. Cuts closed. Broken fingers straightened. But not all healed clean. One still limped. Another held his arm close. Enough to move on. Not enough to forget.
They gathered their gear. Dorrin stood first. Face grim. “We go to the square. To the palace. To the dragon.”
Volkis spoke low. “Turn back. This is suicide.”
Dorrin looked at him. “You came this far. You will see it through.”
Volkis stepped closer. Voice quiet but hard. “I came for her. Not for yer quest. Turn back. Take yer warriors home. Let her live.”
Khelag turned then. Looked at Volkis. Something flickered in her eyes. Not gratitude. Not yet. Just a question she did not voice.
Dorrin pulled an ancient map from his belt pouch. Parchment cracked with age. He unrolled it on a flat stone. The city spread before them in faded ink. Halls. Squares. Palace at the far end. A long wide ceremonial stair climbed to it. Steps broad and steep. Like the pyramids of old tales, but with clean dwarven lines and graceful columns. At the top sat the blue dragon. Dorrin traced the path with a thick finger. “This way. The stairs lead to the altar. To the heart of it all.”
Volkis looked at the map. Then at Khelag. Then at the tunnel ahead.
He said nothing more. They moved out.
The trek through the city felt endless. Miles of silent halls. Empty mansions. Houses carved in layers on the walls. All of it beautiful once. All of it empty now. Bones lay scattered. Dwarves. Humans. Elves. Goblins. Hobgoblins. Horses. Bugs. Some still wore armor. Some clutched weapons. Wagons sat abandoned. Tents rotted. Packs spilled gear across the stone. Swords. Shields. Rations long turned to dust. This place had the feel of a graveyard where adventurous folk came to die, even if they didn’t know it when they started.
Nothing moved. No guards. No patrols. The city was quiet. Too quiet. The goblins and hobgoblins and dark gnomes that lived here kept to the far end of the square, as far from the palace as possible. They feared the dragon more than death itself.
The dwarves walked on. Volkis and Aedan kept trying.
“Turn back,” Volkis said once, voice low. “This place eats warriors.”
Dorrin did not answer.
Later, Aedan tried. “You’ve lost enough already. Let it go.”
Dorrin looked at him. Then at Khelag. “We finish this.”
Khelag said nothing. Only kept walking. Hammer in hand.
Volkis looked at her back. The drum in his chest beat steady. Louder. He did not know why he followed. Only that he could not turn away.
They reached the edge of the great square. The palace waited ahead. Spires rising. Gems glinting. The long stair climbing to it. And at the bottom of the stair stood the dragon.
Blue crystal. Coiled. Eyes open. Watching.
The mountain held its breath. The drum inside Volkis thundered. They stepped again into the square.
SECTION THIRTEEN: THE STAIR
The long ceremonial stair rose before them. Steps wide as a wagon bed. Carved from the same living rock as the rest of the city. Steep enough to make calves burn after the first hundred. The contingent climbed in single file. Dorrin at the front. Khelag beside him. The twelve remaining warriors behind. Volkis and Aedan near the rear. No one spoke. Only boots on stone and the slow rasp of breathing.
Halfway up, the dragon’s head became visible.
It rested atop the palace like a crown of crystal and menace. Easily as large as a full-grown elephant. Scales the blue of deep winter sky. Eyes the same crystal blue as Volkis’s own. Watching. Not moving. Not yet. The body coiled around the spires and arches of the palace. Two hundred feet long at least. Thick as a house. Tail draped over a balcony. Head lowered. Chin resting on foreclaws. Breath came in steady gusts. Hot. Dry. Washing over the climbers in waves that smelled of old fire and metal.
The dwarves kept climbing. Slower now. Eyes fixed on the beast above.
At the halfway landing the dragon spoke. Voice deep. Slow. Rolling down the steps like thunder from a clear sky.
“Ah. Food comes to me again. I don’t get out to hunt often. So it’s good when they wander into my mouth. You taste better than hobgoblins, I hope.”
Dorrin stopped. Raised his axe. Stood straight despite the blood still seeping from his shoulder. Voice carried clear and strong.
“I bring a gift for the great dragon Neru-Ata-Korin-Dogra.”
The dragon lifted its head a fraction. Eyes narrowed. Interested.
“I hear the great dragon is open to bargains. If the bargain pleases it.”
The dragon exhaled. Hot wind rolled down the stair. Stirred cloaks. Made lichen glow brighter for a moment.
“Not much pleases me in bargains. What do you have to offer? And what would you want for it? I have mountains of treasure, so it will need to be special.”
Dorrin stepped forward one pace. Khelag stayed at his side. Hammer ready. Face set.
“I bring the soul of the mountain. It is said with it the great dragon will be immortal, for the prophecy would be broken.”
The dragon’s eyes opened wider. Pupils thinned to slits. Head rose higher. Scales shifted with a soft crystalline chime.
“So you would give this away, and be subject to my immortality. Why?”
Dorrin did not flinch.
“Because the line must endure. Because the mountain must be ruled. Because I would see my people rise again. Even if it means serving one who cannot die.”
The dragon considered. Breath came slower. Hotter. The air shimmered.
Khelag gripped her hammer tighter. Said nothing.
Volkis stood near the back. Hand on the hammer at his belt. Eyes fixed on the dragon. The drum in his chest matched the slow rise and fall of the beast’s breathing. He felt it. Deep. Steady. Like the mountain itself was listening.
Aedan stood beside him. Sword drawn. Face pale. “This is madness,” he whispered.
Volkis did not answer.
The dragon lowered its head again. Eyes locked on Dorrin. Then on Khelag. Then swept the line of dwarves.
“Bring the soul forward. Place it on the altar. Let me see if your gift is worth my time.”
Dorrin turned. Nodded to Khelag.
She stepped forward. Slow. Hammer still in hand.
The stair waited. The dragon watched. The drum inside Volkis beat harder. The mountain held its breath.
SECTION FOURTEEN: THE ALTAR
Dorrin stood at the base of the altar steps. The dragon loomed above him. Breath hot. Eyes fixed. The old king lifted his chin.
“I offer the soul of the mountain. In exchange for your immortality, I would ask not to be your subject, but to be king of all kings in the Artiplans. A simple request. Give me all the dwarves in the range. Let me build my empire as I see fit.”
The dragon tilted its head. Scales shifted with a soft chime. Voice rolled down like distant thunder.
“You cannot rule this city. That was the bargain made so long ago. You are not descended from the dark king.”
Dorrin nodded once. Calm. “This city would be exempt from my reign. As my reign would be exempt from this city.”
The dragon held still. Eyes narrowed. Breath came slower. Hotter. For a long moment the square was quiet. Only the faint drip of water somewhere deep. Then the dragon spoke again.
“Agreed.”
Dorrin turned to Khelag. Voice low. Firm. “Place the gem on the altar. The soul of the mountain.”
Khelag stepped forward. Hands steady. She reached up. Unclasped the choker. The thick gray steel chain fell away. The blue gem caught the torchlight. Cold. Perfect. Too perfect. She walked up the steps. Placed it on the stone slab. Stepped back.
The dragon leaned closer. Nostrils flared. Eyes gleamed.
“If I devour this soul, the heart and soul can never meet to face me at the same time. I will become immortal. The world will bow to you, for I will be as a god. Second only to Neru. Your great grandmother.”
Khelag said nothing. Stood still. Hammer at her side.
Volkis watched from the lower steps. The drum in his chest thundered. He looked at the gem on the altar. Then at the shard in his pouch. Glass. Both of them. He stepped forward.
“Khelag.”
His voice carried across the square. Quiet. But clear.
She turned.
Volkis lifted the pouch. Pulled out the shard of blue glass. Held it up. “Yer uncle has been lyin’ to ya. That gem around yer neck. It’s only glass.”
Dorrin spun. Face dark. “Silence. You know nothing.”
Volkis kept his eyes on Khelag. “The real one chipped off in the stable. When ya pulled the beads from the yak. This is it. Glass. Same as what ya just put on the altar.”
Khelag looked from Volkis to the shard. Then to the gem on the stone. Her hand tightened on the hammer haft. Something shifted in her face. Not anger. Not yet. Just a crack. A question.
The dragon watched. Breath slow. Waiting.
The square held its breath. The drum inside Volkis beat harder. The mountain listened.
SECTION FIFTEEN: THE DRAGON SPEAKS
The dragon leaned forward. Scales shifted with a low crystalline chime. Breath rolled down the steps in a hot wave that smelled of old fire and iron. Eyes narrowed on Dorrin. Then on Khelag. Then back to the blue gem lying on the altar.
“Old dwarf. You have brought the soul of the mountain. But it is not that chunk of glass.”
Dorrin stiffened. “It is the soul. The prophecy says—”
“The prophecy says many things.” The dragon’s voice cut through like a blade on stone. “It is said in the same ancient tomes I have guarded for a thousand years that the soul resides in the descendant of the sacrificed wife. Not in a stone. You could not have made that mistake. You know the words.”
Dorrin’s face darkened. Jaw tight. But he said nothing.
The dragon’s head lowered further. Breath washed over Khelag. Hot. Dry. Her hair stirred in it. “Place the soul on the altar.”
Khelag took one step back. Hammer rose in her hands. “I will not.”
Dorrin turned. Voice hard. “Do it.”
Khelag looked at her uncle. Then at the dragon. Then at the dwarves behind her. “No.”
Dorrin nodded once to the eight warriors at his back. “Hold her.”
The eight moved. Slow at first. Then faster. Four stepped forward. Hands reached. Khelag swung her hammer. Caught one in the chest. Armor rang. The dwarf staggered but did not fall. Another grabbed her arm. She twisted. Elbow struck jaw. Bone cracked. Still they pressed. Two more seized her legs. She kicked. One fell back. The rest held on. She fought like a storm trapped in armor. Hammer dropped. Fists flew. Nails raked. Blood welled on arms and faces. But there were too many. They forced her down. Back against the stone altar. Arms pinned. Legs held. She bucked. Snarled. One dwarf took a knee to the ribs. Another lost a tooth. They held.
Four dwarves did not move.
The four who had stabled their yaks at Volkis’s inn that first night. Kgol Rocktender among them. They stood apart. Weapons lowered. Eyes on Khelag. Then on Dorrin.
Kgol spoke. Voice rough. “She is more worthy of our loyalty than you ever were.”
Dorrin’s face twisted. “You will obey your king.”
Kgol shook his head once. “Not today.”
The four stepped forward. Axes rose. Not against Khelag. Against their own kin. The eight holding her turned. Shocked. Angry. Blades met axes. Steel rang. Dwarves fought dwarves. Old comrades. Blood spilled on the altar steps. One of the eight fell, axe in the shoulder. Another dropped to a knee. Kgol and his three pressed in. Shields locked. Hammers swung. They fought to reach Khelag. To free her.
The dragon reared up.
Full height. Two hundred feet of crystal and fury uncoiled. Wings half-spread. Tail lashed. Spires trembled. The square shook. Dust fell from the ceiling. In the center of its chest a small dark object pulsed. Brown. Crimson. Almost black. Like a stone wrapped in shadow. The heart.
The dragon leaned down. Mouth opened wide. Jaws wide enough to swallow the altar whole. Hot breath washed over Khelag. She stopped struggling for one heartbeat. Looked up into the dark maw.
The dragon lowered. Teeth closed on stone and flesh.
Volkis watched from below. The drum in his chest exploded. He ran. Aedan ran with him.
The mountain roared. The end had come.
SECTION SIXTEEN: THE FALL OF THE DRAGON
Volkis saw the dragon’s jaws descending. Saw Khelag pinned. Saw the altar. Saw the false gem. Saw Dorrin standing back with cold eyes.
Something inside him snapped.
He did not think. He moved.
Hammer rose in both hands. He charged up the steps, boots pounding. The dragon’s head lowered further. Mouth wide. Hot breath washed over him. Volkis leaped, a speck against the crystal mass. Hammer swung in a wide arc. Struck the side of the dragon’s head with all his weight behind it.
The impact rang like a bell struck in a cavern. Scales cracked. The dragon recoiled. Head snapped sideways. A low hiss escaped its throat.
Volkis landed hard. Rolled once. Came up fast. Hammer already spinning again. He struck once more. Higher this time. Caught the dragon under the jaw. Crystal chipped. The beast reared back. Head high. Eyes wide. A roar built in its chest.
The dissenting dwarves seized the moment. Kgol Rocktender and his three charged the eight holding Khelag. Axes rose. Shields crashed. Old comrades fought old comrades. Blood spilled on the altar steps. One of the loyal eight fell. Another staggered back clutching a broken arm. The dissenters pulled and hacked and shoved. Khelag broke free. Rolled off the altar. Came up gasping.
Volkis turned. Eyes found Dorrin.
The old king stood frozen. Face pale. Axe lowered.
Volkis stepped toward him. Hammer raised. Voice low. Hard. No anger. Only truth. “You betrayed her. Betrayed yer own. Disloyal. Failure as a king. Failure as a dwarf.”
Dorrin opened his mouth. No words came.
Volkis swung once. Clean. Hammer struck Dorrin’s chest. Armor crumpled. Ribs gave. The old king staggered. Dropped to his knees. Looked up at Volkis. Eyes wide. Searching.
“The heart,” Dorrin whispered.
Then he fell forward. Dead.
Volkis did not pause. He bent. Picked up Khelag’s war hammer from the stone. Tossed it to her underhand. She caught it. Eyes met his again. Brief. Sharp. No words.
The remaining loyal dwarves turned. Saw Dorrin dead. Saw the dissenters closing in. They fought. But the four who had refused were stronger now. Angrier. They overtook them. One by one the loyal eight fell. Not all dead. Some wounded. Some crawling away. But the fight was done.
Volkis and Khelag turned in unison.
The dragon reared higher. Chest exposed. The dark crimson-brown object pulsed in its center. Like a stone wrapped in shadow.
They swung together.
Two hammers. One from Volkis. One from Khelag. Met the dragon’s chest at the same instant. Steel struck crystal. Crystal struck crystal. The dark heart met the hammers.
An explosion shook the mountain. Light burst outward. Crimson and blue swirled together. Shards flew. The dragon’s roar cut off. Scales cracked. Body shuddered. The dark object in its chest shattered. Light poured out. Filled the square. Filled the palace. Filled the city.
The mountain shook again. Dust fell from the ceiling. Pillars trembled. The great cavern seemed to breathe.
Then silence.
The dragon’s body stiffened. Cracked along every seam. Fell apart in slow motion. Crystal shards rained down. The hoard beneath shifted. Gold and jewels slid away.
Volkis and Khelag stood side by side. Hammers lowered. Breathing hard. Eyes on each other.
The mountain exhaled. Long. Slow. Alive again.
SECTION SEVENTEEN: THE AFTERMATH
The dragon exploded in a rush of light and sound. Crystal shards flew outward like broken stars. The hoard beneath shifted and slid. The mountain shook once. Hard. Then silence fell. Thick. Heavy.
In the smoke a dark crimson mist rose. Slow. Thick. Like blood turned to vapor. Beside it a light crystal blue smoke drifted upward. Thin. Bright. The two swirled. Danced. As if on a breeze no one could feel. They twisted together, crimson and blue blending, spiraling, until the colors were one. A deep violet that pulsed like a living thing.
The smoke descended. Slow. Sentient. Settled over Volkis and Khelag where they had fallen, passed out when the dragon burst. The mist covered them. Sank into skin. Into breath. Into blood. The dwarves who still lived watched. Nine now. Most injured. Arms broken. Legs bleeding. Faces pale. They said nothing. Only stared.
Volkis woke first. Chest rising slow. Eyes opened. Crystal blue. Clearer now. He sat up. Looked at Khelag beside him. She stirred. Brown eyes fluttered open. Met his. Held. No words. Just a long look. Something settled between them. Quiet. Certain.
The dwarves began to wake. Groaned. Sat up slow. Kgol Rocktender among them. He looked at Dorrin’s body. Still. Face down. Blood pooled dark beneath him.
Volkis stood. Walked to Dorrin. Pulled the cloak from his own shoulders, the old cloak that had wrapped the hammer and helmet. He knelt. Draped it over Dorrin. Covered the head. Covered the wounds. Tucked it gentle. Respectful.
He stood again. Looked at the nine dwarves.
“Take yer kin home. Git ‘em healed up. This fight is over.”
His voice carried across the square. Quiet at first. Then louder. It shook the mountain. Dust fell from high arches. Pillars trembled. The words rolled through halls and chambers. Reached every corner of the city.
He turned then. Looked out at the far end of the square, where shadows moved. Goblins. Hobgoblins. Dark gnomes. Hiding in doorways. Peering from windows.
Volkis raised his voice again. Louder. Clear. “Dwarves are comin’ back. And more than just twenty. Whole populations. You got till they git here to make yerselves gone. It’s yer only warnin’.”
The shadows shifted. Eyes gleamed. Then vanished. The far end of the square emptied. Quiet. Fast.
The nine dwarves gathered their dead. Shouldered bodies. Helped the wounded. Started the long trek out. No one spoke to Volkis. No one needed to. They passed him with nods. Respectful. Grateful. Kgol Rocktender paused last. Looked at Volkis. Gave a single nod. Then led them away.
Volkis watched them go. Until the last figure disappeared into the tunnel.
Then he turned.
Khelag stood there. Hammer at her side. Armor dented. Blood dried on her face. Eyes steady. Brown. Deep.
Volkis stepped to her. Close. No hurry.
She looked up at him. Said nothing.
He reached out. Gentle. Touched her cheek. Thumb brushed away a streak of blood. Her hand came up. Covered his.
He leaned down. She leaned up.
The kiss was quiet. Soft. Real. No rush. No words. Just the meeting of two who had walked through fire and stone to find each other.
When they parted Volkis spoke low. “I’ll rejoin the dwarves. But I won’t do it without tellin’ my parents what’s transpired. And that I found one to truly love.”
Khelag’s eyes held his. Steady. “I’ll wait,” she said.
Volkis nodded once.
They turned together. Walked down the long stair. Past the shattered hoard. Past the broken dragon. Past the bones and the empty halls.
The mountain was quiet now. The drum inside Volkis beat slow. Steady. Satisfied.
The heart and soul walked out together. The tale was done.
But the mountain remembered. And the dwarves would return.
SECTION EIGHTEEN: THE ROAD HOME
Volkis walked the long road back to Ganton’s Keep with Khelag at his side. No hurry. No words needed most of the time. They let the miles pass quiet. The mountain behind them felt different now. Lighter. Like a weight had lifted off its shoulders.
When they reached the edge of town the sun was low. Smoke rose from chimneys. Children ran in the streets. Volkis slowed. Looked at the stable. Looked at the little house beside it. Ma and da were on the porch. Waiting. They had known he would come back. They always knew.
Ma stood first. Small. Human. Gray hair tied back simple. Da beside her. Tall. Broad. Hands still strong from years of work. They stepped down. Met him in the yard.
Ma reached up. Touched his face. Eyes soft. “My boy.”
Volkis swallowed. Voice rough. “I found her.”
Da nodded once. Slow. “We knew you would. Someday.”
Khelag stood quiet. Watched. Felt the weight of the moment.
Ma looked at her. Smiled gentle. “You’re the one. The soul we waited for.”
Volkis frowned. “Waited?”
Da put a hand on his shoulder. Heavy. Warm. “We’re not what we seem, son. Not fully human. Not fully anything. Demigods. Charged long ago to watch over the heart of the mountain. That’s you. Always has been.”
Volkis stared. “Me?”
Ma nodded. “You were dwarven in body. But you carried the heart Kertagh lost when he sacrificed his wife. The mountain sundered itself to punish him. The heart wandered. We caught it. Kept it safe. Every two hundred years you’d forget. Lose who you were. We’d move to another village. Raise you as a child that never aged. Wait again.”
Da spoke low. “A hundred generations. More. We watched you grow. Watched you forget. Watched you find small kindnesses in stables and fields. Watched you never quite fit. Until now.”
Volkis looked down at his hands. Hammer still strapped to his back. Felt the weight of it. Felt the drum that had guided him all this way. Felt it quiet now. Satisfied. “You raised me. Loved me. Knowing I’d forget you.”
Ma smiled. Tears in her eyes. “We loved you knowing you’d find her. That’s enough.”
Khelag stepped closer. Took Volkis’s hand. Squeezed once. No words. Just presence.
Da looked at them both. “The dragon’s gone. The mountain breathes again. You’ve done what we waited lifetimes to see.”
Ma reached up. Kissed Volkis’s forehead. “Go live now. Both of you. The heart and soul together. That’s all we ever wanted.”
Volkis pulled them both into a rough embrace. Held tight. Said nothing. Didn’t need to.
When he let go, Ma wiped her eyes. Da clapped him on the back. Hard. Proud.
They turned. Walked away together. Toward the house. Toward the life they had guarded for so long.
Volkis and Khelag stood in the yard a moment longer. Watched the door close behind them.
Then they walked on.
SECTION NINETEEN: THE COURTSHIP
The courtship came slow. Gentle. Like stone settling after an earthquake.
They walked the woods around Ganton’s Keep. Quiet trails. Sunlight through pine needles. Hands brushing sometimes. Not grabbing. Just touching. Enough to know the other was there.
They sat by streams. Watched water move over rocks. Khelag would lean against his shoulder. Volkis would rest his head on hers. No need to speak. The mountain drums were quiet now, but they still felt them. In the pulse under their skin.
Official events came later. Other dwarves arrived. Word spread fast. Clans from the Norlans. Scattered families from the south. They came to see the one who had slain the dragon. To see the heart and soul returned. Khelag stood tall at the head of the new council. Volkis stood beside her. Not on a throne. Just beside. When they asked him to sit as king he shook his head. “I’ll stand as her friend. That’s enough.”
They met elders in stone halls. Listened to old songs. Heard tales of Kertagh and Kahsep. Heard their own names woven into new verses. Khelag would grip his hand under the table. Tight. Volkis would squeeze back. Steady.
But the best times were alone.
Late nights in small chambers. Fire low. Khelag would take off her armor. Volkis would set the hammer aside. They’d sit close. Talk soft. About nothing and everything. She’d trace the scars on his arms. He’d brush her beard braid with careful fingers. They’d laugh quiet at old memories. The stable. The yaks. The beads he’d carved. The way she’d dropped them like trash and walked away.
One night she looked at him long. “I didn’t see you then.”
Volkis shrugged. “I didn’t need you to.”
She leaned in. Kissed him slow. “I see you now.”
He smiled. Small. Real. “Good.”
SECTION TWENTY: THE CORONATION
The coronation came on a clear day, when the mountain air felt clean and sharp. The great square of Gillar Morathak had been swept clean of the last traces of blood and broken crystal. Torches burned high on every pillar. Dwarves filled the space from wall to wall. Thousands. More than the city had seen in a thousand years. Clans from the Norlans. Families from the south. Scattered folk who had heard the drum beat true again and come home.
They stood in rows on the wide steps. Voices rose in low song. Old songs. New verses woven in. The name Steelbender was already there. Aedan had started it, calling Volkis that after the fight with the goblins. The name had stuck. Quiet at first. Then louder. Now it rang through the square like a hammer on good steel.
Khelag stood at the top of the ceremonial stair. Gray steel armor polished bright. Silver accents catching torchlight. No crown yet. Just the weight of what she carried.
The old voice from the beginning spoke once more. Soft. Over the crowd.
“Khelag, daughter of the line unbroken, last of the sacrificed mother’s blood. The soul returned. The mountain breathes again. By right of deed and blood and the will of those gathered here, you are named Queen of the Artiplans.”
The square answered. A roar that shook the pillars. Axes thumped on shields. Voices joined in one word. “Queen.”
Khelag lifted her hand. Silence fell fast.
She turned to Volkis.
He stood one step below her. No armor. Just the cloak that had wrapped the hammer. The hammer itself at his belt. He looked up at her. Steady. Quiet.
“Volkis Steelbender,” she said. Voice clear. Carrying to every corner. “I ask you to stand beside me. Not as subject. Not as friend. As husband. As King of the Artiplan dwarves.”
The square held its breath.
Volkis looked at her a long moment. Then he stepped up. Dropped to one knee. Took her hand in both of his. Rough palms. Callused fingers. Gentle.
“I will not stand by you as king,” he said. Voice low but clear. Folksy. Honest. “I will stand by you as husband. Kneel before you as queen. Defend you as a friend. Die for you if called to do so.” He looked up at her. Eyes crystal blue. Steady. “I got no use fer power. Never did. I got one mission in this life. Keep you safe. Keep you happy. That’s enough.”
Khelag’s eyes held his. Something soft moved there. Not weakness. Just truth.
She squeezed his hand once. Firm.
The square erupted again. Louder. Axes thumped. Voices cheered. “Steelbender! Steelbender!”
Volkis rose. Kissed her hand once. Gentle. Then stepped back. Faded to the side. Let her have the light. Let her have the moment.
Khelag turned to the crowd. Raised her hammer high.
The coronation ended with song. With oaths. With dwarves swearing fealty to their queen. Volkis stood at the edge. Watched her. Smiled small. Real.
Later that night, after the torches dimmed and the square emptied, they walked alone through the quiet halls. No guards. No ceremony. Just them.
She took his hand. He laced fingers with hers.
They walked slow. Past empty mansions. Past old forges. Past the place where the dragon had coiled.
Khelag spoke soft. “You didn’t have to refuse.”
Volkis shrugged. “Wanted to.”
She stopped. Turned to him. “Why?”
He looked at her. Long. “Because I love you. Not the crown. Not the throne. You.”
She stepped closer. Rested her forehead against his. “Then that’s enough.”
They stood there. Quiet. The mountain breathed around them. Slow. Steady.
The heart and soul had come home.
And the tale was done.
EPILOGUE
Thus rose the mountain that fell, the soul that was lost, and the heart that was broken. All were mended. This was not because of might, strength, or armies. What defeated the curse was love and persistence. The love of a good dwarf and the compassion of another felled a great dragon that had toppled empires, and the sun rose again on the Artiplans.
I hope you have enjoyed this tale well enough to remember, for you are to tell your children of Volkis and Khelag ere they are forgotten. A tale even half remembered is a myth that will span the worlds, but a story forgotten ceases to exist, and all that suffered or sacrificed did so for naught.
Now snuff your fires, little ones. Snuggle up in your beds and pull the covers tight, for although there are still things in the darker parts of the world, they are less ferocious now, for the dwarves still stand in the Artiplans.
Sleep well.
The mountain breathes easier tonight.
And the drum beats true.
Good night.