by David Adams
The air around me tingled with power, and there was a brief flash of red light, and then I was in a very different place indeed.
The world returned as a brightly lit white glare that made me squint and cover my eyes. I could hear wind howling around us, and the air was noticeably colder. When the light faded and my eyes adjusted, we were before the gates of Irondarrow keep.
It was set into the base of a mountain, the soil red and rusty, the tip of which stretched higher than I could imagine. Never had I seen anything so massive; simply seeing it caused a profound dizziness to swell in my gut. Suddenly, I clutched Vaarden’s vile hand tighter, as though I might fall up to the sky and never be seen again if I let it go.
The feeling passed after a moment, but I still felt uneasy. Queasy. Vaarden shook my hand free, glaring at me contemptuously. I focused on the ground and the gates of the city.
The metal doors were recessed into the mountain over a hundred feet away. They were eighty feet tall and covered in rusted iron spikes, each five feet long, impaled upon which were hundreds of bodies. Humans, dwarves, and even a vicious looking wyvern had been stuck on without ceremony, each in various states of decay. The stone beneath the entranceway was stained with black fluid that seemed to have seeped into the very rock itself. Two piles of assorted bones had been stacked at either sides of the door, the remnants of uncounted years of assailants who had rotted away and fallen off.
Hopefully there were few kobolds amongst those remains. I doubted any of my people would be suicidal enough to attempt to breach those gates, although the signs of battle were everywhere. The stone surrounding the gates was chipped and broken, and the gates themselves bowed and buckled, the victim of a prolonged siege. Through the cracks I could see that the metal was eight feet thick at the very least.
Once, I had asked Dorydd if Contremulus could breach the walls of Irondarrow Keep. She had deflected my question. Now, seeing the massive iron wall with my own eyes, I felt less confident with the defensive posture of my adopted city.
Ironic, it was, that the gates of Irondarrow Keep dwarfed those of Ssarsdale.
“Welcome,” said Dorydd, her tone a mixture of admiration and concern, “to Irondarrow Keep, home of the Thunderhelm dwarves, throne-city of Queen Orirbela Thunderhelm the Sixteenth.”
“I’m not sure I feel welcome at all,” I said, unable to take my eyes off the arrangement of bodies pinned to the gates.
Valen squeezed my hand tighter and said nothing.
“The Thunderhelm territory borders the Shadowlands,” said Dorydd, seeming unconcerned by the bodies splayed out in front of us. “A scar upon the land, magically blighted for as long as there have been books to record it, a place home to the foulest of things. Inkwalkers…demons.” She took a deep, proud breath. “Many times have demons have assaulted our doors, always to be thrown back by our steel, our spells, and our more...unique defenses. The Army of the Open Fist have twice marched upon us, mercenaries paid by Valamar and Liang, and that is before we get to the many dangerous denizens of the surrounding mountains. Life in this region is war, child, but the heat that melts the metal also strengthens it.”
It was hard to argue with that. “We are expected, yes?” I asked. “Why are the gates still closed?”
“An envoy will be sent out for us,” she said. “Once they verify our identity.” She turned and waved cheerily towards the gates.
I did as well, feeling vaguely foolish as I swung my hand in the air, greeting a wall of bones and iron.
Valen, however, seemed transfixed. “What manner of place is this?” he asked, finally speaking, staring wide eyed. “I’ve never seen so many bones.”
“Not all of them are enemies of Irondarrow Keep. The queen likes to collect pets for her sons to play with. And by pets, I mean dwarves. And by play with…” Dorydd gestured to the row of spikes. I knew where that was going.
I kept waving.
For a considerable time nothing happened. I began to suspect we were being ignored. Then a low groan ran through the air, through the stone below my feet, deep and bellowing. With the tortured moan of stressed metal, the bent crack of the Irondarrow gates widened, and the metal parted.
From the door came a dozen dwarves, clad in plate armour that was lacquered black and gilded with red. Marching with them, a litter of warriors carried a tall, raven-haired dwarf woman with skin as pale as a ghost. Even at the considerable distance at which we stood, I could see that her slight frame concealed a powerful strength beneath. She wore rich red robes, blood red, and wore a bejewelled sword at her hip.
She was so different from Dorydd’s fair features, and out of the corner of my eye I could see my friend’s face tighten slightly.
The procession drew closer, and as it did so, Dorydd stepped forward, calling out something in the rough, rocky language of dwarves. Her greeting was returned in kind, some banter took place—tainted, I felt, with the slightest edge of bitterness—and then the strange dwarf woman climbed out from her litter.
“May I present,” said Dorydd, switching languages to Draconic and gesturing to me with a flourish, “Lady Ren of Atikala, the Leader of Ssarsdale. Lady Ren, this is Salviana, the Fist of the Mountain, my sister. She will be our liaison for the duration of your visit.”
I was not sure of the protocol for visiting leaders, but I had hoped to see their leader, Orirbela Thunderhelm, in person. To be put before a lackey instead felt insulting, but I kept my words in check.
Salviana looked me over in a manner similar to the way Vaarden had, and then she said something in dwarven. I didn’t understand it, but I didn’t think it was polite.
It seemed as though all the world were rude to kobolds. We were smaller than most races, even dwarves, but it grated on me that seemingly everyone in power looked down on me.
Soon they will look up to you, whispered Magmellion in my mind. No head is lower than one severed, its lifeblood prostrating itself before you in tribute…
I tried to ignore the dark murmuring in my head.
“Filthy dwarves,” muttered Valen, low enough that only Dorydd and I could hear, but perfectly shaped to avoid Salviana’s ears. “Disrespectful as always.”
“She does not speak our tongue,” said Dorydd, pointedly ignoring Valen. “If you could, dear sister…if I recall, your father spent considerable gold on lessons, teaching you the tongues of Drathari, yes?”
“Dear sister?” Salviana practically hissed as she spoke, now in Draconic, her accent clipped and formal. “You gild your words with such sarcasm, my darling sibling-by-marriage. Where was, I wonder, that respect when you betrayed us?”
Dorydd’s hands twitched by her sides, a gesture I had seen before, right before she leapt to the attack. Fortunately, though, words rather than fists came from her. “Love doesn’t discriminate,” she said. “I could not fight the roaring of my heart.”
“Delightfully spoken,” said Salviana. “We shall speak of your misdeeds at length, in time.” Her attention turned towards me. Why did everyone always speak to me second, as though I were barely there? “So you are Ren of Atikala, yes?”
“I am,” I said, reaching up and removing my helm. “I speak for Ssarsdale, here to negotiate an alliance between my city and the noble folk of Irondarrow Keep. I pray that the negotiations will be swift, for my homeland has great need of me.”
“I’m sure.” Salviana’s tone suggested the exact opposite, and she shook her head dismissively. “These negotiations will be brief, I can promise you that.”
I was uncertain if that was a good thing or not. “Shall we enter, then?” I asked, pointing a finger towards the doors. “It is unusual to keep guests waiting at the threshold.”
“Unusual for most,” said Salviana. “But not for those of the Thunderhelm lands. Distrust is in our blood, kobold.”
Here was my first test. She had addressed me by my race, rather than my title or even my name. I was not ashamed of what I was—a little defensive, at the moment, given how she and Va
arden had treated me—but I was skilled enough in diplomacy to know what game she was playing at. A subtle insult here, a slight reduction of station there, and eventually she would have the upper hand. The narrative would be changed from forging an alliance between peers, to a weaker power begging for the aid of the greater, where the greater could set terms that heavily favoured them.
Although, given the obvious might of Irondarrow, the fiction that we were peers to begin with was rapidly fading.
“My name,” I said, summoning as much strength as I could into the words, “is Lady Ren of Ssarsdale.”
A briefest pause, the slightest of hesitations, as though she were evaluating the power of what I had said and peeling back the layers, trying to see how much of our unspoken duel was bluster and how much was true strength.
You could burn them, said Magmellion into my mind’s ear. Metal melts, iron bends, and given enough heat, everything burns…your might could breach their walls. You should punish them.
“Of course,” said Salviana, dipping her head, the closest I knew I would be getting to an apology. “I misspoke.”
“An understandable mistake,” I said, “but ensure that it does not happen again.”
A silence came between us that I could not help but regard as tense.
“Strange,” said Salviana, regarding me. “Lady Ren, you have come to our door asking to talk, but you are dressed for war, your body wrapped in steel. This is a strange message you send.”
“War is upon my people,” I said. “It follows me where I go.”
“I see,” she said. “And you would bring this war to us?”
“I would expect my trading partners to support us in peace and war, as we support them. One cannot exchange goods with a ruin.”
Dorydd spoke up. “Do you not recall your wedding, sister? The dwarven clans sent hundreds of soldiers to celebrate your union. The Demonhide clan even sent a dozen siege weapons. You directed their assembly in the great chapel. We are no strangers to war, nor are we bereft of its implements.”
To hear her speak of it surprised me. Dorydd had spoken of marriage and weddings. The event had seemed to not be a happy one for her. A sadness had covered her when we’d discussed it, taking a day or so to pass. I kept my mouth shut.
Salviana smiled for the first time since I’d met her, but it was a cold, empty smile. “I remember,” she said. “And I understand. But nobody is getting married here.”
“An alliance,” Dorydd said, “is similar to a marriage. Both sides give, both sides take, but both parties lose less than they gain. The parallels are striking.”
“Hopefully,” said Salviana, her dark eyes narrowing as they focused on Dorydd, “our alliance will end better than your marriage.”
The sadness I had seen returned to Dorydd’s face. “Let us hope,” my dwarven friend said, a response that seemed to satisfy Salviana. At some unseen signal the iron gates began to open again, and the welcoming party turned to make their way back towards the city. Dorydd and I fell into step at the back. Vaarden stayed behind, looking thoroughly bored by everything and seemingly looking for a way to get out of his commitment.
“Leader Ren,” said Valen, his voice quiet, “we would do well to not make war against these dwarves.”
“I do not intend to,” I said, to his—and Dorydd’s—clear relief.
You could win, said Magmellion. If you set your mind to it. They are weak. Too much of their effort is put towards shows of force. They play games, the kinds of games weaklings play, ones that ultimately weaken them. So focused are they on words that actions come slower to them. With sufficient preparation…
It was madness to even entertain such a notion, but I had to admit that, despite it all, Magmellion had a point.
CHAPTER XII
I HAD THOUGHT IRONDARROW KEEP mighty from the outside, but as we stepped through the iron gates—a solid metal barrier that was as thick as ten kobolds, laid end to end—any illusion that we were peers evaporated.
The whole inside of the mountain had been hollowed out, leaving a shell of stone approximately a hundred feet thick, shielding the keep from the outside. Within was a miniature world. The tip of the mountain, the highest point in the city, glowed like daylight, causing my eyes to water. Below it was a microcosm of Drathari. Dwarves tended crops that grew in small fields; they worked bellows that sent winding smoke up to the ceiling only to be carried out by cleverly concealed vents, and they went about their business as though they were standing under sky.
Dorydd gently nudged my side. “Ren, you’re staring.”
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” I breathed, eyes as wide as moons. “Never.”
“I know, but pretend it’s nothing.”
Her words reminded me that I had a job to do. I tore my eyes away from the spectacle and pretended, with limited success, to be slightly bored. We walked down from the entrance, through large fields of green plants that sprung up from the soil in neat rows. Beyond, the keep itself, a huge stone structure made of black stone towered halfway to the top of the inside of the mountain and hung over us as though poised to crash down at any moment.
“Impressive, is it not?” Salviana swept her hand around the city, a wide smile on her face. “You must have missed the sight, sister. Too long have you been away from Irondarrow’s embrace.”
“Not long enough,” said Dorydd. “Were it not for my friend and her pressing business, I would not have returned.”
“But you would have missed me, dear sister,” said Salviana.
“Not really,” said Dorydd.
A darkness came over our conversation.
“Well,” said Salviana, “it is pleasing to me to have you back. Queen Orirbela has prepared an elaborate feast for your return…and the introduction of your guest, of course.”
Finally. I would see someone in power. A feast was not what I expected—normally kobolds would leap straight to business—but I would have to be polite.
I resisted the urge to look around me more, to absorb as much of the city’s sights as possible. It was a strange feeling for me, being underground and yet, feeling daylight sting my eyes and the large open spaces threatened to send me spinning upward, never to return.
We walked the rest of the way in silence. Salviana led us to a long building with a set of open double doors. Two hundred feet long and thirty wide, draped with canvas held up by stone columns. A delicious smell drifted out, rich and savoury, a mixture of cheese and meat and other things I could not identify, painting the air with its deliciousness.
Cheese. I was content smelling it, in a gross way, but I did not want to eat it. No.
We were led inside. Dorydd went first, smiling the whole way, her mouth a half moon on her face. She bounded away from me—I was suddenly reminded of her almost supernatural speed and reflexes—and slid into a tall chair. She pulled out the one beside me.
I went to move over beside her, but Salviana put her hand on my shoulder.
“Lady Ren,” she said, “you aren’t properly dressed. This is not a place for war and steel; this is a place of peace and relaxation. Of love and growth. You will need to remove your armour.”
I did not like this. My steel kept me safe.
“I did not pack additional clothes,” I said, trying to deflect her concerns. “I did not foresee the need to change.”
“It shows poorly upon you that you cannot anticipate simple things like this,” said Salviana, her tone gilded with condescension. “Irondarrow does not ever rely on a single line of defense.” She put her hand on her hip, to her elaborate blade. “Sword,” she said, and then touched her right boot. “Dagger.” Then her left. “Dagger.” She twisted around, patting the small of her back. “Dagger.” Then, finally, she held up her hand. “Fist.”
“My plan,” I said, “is to not lose the sword I have.”
“And yet swords snap, fingers break, and important details slip from the mind.” Salviana smiled, and it was not a good smile. Her complaint
was pointless. I could never forget my weapon. “Even the best of us fail.”
“I haven’t yet,” I said.
“You will,” said Salviana. Then, suddenly, the dark cloud over her features lifted and her smile became genuine. I couldn’t tell, in that moment, which one was the mask—if she really was happy, pretending to be angry for diplomatic advantage over me, or if her disappointment in my weapon choices was the truth.
Maybe both were.
“Let’s get you changed,” said Salviana, leading me away from the feast hall. “I’ll get you some spare clothes.”
I watched Dorydd over my shoulder as she stuffed a huge hunk of meat into her mouth, the juices dribbling down her chin.
Dwarves.
Salviana lead me away from the feast hall and summoned one of her handmaidens. They disappeared, seemingly to retrieve clothes for me, and then she took me towards a smaller building attached to the side. Within were a dozen stalls with curtains strung across them. As I watched, a dwarven woman left, a bundle of clothes under her arm.
“The changing stalls,” said Salviana.
I wasn’t sure I understood. “Thank you,” I said, and I unhinged my belt and slid it out from around me, gently placing it on the ground. Then I wiggled out of my armoured pants.
“Wait,” said Salviana, her eyes wide. “What are you doing?”
“Removing my armour,” I said, and began unhitching my pauldrons.
Salviana shuffled uncomfortably, averting her gaze from me. “One usually takes a stall…and awaits their replacement clothes.”
“Removing plate takes some time,” I said, unhitching some of the straps on my breastplate.
“A lady does not reveal her chest to the public,” said Salviana. “Nor her…hind quarters.”
“This is a waste of time,” I spat, suddenly furious. I did not want to eat. I did not want to change. Most importantly, I did not want to wait. “What’s wrong with getting started early?”
