“Get back!” Lucas shouted, stabbing at another attacker.
Torsten swung wildly at the goblin, but kept missing.
Suddenly, gears cranked, ice fell in a thick sheet, and the great doors slowly opened. Warm air pumping from dwarven forges gushed out, and a blade of light bloomed across the mountainside. The goblins scattered at the sight of it.
“Back ye vermin!” a dwarf yelled, rushing by Torsten and Lucas. He banged his axe against an iron cooking pot, the clang echoing loudly. A few more dwarves followed him, doing the same. The goblins screeched and howled as they retreated. The one on Torsten’s shoulder leaned in front of his face, wearing a mask that looked like it belonged to some terrible bird. Torsten saw into its eyes, filled nothing but darkness. The spawn of evil. Then it leaped off him and clambered up the rock face and out of sight.
Lucas dropped to a knee, panting, and let his shield drop. He tore the dart from his arm and vigorously rubbed the wound.
“Ye’ll be fine, laddie,” one of the dwarves said as he slapped Lucas on the back. “They make ’em from grimaur toxin, but it’d take a fair bit more of them little darts to take down a man yer size.”
Torsten stabbed his sword into the snow, leaning on it to gather his breath. “What were you all waiting for?”
“Never good news when a Shieldsman arrives at our doorstep.” The yellow-bearded dwarf stuck out his hand. “Brouben Cragrock, at yer service.”
“One of King Logrit’s sons?” Torsten asked.
The dwarf nodded, then with a chuckle said, “Some lands, they call that a prince.”
“Sir Unger, at yours.” Torsten shook his hand. For such a small man, Brouben had a grip like a zhulong jaw. “The Light of Iam shines upon our meeting.”
“I say all the gods have shogged off.” He and the others started inside without warning.
Torsten looked to Lucas, and they exchanged a nod before following. Lucas patted the mule, took its reins, and led him in, the cart’s wheels creaking as he did. The doors had opened just enough for the cart to fit, then slammed shut the moment they were in, earning a stuttering exhalation from Torsten’s young ward.
“Sorry bout the goblins,” Brouben said as if they were his fault. His voice carried down an impossibly smooth stone hall.
Torsten was larger than most men. He’d often been called a half-giant—a bit of an insult, but that was long before he’d taken up the shield. Big as he was, the immensity of the tunnel system made him feel like a dwarf himself. But wasn’t that like the dwarves? Always eager to show off their ingenuity and masonry skills; compensating for their height.
Torsten found it challenging to see with mere torches for light, but as he let his blindfolded eyes focus on the gentle bumps and lines along the ground.
“Not the first time dealing with them,” Torsten said. “But since when do they venture into the light of day?”
“They been crazed of late,” Brouben said. “Last few months. Attacking higher up than usual, in bigger groups than usual. More reckless than usual—ye can imagine that. Ye ain’t the first flower pickers they tried to shuck off on the way up the Dragon’s Tail.”
“I’ve not heard a word of that.”
“Of course, ye ain’t. Ye men are too busy killing each other to worry about us stone folk up here.”
“I’m sorry if that’s the way you feel,” Torsten said. “But I promise, it isn’t true. You may not be the Children of Iam, but Meungor refused to betray him in the feud.”
“Aye, instead he hid down here.” The dwarf laughed. “Meant nothin’ by it. Weird things been happenin up north, right about the time those cultists ravaged your city. Right about the Dawning. Ain't been to Yarrington since I was this tall,” he raised a flat hand to his already low-to-the-ground hip, “but I was sorry to hear it.”
“Thank you,” Torsten said, sincerely. “We’re doing what we can to recover. With your help—”
“I have a cousin on Daemon’s Spike… East Vale, actually. Yer Glintish, aye? Just a stone’s throw from yer people.”
“I’m from Yarrington,” Torsten said, a harsh edge to his tone.
“Whatever ye say. Besides all that, he—my cousin that is—told me of a shog shuckin grimaur infestation nested in their Great Hall! Loathsome beasts damn near ate half their foodstores.”
“Up from the depths?” Lucas asked. “All the stories I read said they’d burrowed into the caverns.”
“Usually keep their distance from people too, dwarves or flower pickers.” He shrugged stout shoulders. “Strange, all of it, ye ask me. Just last week, our scouts spotted a flock of somethin flying northeast, full speed. Most say they were wyverns, but I say grimaurs. Just cus the grimarus ain’t been seen in a while don’t mean they’re gone. Most think I’m crazy for thinkin it, but wyverns by the hundreds is crazy, too. And there were hundreds. Ain’t seen so many in me life. My father either.”
“Goblins, grimaurs… What do you think is causing it?” Torsten asked. He didn’t have to, but he did anyway. It was clear, now, that the dark magics performed by Redstar atop Mount Lister hadn’t only hurt Yarrington. It’d rippled to the North, stirring monsters forgotten from the older, more violent age of the God Feud.
“Questions like that be for the tinkers,” Brouben said. “I just head where the fightin needs me.” He stopped at the start of a massive set of stairs and spread his arms wide. “Welcome to Balonhearth, Sir Unger of the Glass.”
Torsten noticed Lucas’ eyes go wide as the city’s Great Hall loomed before them. Columns as thick as thousand-year-old trees rose to the height of the lofty, vaulted space. Behind it, the great hollow within the mountain extended, its sides and bottom carved with homes for the countless citizens. An entire city, underground. Veins of iron shimmered all around in the stone.
Stairs snaked up and down in every direction from the entry chamber. Massive fire basins hung over the sprawl like tiny suns illuminating it all. Carts on tracks zipped all around, using slopes and dips to propel themselves, and allowing dwarves to traverse the districts easily. Some vanished into deeper caverns, down into the mining trenches.
“So, what brings ye to Balonhearth; to me Father’s city?” Brouben asked.
“Actually… he does. I need to speak with your king,” Torsten replied. The sense of awe faded quickly for him, unlike Lucas, whose eyes darted this way and that, a dumb smile staining his face. Torsten had been here before, though years ago, and it was bigger now. The vast hollow had been expanded, and more carved, stacked homes descended into the deep, into the shadows.
“And here I hoped ye were just weary travelers desirin a samplin of dwarven hospitality.”
“I wish that could be said.”
“As ye can imagine,” Brouben said, not skipping a beat, “with all the yiggin strangeness going on in this place, the King’s very busy.”
“And I’m not here to waste his time. Lucas.” The boy was too busy staring at the city to move. “Lucas,” Torsten said a second time, nudging him in the side.
“Sir?” Lucas said, snapping out of it.
Torsten gestured to the mule’s cart, and Lucas hurried to it and threw back the tarp, revealing a chest with the seal of Valin Tehr: a bushel of grapes.
Brouben’s eyes lit up. “Well, why didn’t ye say so. This way, Sir Unger.”
They were led toward a wood-and-iron track running alongside the main staircase. This one was bigger, meant for more than mining carts. Torsten heard it before he saw it: a wooden platform powered by two burly dwarves working a seesaw apparatus twice their size.
“Up ye go,” Brouben said, waving them along.
Torsten followed, but he could hear Lucas swallow audibly. “It’ll be fine,” Torsten told him.
“I’m not worried about me…” He patted the mule and urged it up onto the platform. The thing gave more than a little resistance, neighing and tossing its head, but eventually, Lucas managed to load both it and the cart. A dwarf locked the gate, and before any
one said a word, the platform took off.
Torsten’s stomach dropped as the track curved around a column, then led them so close to one of the hanging basins, he could feel the heat of the flames. There really was no end to dwarven ingenuity, even though he couldn’t understand why they made it so hard on themselves. Bridges were strung between clumps of houses carved into stalactites. To Torsten, used to the disciplined order of Yarrington’s streets, it all seemed like chaos.
The platform cut sharply. The mule stumbled, and Lucas grabbed onto Torsten’s arm like a child riding a horse for the first time. He promptly coughed and removed it, and Torsten thought it best not to draw attention and embarrass the kid. Instead, he watched a group of dwarven miners in a square down below, burning a pile of goblins who’d clearly ventured too far beyond their home. Now it was his turn to cough, but for a much different reason. The smell was intolerable, like burning hair mixed with goat shog.
“Embarrassing,” Brouben said, waving a hand in front of his nose.
They turned again, headed straight toward a colossal statue of a dwarf’s head bearing a winged helm—the crown of Balonhearth and the Three Kingdoms. An intricately-carved beard fell down from his broad chin. Torsten felt as if he could make out each individual hair in the curls that cascaded down a stalactite. As if supplying life to the whole city, fresh water—likely melting snow from the peaks above—ran from a slit just below the statue’s open mouth and pooled prodigiously in a pit below. The track passed through the mouth and stopped within a wide, domed chamber.
Rising in intervals, thick columns along the edge were sculpted in the form of Meungor the Sharp Axe, god of the dwarves and lesser giants. Each one hoisted a battle-axe to support the ceiling.
Just as Torsten had been in the city before, he’d also stood before this throne. And, as remembered, Clan Cragrock couldn’t help but display their wealth in ludicrous fashion. Curled like a sleeping dog, the skeleton of a dragon wrapped the circumference of the circular room. Its spine—each vertebra a step—from its long pointed tail to its head served as the path up to the throne where an oversized seat forged of iron and festooned with gold etchings sat between two curved horns. The skull faced the entry, each fang as tall as Torsten and just as wide. A fire basin crackled within its fearsome jaws, sending plumes of smoke billowing from its nostrils.
And beyond the cage of its ribs was a barred gate into the Iron Bank itself, guarded by four dwarves in spiked armor. These were no ordinary dwarves. The clanbreakers were specially trained with the sole purpose of defending the Three Kingdoms and the Iron Bank, and no one knew how many of them there were.
Within the Iron Bank, amongst all his gold, iron, and jewels, the King made his home, like a greedy dragon in the stories of yesteryear. Hoarding. Possessed by riches. Straight through the gates, encased in an altar shaped like Meungor’s axe, rested the greatest of all riches, a red stone that glowed so bright, it was said that staring at it could blind a man. The Brike Stone. The solidified heart of the dragon he sat upon, said to be the last ever to soar through the skies of Pantego.
“Sir Torsten Unger, is that ye?” King Lorgit Cragrock asked. His voice was soft, weathered by time. As he rose from his chair, he groaned. The dwarves lived a long time, but Lorgit had lived longer than most. A long, gray beard unfurled down to his waist, partially obscuring glinting chainmail emblazoned with the symbol of his kingdom, an iron watchtower split by an axe. Every link in his armor was crafted from gold—not a very strong material, but with the clanbreakers standing guard, it was doubtful the King would see any trouble unless he went looking for it. His winged helm, also gold—and likely worth as much as the Glass Castle—sat crooked atop his head.
Now there’s a crown Whitney should have stolen, Torsten thought to himself, against his better judgment.
Finally, a vermillion cape wrapped once around his throat and trailed behind him. Torsten noted the different fabrics sewn onto its end. The dwarves had a custom: when a battle was won, the losing king would be required to forfeit a portion of his train to be added to the victor’s. King Lorgit’s train was very long, indeed.
King Lorgit strolled down the dragon’s back, taking his time and letting each agonizing step fall ever so carefully. Yet another thing about dwarves Torsten couldn’t stand: they were never in a hurry to accomplish anything. From rebuilding the Royal Crypt to their own mines, they knew how to milk payment, chiseling away, perfecting every little detail beyond the scrutiny of even the most well-trained eye.
“It’s me, Your Highness.” Once the King had made it all the way down, Torsten struck his chest and bowed his head. Lucas fell to a knee, an action that would have been customary before a Glass King, but Torsten gave him a kick to stand. Dwarves saw it as an insult from men; forcing themselves to a dwarf’s height.
“Been too long, old friend!” He grabbed Torsten’s shoulders and pulled him close. Very little of the old man’s face showed behind his beard and bushy brows, but what was there was wrinkled as centuries-old leather. He had kind eyes for a conqueror, though it had been many years since he’d waged war against his brothers and seized control of the three great subterranean cities.
“Too long, indeed,” Torsten said.
“What’s this?” The handsy king flicked Torsten’s blindfold. For a moment, it rose above one of his eyes, and Torsten was thrust into darkness. Torsten straightened his back and readjusted it.
“A gift from Iam,” Torsten said. “Helps me see.”
“Ye a priest now?” King Lorgit asked, then with a laugh, said, “Father Unger?”
“Shieldsman, he claims,” Brouben chimed in. “Never seen a knight who blinds himself though.”
“His natural vision was stolen from him by unholy magic,” Lucas said, still bowed at the waist. All heads snapped toward the boy like they’d forgotten he was there. Lucas cleared his throat and continued, “The… uh… blindfold was blessed by our new High Priest, and offers sight.”
“That true?” King Lorgit said. He leaned up on the balls of his feet to get a better look at it like he was evaluating a newly discovered vein of gold.
“In a way,” Torsten said, pulling away. “But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Straight to business!” King Lorgit laughed, then patted Torsten on the back. “Always with ye flower pickers. Come, let’s sit. Been a long time since these old bones hoisted an axe.”
“Shog shuckin lucky for our enemies,” Brouben remarked.
King Lorgit led Torsten toward the dragon’s ribs. “Who’s the kid?” he whispered.
“A new recruit,” Torsten said. “We have many these days after… well, everything.”
“I can imagine. I was heart broke to hear news of Liam dyin, and now his beautiful wife. I would’ve come for the funerals, but aye, I ain’t one for travelin these days.”
“I understand,” Torsten said. “And so does the Crown.”
“I trust the crew I sent ye to fix yer Royal Crypt performed as expected? ’Twas me own ancestors built that place, ye know. I’d hate to see ye men let it rot.” He chortled.
“Payment was difficult, but the job got done.”
“I hope that’s not why yer here—” His voice cut off abruptly and his breath became labored.
“Father,” Brouben interrupted. He hurried forward and helped lower his father onto one of the dragon bones, positioning Lorgit’s long cape so it wouldn’t catch on anything.
Just then, the doors to the Iron Bank swung open and a new face entered.
“Father!” the newcomer said, deeply concerned.
“I’m fine, Al,” the King said, then he exhaled as he made himself comfortable. “Sir Unger, this be me other son, Alfotdrumlin—ye can call him Al.”
Torsten dipped his head respectfully.
“I understand the difficulties yer kingdom has been through,” the King continued. “Dead Kings, rebels, those paler-faced northerners, but ye know better than anyone. If ye can’t pay, we can’t help ye. Th
at goes for any of ye flower pickers comin here with shallow promises.”
Torsten’s eyes would have narrowed if they could. He took a seat next to the king and said, “Has another of us come here?”
“Yuri Darkings came, oh… three months past. Beggin the help of my army, but only on the promise of future wealth.” His laugh, punctuated by a sharp cough, echoed across the throne room. “Can ye believe it? A loan, like we’d be trustin a man who betrayed his own.”
“Bastard…” Torsten grumbled. He couldn’t wait to end this rebellion and get his hands on the man who’d killed Wardric and freed the Caleef. He was about to scold the dwarf for not informing the Crown about those talks, then realized that Yuri offering on promised wealth meant he didn’t have much at hand. And it also meant that he was without the full support of the Black Sandsmen, who were often too stubborn to ever ask for help from others. The Shesaitju certainly had the wealth to recruit mercenaries if they wanted to.
“That’s why yer here, ain’t it?” King Lorgit asked after a brief silence. “To borrow a chunk of me army, same way Liam loved to do.”
Torsten sighed. “Am I so transparent?”
“Yer kind always are. But ye can’t hardly pay for repairs to a crypt. I be glad we have peace, but me and Liam—we had our deals. This new king… just a kid… don’t know Liam’s son, don’t know a soul on his Council, savin yerself and Kaviel Jolly of Crowfall. That one's had more than his fair share of run-ins with me cousin Thakmuck Greythane up north even of here. Not to mention rumors of yer young king’s… uh, shortcomins.”
“Are greatly exaggerated,” Torsten said through clenched teeth. “The work of Drav Cra warlocks who have since been driven away. But King Pi understands that a relationship with the Iron Kingdoms is crucial. And so, we bring you this gift.”
Torsten nodded toward Lucas, and the young man stirred from staring at the dragon’s enormous teeth. He dragged the tarp off their cart and fumbled through his satchel for a key. Then, he threw open the chest, revealing a pile of gold bullions. It was only a third of what had been requisitioned from beneath the Vineyard after Valin’s betrayal was revealed. The rest had gone toward rebuilding Dockside, Winde Port, and funding other facets of the war effort. A fresh start for the royal coffers.
War of Men Page 6
