The Mouth of Fire

Vol. II of the Dwarves of Ice-Cloak

A. Trae McMaken

Copyright © 2023 by A. Trae McMaken

www.traemcmaken.com

Lost Pathway Books

Michigan, U.S.A.

www.lostpathway.com

Cover Design by Rebecacovers.

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Contents

Map of the Kara- and Grashal-Indal

Map of the Expeditionary Territory

1. A New Shame

2. The Ridge

3. A New Name

4. The Prince's Friend

5. Captain

6. The Recruits

7. A Fine Tale

8. The Eleventh Gallery

9. Crown Prince

10. North Passage

11. Red Ice

12. The Waymarker

13. A Stone Figure

14. Jet

15. Round-Hold

16. The Prince's Name

17. Fool's Errand

18. The Nest

19. Living Steel

20. Blood in the Deep

21. The Mouth of Fire

22. The Secret Way

23. Mining Fire

24. The Surface

About A. Trae McMaken

Also by A. Trae McMaken

1

A New Shame

The shrieks and howls of the ürsi drilled into Korin’s ears. He felt a heavy blow on his shield, jarring his arm. A rock fell away, clattering against the stone underfoot. They’re throwing rocks, now. Korin had never seen ürsi before, and now their fangs and grey skin and stench filled his mind. His spear was as yet unblooded and his axe hung at his heavy belt. He found himself jostled toward the center of the ring—or he withdrew there himself, he wasn’t sure. His heart thumped, and the world spun around him in frenzied display, giving him no choice in the matter.

“Someone get down there!” the prince shouted, pointing toward the base of the hill where two dwarves lay on the rock. It was Hefter and Coldhammer. Coldhammer was motionless and a flint spear stuck out from his side. Blood trickled down the sloping stone beneath him. Huddled up against the body was Hefter, curling as much as he could beneath his round shield, his right leg protruding uselessly, twisted at an unnatural angle. Korin could see his panicked breaths. Another ürsi rushed for Hefter, and another slew of stones flew. One cracked against its skull and the beast fell. Dwarves crouched, grabbing wildly for new sling-stones as two more ürsi rushed for Hefter.

“Not all at once!” the prince shouted. Dark blood stained the prince’s hauberk. It wasn’t his own. Just in front of Korin, Meadsong raised a handaxe and threw. It was a magnificent throw at fifteen yards, and the ürsi in the lead fell, tripping the one behind. More stones found their marks and kept it down.

With a clamor of shrieks, a rush of ürsi poured down the hillside from above, slamming into the spear-wall. A shudder ran through the line of dwarves, but they held, spears slamming forward and back. One ürsi leapt up as it reached the dwarves, but a shield rose and slammed into its legs, sending it flipping into the ring. It hit the ground head-first only a few feet away from Korin and was dispatched by a spear before Korin even managed to move. The dwarves fought in silence, their breaths puffing through gritted teeth. Korin stood and watched, one of the only dwarves not engaged and exposed in the shield ring. His arms shook so badly he clutched them against his chest. Do something, he thought, but he didn’t know what. The dwarven spearpoints repulsed the fresh surge of ürsi. Prince Firehelm looked around, gasping for breath. His gaze fell on Hefter past the far side of the ring, still trembling and alone.

The guards had been struggling to make it up the hill on the double when the ürsi attacked, and in the chaos the two wounded dwarves had been left behind.

“Someone get him!” the prince called. No one moved. The warriors looked over at each other. And then, Prince Firehelm’s eyes fell on Korin, standing within the ring, behind the rear arc of warriors.

“You! Go! Now!”

Korin stared at him, mouth agape. Firehelm looked back up the hill. The ürsi gathered for another charge. Few of the creatures risked rushing up from below beneath the rocks of the slingers, but each time they slammed into the ring from above, it felt as if the dwarves would break apart. “Drop your weapons and drag him back!” the prince shouted at Korin again. Move, fool, Korin thought to himself. His arms in tremor, he managed to open his fingers and drop his spear. It wasn’t easy; he’d been grasping the haft for hours. He pulled his arm out of his shield and looked down at Hefter.

“We’ll be ready,” said Meadsong, grabbing Korin by the shoulder and pulling him forward. Half the warriors on this side of the line had set down their spears and worked their slings, trying to protect Hefter and keep the ring formed at the same time. To break the ring and expose anyone’s back would be to invite the ürsi in for the kill. “Go, run!” Meadsong pushed Korin, and he nearly lost his balance. He staggered, then rushed forward down the slope. As soon as he left the ring, the ürsi saw him. They burst from the trees beyond in a sprint, some heading toward Hefter, and some with their eyes locked on Korin. Halfway to Hefter was a boulder, and Korin angled toward it, slamming into it with his hands to stop himself. He fumbled at his belt, yanking at his hand-axe. Stones whistled overhead and ürsi shrieked.

“Go! Go!” He heard yells from above. He looked up. The faces of his comrades stared down, some angry, some focused on aiming, slings whipping at their sides. He looked at Hefter, still yards away. Do something. Do something. Do something. His axe was free, but he didn’t move. He looked around the boulder. More ürsi broke from the trees.

“Shakinghand!” he heard Meadsong yell. Korin looked up. A wave of ürsi poured down the hill, and some of the slingers turned to aid the other side where the prince braced with spear and shield to receive the impact. Others looked back and forth, unsure which part of the ring to defend. “Now or die!” Meadsong shouted. Somehow, Korin moved. He jumped around the boulder and threw his axe wildly, at what he didn’t know. He half jumped, half sprinted the last few yards. I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m dead.

Hefter screamed when Korin grabbed him under the armpits. His eyes looked more white than brown as he twisted to see what had grabbed him. Korin pulled back, but Hefter barely budged. The wounded dwarf yelled again, this time in pain. How am I going to do this? Korin shuffled his feet for better placement. An ürsi shrieked and he looked up to see its flailing body falling toward him, a stone-shaped hole caved into its brow.

Pull. Pull. I’m dead. Pull. He had to pee so badly. They were two yards past the body of Coldhammer. Korin looked up to see four ürsi charging. A stone struck one and it stumbled, but three came on. At that moment, Korin urinated as he heaved Hefter back. He slipped on the stones and went down to one knee. Two of the ürsi stopped, grabbing Coldhammer’s motionless legs and pulling the limp body toward the trees. The last ürsi came on, spittle flecking its mouth. Korin turned a shoulder, preparing for the impact, but a spear rose and stabbed into the ürsi’s chest. The creature’s eyes widened. It recoiled back, fell, and rolled down the hillside. It was Hefter. He’d kept his spear and had thrust the ürsi through. Korin heaved again. Up the hill, one impossible backward step at a time. He heard shouting behind him. He looked and saw the battle above. Step. Drag. Step. Drag. Step. Drag.

Hands grabbed him and pulled him back. He fell into the ring of warriors, even as a rush of ürsi poured around the flanks.

“Move forward!” It was the prince’s voice. Two other dwarves had taken Hefter under the armpits between them, and the ring closed in to fill the gaps. The warriors moved up the hill step by step, keeping to their formation, spears jabbing at any ürsi that dared come close. Korin crawled forward on hands and knees and then scrabbled to his feet. Shield. Spear. He couldn’t see them, and now the company had moved past where he’d dropped them. He reached down for his axe. Oh yes, he’d thrown it. At what?

The press of ürsi lessened, wary of the moving dwarves with their long biting spears. Some ürsi javelins flew at them, but the flint tips could rarely pierce. Unless the ürsi javelins found a gap, the rocks the ürsi threw were more dangerous. So the dwarves stood shoulder to shoulder, shields firm. The ring distorted over the rough hillside, but they did not break, and the ürsi did not rush again. Korin glanced back down the hill. There was no sign of Coldhammer except his bright blood left on the rocks.

The last ten yards were the roughest. Their formation stretched and pulled as dwarves scrambled over the broken rock. Bits of gravel skidded down the hill from underfoot. Then Prince Firehelm led them over the crest and onto a level shelf of rock. The ürsi retreated and watched from a distance, huddled behind pine and spruce trees along the ridge. The shelf was a massive outcrop of basalt jutting out of the ridge about twenty yards from the top. Where the intrusion pierced into the ridge, it formed a depression in its side. Within it a flattened rockface showed the rough scores of pick and chisel, and the obvious seams of a heavy stone door.

“Get it open,” the prince said. Two dwarves rushed up to the door and grabbed a carved wooden post resting in a slot in the stone. They fitted it into a hole in the door and levered it back. The door grated open, revealing a narrow passage just large enough for a single dwarf to pass. “In you go,” Firehelm said, patting one of the nearby warriors on the shoulder. “Tighten up!”

A cluster of ürsi, peaking from tree and rock to avoid the stones of the slingers, took up a chattering cry of annoyance as the dwarves filed into the tunnel. Korin entered near the middle of the line, no shield, no spear, no axe. He heaved a sigh of relief as he felt the stone engulf him, felt the cool dark of the adit. Ten yards into the ridge the tunnel made a sharp turn, then widened beyond. Two of the lead warriors stopped and turned, readying their spears as the others came through the choke point. A chamber opened up another five yards in, rough-hewn with an uneven floor but big enough to host fifty dwarves or more. The air was damp; the stone was not skillfully sealed. It was one of the advanced refuges of the Ridgewards and it was not made for comfort but for utility. The Ridgewards were the queen’s scouts and warriors who guarded the valleys and ridges surrounding Ice-Cloak. Such holes dotted the ridges below Hooked Gap in case any of them should be surprised and cut off. The chamber was bare, except for a few water casks and some mining tools.

The last dwarf inside was Prince Firehelm. His face was flushed, his armor soaked in dark ürsi blood, his spear dripping, his shield marred. No ürsi rushed the entrance. Behind him, they swung and shut the stone door, jamming it from within. They were safe. Korin turned and walked toward the back of the chamber, away from the others that huddled around the prince. He sat down on the bare rock, holding his trembling arms close. It wasn’t the battle; his arms always trembled, sometimes his head as well. They had trembled all his life. It was why everyone called him Shakinghand.

Four months ago, while Illenfärner—meaning Ice-Cloak in the language of dwarves—lay buried beneath the grip of deep winter above stone, it had been announced that the prince would assemble his own warriors to combat the ürsi. It was no surprise. The prince had grown increasingly vocal about the need for more aggression in response to the springtime raids. His mother, Queen Jade, had granted his request to assemble a personal cadre. They came to be called the Prince’s Guard.

Approaching the prince was the hardest thing Korin had ever done. The prince had looked at his hands, seen the shaking, and then stared Korin straight in the eyes for a few long moments.

“What is your calling?” he said.

“My calling?” Korin asked.

“What are you destined for?”

“I think, to do whatever the mountain may require,” he answered. “I wish to serve.”

“Those who herd goats serve. Is that what you wish?”

“No.”

“What then? What is it?”

“I wish for a chance at a name. A chance for. . . something more. In service to Ice-Cloak.”

The prince smiled.

“Then join with me, for whoever is with me in the beginning and through the trials, their destiny will be great in our day of glory.”

“I may join?”

“You may join—” the prince paused, looking him over once more. “You may join. Come to the guardroom tomorrow night.”

Korin was truly surprised. He had gone on the shred of a hope, expecting the prince to look at his hands and dismiss him.

Korin had gone to the guardroom as soon as he judged it might be considered “tomorrow night.”

Now, he sat in the dark, the only light a small patch of the blue-green miner’s eye fungus colonizing the ceiling. His weapons were gone, his pants stank of urine. He was sure everyone could smell it, mixed in with the reek of ürsi blood and dwarven sweat that filled the chamber. Korin tried to focus on smelling the limestone instead, but it was no use.

After a while, when everyone had caught their breath, the warriors separated into small groups. They pried open one of the water casks and set about cleaning blood from their weapons and armor, faces and hands. They whispered together quietly, a sound almost hidden by the rasp of honing stones on blades. Korin had no weapons to clean or sharpen. In fact, there was no blood on him either. He had killed nothing.

Prince Firehelm and Pinechin spoke together in low tones. They knelt next to Hefter. The injured dwarf placed the wooden handle of a knife between his teeth and nodded. The prince held Hefter down while Pinechin grabbed his twisted leg and yanked it hard. Hefter screamed. Pinechin pulled again. The handle slipped from Hefter’s mouth. He’d passed out. Pinechin felt the leg and nodded to Prince Firehelm. The prince stood up while Pinechin hacked away sections of Hefter’s spear-haft with an axe and bound the sticks to the broken leg with strips of cloth. Hefter roused, moaning, and Prince Firehelm brought him water. All this Korin watched from the other side of the chamber, feeling only a sense of shame. Through the battle, the idea of being wounded or killed horrified him, but now he would have rather been in Hefter’s place.

“Listen to me, my warriors,” Prince Firehelm said, walking to the center of the chamber. All heads turned to him. “Today, we blooded our weapons for the first time. Coldhammer’s death grieves us, but we did not come here to fear death. He died bravely. Tomorrow we venture out again. We will slaughter a hundred ürsi in his name.” There were mutters of assent from the warriors. Korin’s heart fell when the prince’s eyes rested on him, alone near the back of the chamber. Firehelm hesitated a moment, allowing the attention of the others to wander. Then he seemed to make up his mind and walked over to Korin.

As the prince neared, Korin saw the slight wrinkle of his nose, but no other reaction. Shit. Shit. Korin thought. There was no way to hide the smell of piss, not from a dwarf nose. But the prince came and crouched down on his heels next to Korin, side by side with their backs to the stone. They looked out at the rest of the chamber.

“You saved him,” he said. Korin didn’t respond, even after a length of silence. “You know Onehand?” the prince asked. Korin nodded. Of course he did. The old dwarf had worked with the prince to train these twenty-seven new guards—twenty-six now—for the past four months. Onehand was too old to go over the stone himself, but he had fought at the Battle of Four Kings, had been near Brokenspear during the last charge. Brokenspear, the first king under the mountain, died a hero’s death there to save the colony. The prince grinned slightly, leaned over toward Korin, and whispered: “Onehand pissed himself during the battle.” Korin’s eyes widened.

“What?”

“Told me himself,” he said. “Didn’t stop him fighting.” The prince watched Korin, his green eyes nearly black in the low light. He had inherited his mother’s eyes. “Your true problem, Shakinghand, is that you shake in spirit.” The prince laid a hand on Korin’s shoulder. “Let your spirit be firm, and your hands will be of little account.” Firehelm glanced at his own hand. The lambskin glove was covered in blood. His beard was normally the color of burnished bronze, but now it was dark and matted, clotted with the stinking ürsi blood. “Goodness, I need this filth off me. Come and let’s clean off this battle. It was your first battle, not your last.” The prince rose and looked down at Korin, then nodded to the cask. He waited.

“It was your first battle, too,” Korin said. It was true. The queen had always been protective of him.

“Don’t compare with me.” The prince smiled. “I was raised among the Queen’s Guards. And destiny cannot be understood, only followed.” He nodded toward the cask again.

Korin rose and followed.

2

The Ridge

The next morning, Prince Firehelm signaled and the stone door swung open, letting sunlight pour into the adit of the hideaway. Korin squinted. He was probably the tenth dwarf in line, but the light was still harsh. Firehelm raised a hand. The dwarves rushed out of the adit onto the basalt escarpment and quickly formed a ring, spears and shields raised. Hefter was left within, adequately supplied. His partner, Coldhammer, was dead, but Firehelm had ordered Witherweld to stay with him until help arrived. Witherweld had a laceration on his arm, not bad enough to disable him by any means. Witherweld had served as Firehelm’s shield-partner. Losing his shield partner would make him more vulnerable in a fight, but then, perhaps the prince wanted to take that risk on himself rather than force it on someone else.

Korin had half expected to be asked to stay with Hefter, but he was not going to suggest it; he would not risk being thought a coward, so he kept his mouth shut. Instead, Firehelm directed Korin to take Hefter’s shield and axe. Witherweld was armed and would have no difficulty sealing the stone door against any ürsi after the rest of the Prince’s Guard left.

From the open escarpment, Korin could see no sign of ürsi besides the tracks left in the dust. He could see the approaches to Hooked Gap to the north, but it looked bare except for crows lofting on the wind.

“Double line, we move south,” Firehelm said. He took the front as the rest broke ring and formed their column. They followed a narrow trail along the ridge, Firehelm setting a sharp pace. Spinner was next to Korin. They were line partners. In any ring or column, Spinner was supposed to be on Korin’s left, except that in the turmoil and confusion of the day before they had gotten separated and Korin had found himself on the inside of the ring during the fight.

“Are we going home?” Spinner asked in a low voice. “Do you think?” Korin shrugged. He didn’t know, nor did he think it was important to know. The prince would lead them. Spinner didn’t seem to mind that Korin didn’t respond. “Or are we hunting more?”

“The prince wanted to fight,” Korin said.

“We did fight. I killed one,” Spinner said. “Got it by the liver.” He raised his spear. He looked over at Korin. “Get any?”

“No.”

“But you brought in Hefter. That was a good act,” Spinner said. “I didn’t think you’d make it back.” Spinner’s voice had been rising in volume.

“Ssh,” Korin hushed him. The pines on the ridge crest were not dense, separated by jumbles of rock and ferns, but below them there was plenty of tangled pine to hide any number of ürsi. Korin really shouldn’t have minded that Spinner was talking to him. Not many others did, but then, Korin suspected Spinner probably talked when there wasn’t anyone around, either. He got his name, Spinner, early on in their training. He had the habit of spinning around every time he missed an axe-strike—too much follow-through. It was a foolishness that Prince Firehelm and Onehand had drilled out of him quickly, but the name stuck. It was mockery of a sort, but Spinner didn’t seem to mind. At least, he didn’t talk any less, which Korin took for the same.

They all had nicknames like Spinner, for the dwarves held their true names in secret. Husband and wife would know each other’s true names. Parents knew their children’s names, but rarely the other way around. On even rarer occasions, the closest of friends or siblings might share their true names, a trust of closest fellowship.

“I wish we could block all the passes,” Spinner whispered.

“Too many passes, too much ground,” Korin replied.

“I know.”

It was true. This was the nearest northerly pass, but ten miles further was another, and another five miles beyond that. Thirty years ago, Queen Jade had ordered the pass held one spring. After sniffing out the presence of the dwarves, the ürsi had simply gone west and east, finding other passes and flooding through the wilds. They lost more goats and sheep that year than usual, and more dwarves, what with all the warriors useless up in the pass. Maybe one day they could block up all the passes with fortifications and enough dwarves to spare. But ürsi climbed well, even up steep mountainsides, and nowhere was as safe as underground.

But the damn sheep and goats needed protection, and fresh grass to eat and leaves to browse, and not to be roasted on a spit by a band of ürsi.

“At least it means we get to fight,” Spinner added.

Korin didn’t respond. What am I even supposed to say?

They followed the ridge south as it sloped down into a wooded vale. The path diverged, and at the fork stood a flat granite stone set on end with a mix of cave and speaking runes etched on it. The prince turned along the eastern path. Spinner glanced at the waymarker as they passed it.

“We’re going to Queen’s West,” he said. “Six miles.” Korin grunted. He hadn’t known Spinner could read runes. Maybe they’d just been cave runes. He hadn’t looked closely.

They kept up an unflagging pace. Korin knew that they would cover the distance to the outpost, even with the uphill climb, in about two hours. They’d marched through the caverns all winter carrying packs of rock, and even Korin, probably the slenderest of the company, could make a six mile march carrying only weapons, armor, satchel, and flask without fatigue. Korin had spent little besides the mandatory work time on the surface, but he knew enough to recognize that the woods were unusually silent. Normally rabbits would skitter away in the ferns, squirrels would jump between branches. Apart from the crows, even the birds seemed more subdued than usual.

Firehelm raised a hand as he leapt into the ferns on the side of the trail. The double-wide column split apart in the center. Korin crouched into the ferns on the right, and Spinner to the left. In two heartbeats the path was clear. The undergrowth engulfed the dwarves. The ferns grew to waist height. It was only necessary to crouch and duck their heads.

Sticks snapped further along the path, and Korin smelled the scent of ürsi. The dwarves hid downwind, that was good. Korin had smelled ürsi for the first time only the day before, but he would never forget it or mistake it, now. He clenched his hand on the haft of Hefter’s axe. He’d kept his heels under him so he could rise at speed.

An ürsi howled. The prince yelled. Korin launched himself out onto the path. The ürsi had come within a few yards, and now they jostled together as the ürsi in front stepped back. There were less than ten, Korin gauged as he rushed forward to get close to the prince in the fighting. The dwarves at the front plunged forward with ramming spears.

“Don’t let them run!” Firehelm commanded as he pushed through the ferns to circle the ürsi’s flank. Korin mirrored him, rushing around to the right. But all the dwarves had rushed forward, jostling Korin in the mix. He tried to close on one of the startled ürsi, but before he reached axe range Spinner’s spear thrust into it’s gut.

It took only moments for the startled ürsi to be cut down on the path, and Korin’s blade was again unbloodied.

“Another,” Spinner shouted. “That’s two!”

Nearby, Brickbane raised a war-shout, holding aloft his bloody spear.

“Keep it down!” Firehelm snapped. “Let’s go.” And with that, the column reformed and moved on.

The ground rose toward a narrow ridgeline, the eastern sky dominated by pines. Beyond the ridge was the Valley of the Lake, where the people of Ice-Cloak herded their flocks, fished, cut their lumber, grew radishes and turnips and mangles. Atop the bald crest of the ridge stood the Queen’s West, a well-defended stone fort with an enclosing wall designed to guard against the ürsi raids. It was the hold of the Ridgewards. Korin knew that atop the ridge, detachments of the Ridgewards would try to stem the flow of ürsi. So long as the beasts came in disjointed packs, they had a chance. It was when they thronged and pushed in a mass that the ridge could break. There were simply too many miles, too many ürsi, and too few dwarves. If the ürsi breached the ridge, the dwarves would retreat to the strongholds, signal the mountain, and the bells would ring. At the ringing of the bells, goatherds would scramble to bring in as many sheep and goats, lambs and kids as could shelter within the guarded folds. It was lambing season, a terrible time to disrupt the flocks that ranged the hills. But for the past two spring seasons, that’s what had happened, and the flocks had suffered for it.

Firehelm pushed them hard, stretching their pace. Korin tried to keep his breathing regular. Sweat stung his eyes. Even Spinner trudged in silence apart from the thud of his boots and the rasping of his breaths. The slope increased, heading to the ridge above. They passed a mile-mark carved into a tree. One mile to the outpost. Korin couldn’t read speaking runes, but such common cave rune sigils were well-known even among illiterate dwarves, simple marks to denote direction, distance, and dangers.

Firehelm pushed even harder as the ground rose, leaning forward to compensate. The trail cut back and forth up the slope. A horn sounded from the ridge, and then another. It only spurred Firehelm on. Korin didn’t know if he could continue the pace much longer. They couldn’t see the ridge through the trees, not this close to it, but Korin knew that the top was bald. No trees grew there amidst the jumbled stones and gravel. This was the main path up to the outpost, but other tracks, well-worn by mountain goats, climbed at other points north and south. Yet the ürsi hardly needed any track, almost as sure-footed as goats, they seemed.

Korin grew aware of other sounds above his breathing and the stamp of feet. Howls. Shouts. There was battle ahead. He caught the scent of blood in the air, thick with the foul reek of ürsi. He saw stronger daylight through the trees. They neared the open ridge. Firehelm slowed, letting the line that had strung out on the hard ascent catch up while he edged toward the open ground. Somehow, Korin had managed to stay close, though his lungs were on fire. He moved up to try to gain a glimpse. Firehelm crouched near a boulder covered in the exposed roots of a stunted cedar.

A swarm of ürsi covered the ridgeline above, blocking the path and spreading out to north and south. They could hear shouts in dwarvish as the defenders beyond strove to hold them back. Rocks tumbled down the ridge, followed by a few ürsi corpses. The ürsi had massed together again this year. There were hundreds here at the main path, and Korin could see groups moving away to north and south. The ridge would be overwhelmed. They wouldn’t take the fort that stood atop the ridge, it’s massive blocks of stone set by dwarven hands, but the ürsi would force the Ridgewards to withdraw within its walls. There, they’d watch helplessly as the ürsi streamed past and into the Valley of the Lake where young lambs and kids grazed on much needed fresh fodder after a long winter of deep snow. It could take weeks to clear the scattered packs of ürsi out of the valley and off the mountain slopes.

Korin crouched near Firehelm, staring up at the mass. Sheltered by the boughs of evergreens where the ürsi had no reason to look, the Prince’s Guard remained hidden. The foe wanted to surge over the ridge, not watch behind. Korin couldn’t see the line of battle, but he knew the Ridgewards would have formed a blood-stained bulwark of a shieldwall at the head of the path. Soon, it must give way.

Korin looked back over his shoulder, watching as the last of their red-faced company caught up, breathing hard. He looked past them, wondering how many more ürsi may yet come up the trail behind. Firehelm noticed him looking back.

“I know,” he said in a low voice. “We cannot stay here.”

“Go back down?” Korin asked. Firehelm gave a faint smile.

“Up.”

“Up?”

“They’ll panic,” Firehelm said. “I know it’s true.”

“If they don’t. . .”

“Then we won’t have to worry about next spring’s raids.” Firehelm grinned, showing his teeth. Korin’s eyes widened but he said nothing. “No,” Firehelm said. “We will scatter them.”

“It’s uphill,” Korin said, but Firehelm had already risen and taken a step into the open. He looked back at his warriors and motioned for them to gather. They were fifty yards below the mass of ürsi. This was the most used path because the ground sloped more gently than at other parts of the ridge—still a tough ascent, but the way was wider and less broken than elsewhere because of the exposed shelves of bedrock left over from the cataclysm. The dwarves could form a line at least ten or eleven wide.

“Hornhand,” Firehelm said to a nearby dwarf. “This would be the moment.” Hornhand—so nicknamed for the simple reason that he carried the war horn on merit of skill and strength of lung—had not yet gotten to blow the horn for battle. Without pausing to think about the circumstances, the thickset dwarf raised the scrimshawed horn to his lips and blew a long, piercing blast followed by two short staccato notes, the signal the prince had pre-determined with the Ridgewards. Ürsi at the back of the mass above turned and looked for the sound.

“What are we doing?” Spinner asked, looking up at the hill. Other dwarves glanced at each other but said nothing.

“Form line!” Firehelm shouted. “Two ranks!”

The ürsi had seen the dwarves in the open ground, and they cackled and shrieked at the sight. “And advance!” Firehelm led them forward.

Without checking to see if anyone followed him, the prince lowered his spear and rushed uphill. Korin hurried to stay by his side, wishing he had a spear instead of the short handaxe he’d gotten from Hefter. The ürsi at the rear focused their attention on the ascending dwarves. They crouched, sniffed, shrieked, and beat the ground with their weapons. Few of the ürsi had metal weapons, but the flint spears, the spiked clubs made of fire-hardened wood, all these were more than enough to do for a dwarf. Korin felt as much as saw his compatriots form up to either side, the points of their spears reaching out in front as they closed.

When only ten yards remained, the ürsi rushed. Korin felt his whole body clench. His knuckles whitened on the axehaft. Shit, shit, shit. The ürsi came on like a wave from above. Spears jabbed forward and shrieking ürsi slid halfway up the shafts, their downhill momentum too great to stop at the lugs. Korin had no spear, and an ürsi leapt for the gap. Korin braced behind his shield and tried to time his strike. He swung, realizing at the same moment that he was late. Out of control from downward momentum, the ürsi slammed into his shield, knocking the rim into Korin’s mouth. His feet slipped back on loose shale. He tried to draw the axe back for another blow as more ürsi tried to claw and leap overtop the dying, but the second rank of dwarves thrust them back, their spears working between the front line. The ürsi clawed at the top of Korin’s shield, its club pressed up against it uselessly. There were cries and shouts all around, and Korin couldn’t make sense of what was happening. We’re all going to die, he managed to think. The prince had done a fool thing, and now they would die.

Korin was too close to the foul creature and its suppurating skin to get a swing with the axe. He let the haft slip through his fingers so the axehead rested above his fist, and he punched forward around his shield. He felt the blade bite into the ürsi’s arm. The world was one enormous howl and shriek. He struck and struck again. Korin tasted his own blood, smelled the reek of ürsi burning his sinuses.

“Forward! Forward!” It was Firehelm’s voice. He was standing next to Korin, but he sounded far away. Korin pulled back and slammed the axehead forward once more, feeling it thunk. The ürsi fell. I killed one. I killed one. He stepped forward and spit. What was he spitting? His mouth and lips felt numb. He stepped forward again, stumbled over the body, stepped again. He slid his hand back into swinging position on the axehaft. Another ürsi pushed in toward him. He didn’t mistime his strike again, but he felt slow. The ürsi pushed away his blow with a flint axe and struck before Korin could recover, but he caught the flint on the edge of his shield. The ürsi’s axe snapped the thin iron rim and stuck in the seam between two of the boards. Before it could recover, Korin severed its arm with a swing of his own. The howling creature leapt back and disappeared into the mass of ürsi that thronged down upon them.

Somehow, they had survived the shock of the first rush. Firehelm still shouted to advance. Korin risked a glance to the side. The double line of dwarves pushed forward, Spinner to his right, Firehelm to his left. Some drove with spears, some with axes, but he could see that ürsi had already started to scramble down the steep rocks to either side of the wide path. The horn sounded again. Hornhand was in the second row, loosing the signal to the Ridgewards.

“Behind! Behind!” Meadsong shouted. Firehelm looked over his shoulder and swore.

“Ring! Ring!” Spears rose and arced as the second row turned. The ürsi saw the opportunity and pushed in harder. It was chaos of a hundred different actions at once. A spear jabbed at Korin, and he caught it with his shield. He couldn’t close the distance with his axe. Another blow came fast and hard to the left. Korin tried to deflect it but instead the sharp flint pushed up the sleeve of his gambeson, slicing into his forearm. At that moment, Firehelm redirected his own spear and impaled the ürsi in front of Korin, leaving himself exposed.

A great fiend of an ürsi, wielding a stone-headed club with both hands, leapt down at Firehelm. The Prince raised his shield to take the blow, but the force turned the shield and the club deflected into Firehelm’s spear-arm with force. Korin heard the thud that no mail could guard against. Firehelm grunted and let go his spear, its tip still lodged in the chest of Korin’s ürsi.

The club-wielding beast recoiled for another blow, but Korin stepped forward and struck first, axeblade slamming into it’s scalp.

“Forward!” Firehelm shouted, voice cracking, the muscles of his jaw flexed taut. His arm hung limp at his side. He took a step forward, his shield raised. Korin pushed ahead, trying to get between the ürsi and the prince. Spinner side-stepped to close the gap. A spear thrown from above slammed into Korin’s right bicep, piercing through the padded sleeve of his gambeson.

“Shit!” He struggled to keep his shield raised, but the spearpoint twisted in his arm as the haft fell down under its own weight. All the strength drained from his arm. Korin reached over and yanked the spearhead out. Then, he crouched, stepped on the edge of his shield, and yanked his shoulder up, pulling his useless arm from the strap. An ürsi came at him, but Firehelm was there, catching the blow on his own shield.

“I am your shield,” he said. “And you’re my axe. Forward!”

Korin swung wildly with his axe, shouting and pushing uphill. He struck again, and again. The ürsi pressed so thick, pushed forward by the weight of those above, that his blows found mark after mark. Firehelm was beside him, pushing back bodies with his shield, glancing blows away from Korin, their sides pressed together as they moved. The battle pack had grown so thick that few used their spears, now, choosing instead their short handaxes or even daggers. Korin had choked up on his axe again, punching it forward into the foe.

“Stay close!” Firehelm yelled once, when Korin exposed himself to a strike by stepping beyond the shield. Firehelm pushed upward. Korin struck around the shield rim, cleaving into an ürsi skull. The stones and gravel of the hill were wet with dark blood. Firehelm leaned forward, pressing his shield into the wall of bodies, trying to hold them back, to push forward, to give Korin room to strike and strike again. Firehelm grunted, and his feet slid on the gravel. Try as he might, Korin couldn’t keep entirely behind Firehelm’s shield. It was not wide enough. He found himself pushing against the chest of an ürsi with his shoulder to hold it back, pressed against those behind it, all the while striking with his axe.

Korin heard horns blowing and dwarven shouts over the shrieks of the ürsi, but he could not look to see. His world was just his axe, Firehelm’s shield, and the writhing, pushing, bleeding mass before him. He felt something bite at his right shin, then at his thigh, but he didn’t see what. He saw a spear lash out beside him—dwarven steel. Others still held. The horns grew louder. The ürsi pushed even harder. There was no room to swing. Firehelm’s shield pressed flat against the bodies of ürsi. Korin was chest to chest with one, its foul breath in his face. He head butted it once, twice. It tried to bite his neck. Axe pinned in front, Korin managed to twist the blade forward into the ürsi’s flesh. Next to him, he glimpsed Spinner, his legs braced behind him, holding half of a cut spearhaft sideways, trying to hold back the tide.

One of Korin’s feet slipped and he fell hard onto his knee. The wounded ürsi lurched forward, bending over him. Korin grasped it by the throat. It raised a club over its head. A spear burst through its chest from behind it. It huffed and collapsed. Korin looked up as it fell. Who had saved him? He pushed off the body and saw the blood-stained beard of a Ridgeward hanging below a dwarven helm. A line of Ridgewards had pushed down the hill from above, pinning the ürsi between them, ramming down through the mass with spears working like a machine, back and forth in the jumble. Korin hadn’t realized it until they’d arrived. The ürsi sought desperate escape, throwing themselves off the jumbled rocks to the sides of the broken ring of the Prince’s Guard.

Korin and the Ridgeward locked eyes for a moment. The dwarf nodded almost imperceptibly and then stepped past, moving down the hill. Korin knelt on one knee, looking at the hillside above him. It was a mass of dead ürsi, many still moving and twitching in their death throes. Blood trickled down the rocks. He felt the warm damp as it soaked through his pantleg. The prince. Korin looked to his side. He’d lost track of everything, even Firehelm for a moment.

But there he was. The prince’s right arm hung limp at his side, but he held his shield and stood tall, looking down the hill instead of up. Korin followed his gaze. Behind the advancing line of Ridgewards stood the battered guards in something like a bent double line. They’d been pushed back to back. Korin only saw about ten standing, so covered in dark ürsi blood that it was difficult to tell if they were hurt. Others lay on the stone, clutching at wounds. Meadsong held his head in his hands, red blood dripping down his arms. Korin glanced to his right. Spinner leaned on his snapped spearhaft, his shield split in two, one side dangling by the bent iron rim. He looked at Korin, eyes wide. For once, he looked speechless.

3

A New Name

Up and down the ridge beyond the slaughter on the path, ürsi streamed back down the broken hillside and into the forest. He saw a few fall on the rough ground in their haste, tumbling and flipping and breaking themselves against the rock. The Ridgewards halted their pursuit at the treeline, watching warily all around. Their line only extended the width of the path, but it had been enough to break the foe.

“Prince Firehelm!” a voice called. Korin saw a mature dwarf, grey-brown beard braided on his chest, his armor covered in a green-brown of mottled wool. It was Hillwalker, captain of the Ridgewards. He rushed to the prince, taking him by the shoulders and looking him up and down.

“Are you badly wounded?”

“No,” Firehelm answered.

“Your arm?”

“Broken, I fear.”

“We must get you and your men to the stronghold before they realize how few we are. I expect their return.”

“Many cannot walk.”

“We will carry them.” Hillwalker whistled a loud, shrill signal. Some of the Ridgewards, wandering the hillside and executing wounded ürsi, hurried over to the captain. Firehelm reached out to Hillwalker, taking his forearm in his shield hand.

“Do not leave any, not even the dead.”

At that, Korin scanned the ground. How many were dead? He couldn’t seem to count.

“Carry them up!” Hillwalker shouted. One of the Ridgewards reached out toward Korin, still on his knee.

“No,” Korin said batting away his hands. “Take them.” He nodded toward the wounded. The Ridgeward brushed past.

“I can assist you to the top,” Hillwalker said to Firehelm.

“No,” Firehelm answered. “Just help me off with the shield.” Hillwalker unbuckled the strap from Firehelm’s arm. Firehelm let the battered shield slip off to the stone, then stepped over to Korin and grabbed him under his armpit with his good arm. Korin saw him limp, saw red blood on his leg. “Up you are,” he said, helping Korin to his feet. Firehelm and Korin put arms across each other’s shoulders and stepped haltingly up the hill. One foot in front of the other. One step. One step. Behind them came those of the company who could walk. Spinner, Tar, Bronzedelver, and a few others. More were being carried.

At the fort, Stitcher, the healer of the Ridgewards, directed the Prince’s Company to be laid out on the floor of an antechamber where light flowed in through narrow windows cut high into the fitted stones. Firehelm refused to lie down, and Korin stayed standing beside him, though blood dripped. The prince stood at an angle, keeping weight off his injured leg. Spinner stayed close as well. He was blood-stained, but from what Korin could tell it was with the dark blood of the ürsi and not his own. Somehow, Spinner seemed unscathed aside from an expression of shock on his face, as if nothing made much sense. His mouth was not quite shut. The prince motioned to him.

“Check them. Find who out who is alive and dead.”

Spinner managed a nod.

“Prince Firehelm,” Stitcher said, moving among the injured. His aids had returned with rolls of clean un-dyed cloth. “You don’t have to stand just for the stubbornness of it,” he said.

“Ah,” Firehelm answered with a grin that turned to a grimace. “But it is the stubbornness that I most enjoy—well, second to frustrating you.”

Stitcher grumbled, kneeling beside the prince to wrap his leg tightly.

“This is only to staunch the bleeding for now. I’m sending you to your sister.”

“There is no need for me to go to my sister. I will stay here with my warriors.”

Stitcher squinted at him.

“In this matter, your stubbornness will not avail. Your arm is broken beyond my skill. I fear there are . . . fragments of bone. Your sister was the greatest disciple of Bonesetter and there is no greater healer since her passing. You know this.”

“Surely there is—”

“No. I have already sent ahead a runner. Your sister will be prepared. You go.” Stitcher motioned to two of his aids and then left to tend the wounded. Firehelm gripped Korin’s shoulder with his good hand.

“You’re coming with me,” he said. He turned from the two aids and shouted. “Spinner!”

“My lord?”

“Report.” Spinner hurried over. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. “Go ahead,” Firehelm said, nodding. “Go ahead.”

“There. . . There are six dead. Everyone is wounded. Except. . . Except me, I think. Some badly. I’m not sure Yellowcoat will make it.” One of the dwarves screamed. Korin looked over. Stitcher was there, doing something to the dwarf’s leg while aids held him down.

“Come, my lord,” said one of the aids, reaching out. Firehelm ignored him.

“Who has gone?” Firehelm asked.

“Brownfoot, Mudcutter, Jumper, Hardfall, Caverace, Rook.” Firehelm stared at Spinner. Korin tried to picture their faces. He knew them all, had trained with them for months, but his thoughts were scattered.

“Get him out of here!” Stitcher yelled, pointing at Firehelm. The prince put his arm around Korin’s shoulders, brushed off the aids, and turned away.

“My lord, Shakinghand is wounded, too,” Spinner said. Firehelm stopped.

“No longer let me hear anyone call this dwarf Shakinghand.” His voice was resonant against the stone. “Henceforth, he is Strikinghand, and the Right Hand of the Prince.” Firehelm squeezed Korin’s shoulder, and they left the chamber.

***

The miles to the Ice-Cloak adit felt longer than their number. Korin wanted to fall to the ground and close his eyes and never get up, but he refused. One step. One step. One step. The prince did not ask to rest, and Korin wouldn’t either. Instead, they braced against each other and took one step. One step. One step. They had offered the prince a litter, but he had refused. Halfway, the two Ridgewards who accompanied them offered to carry the prince, but he refused.

Korin heard the bells of Ice-Cloak ringing, echoing down from above the Face: tong, tong-tong, tong, tong-tong. It was the rhythm of a battle, not a retreat, not to tell the goatherds to flee. He barely noticed their progress as they curved around the southwest slope of the adit ridge.

Strikinghand. It was the first time Korin could ever remember being called something other than Shakinghand. Like Spinner, that name had been a form of mockery, or at least discredit. But Strikinghand. That was a name, an honorable appellation. He had been raised to a place of dignity. He loved the prince for it. And so he took one step. One step. One step. Even though he wanted to collapse.

The southern wall rose up ahead of them, extending into the lake where it ended at a stout tower. In front of the tunnel waited a group of dwarf-maids in veils of blues, yellows, and greens, surrounded by a contingent of Queen’s Guards in full armament.

Decades ago, Queen Jade had divided the forces of Ice-Cloak into two groups, her guards and her Ridgewards. The Queen’s Guard remained at Ice-Cloak for her protection and the mine’s, while the Ridgewards ranged beyond. In truth, the Guard had grown to be almost a ceremonial role, and served as her bodyguard and gatekeepers, whereas the Ridgewards were the soldiers of the mountain, facing whatever threats came against it, though they did not stand guard within the mountain itself.

Waiting at the front of the dwarf-maids was Princess Keyhand, daughter and eldest child of Queen Jade. She stood in a dress of ultramarine deep blue, no doubt dyed from lapis lazuli. A chain of silver around her neck held a single silver key. Her attire was notable more for the fine-weave and quality of the cloth and dye than for any gaudy ornament, and she alone of the dwarf-maids wore no veil. When Korin and Firehelm emerged from the trees, the dwarf-maids rushed forward, and somehow, though Firehelm had resisted all attempts to be carried, he allowed four dwarf-maids to lift him in a sitting position and bear him onward. Korin followed, struggling to keep up but refusing to be left behind.

Princess Keyhand led the way through the tunnel that ran beneath the wall and then along the lakeshore path to the colony adit. A sheer cliff rose on their left, and the waters of the lake lapped against the shingle to their right. The peak of the mountain dominated the northern sky, its glaciers still covered in fresh spring snowfall. They would shine a cobalt blue by mid-summer.

They passed more guards at the adit entrance. These looked on Firehelm with concern and then at Korin with curiosity as he passed behind. He knew they wanted to ask about the fight, but they kept their decorum.

“Should we take him to the chamber of healing?” one of the dwarf-maids asked Keyhand.

“No, I do not want to move him so far. I need to inspect him. Take him up to the old stonehold.”

Before Jade was Queen she was chief of the guard under King Brokenspear, and she lived near the guard barracks above the adit with her late husband. Though the Queen moved to the royal chambers deep in the mountain long ago, her old stonehold she kept for the use of her household. It was there that they bore the prince, up the stairs at the back of the adit. Korin winced with every step. At the chamber door, one of the dwarf-maids turned and held up her hand.

“Come no further,” she said. It was no small thing to disobey one of Keyhand’s handmaids, but he’d fought with the prince, struggled back with the prince, and now to be separated felt unconscionable. He struggled for words, but he was exhausted, and before he could piece together his outrage, the chamber door closed. He put his back against the carved stone wall and slid to the ground, his legs splayed out in front of him. His eyes closed, and he tried to take stock of his body, to identify the aches and stabbing pains that he had ignored till then.

The door swung back open. The same dwarf-maid peered out into the tunnel and saw Korin there on the ground.

“You can. . . The prince wants you.”

Korin struggled to his feet, bracing against the wall. Inside the room, oil lamps enlivened the warm fiery glow of red miner’s eye, washing everything in strong light. Prince Firehelm lay on the stone table, stripped down to his under-breeches. His blood-stained, torn clothing lay on a pile on the chamber floor. Dwarf-maids wiped him down with cloths, cleaning away dirt and blood while Keyhand stood beside him, her keen eyes examining the body. Fresh blood welled up on the prince’s leg. Firehelm had looked unphased after the battle, but on the trip back, he had done little more than limp along and grit his teeth. Now, he seemed to be drifting in and out of sleep.

“Roll him on his side,” she said. Firehelm yelled as one of the maids moved his arm over his belly. They cleaned his back and Keyhand examined it. Satisfied, she ordered him laid face up.

“Well, brother,” she said, laying a hand on his brow. “I see your foolish endeavor has resulted in a shattered arm and a punctured leg.”

One of the dwarf-maids offered her a bowl of steaming water and clean rags. With steady, strong hands, Keyhand cleaned the wounds on Firehelm’s leg, using a long silver instrument to probe their depths. Korin hated to see the prince’s blood welling up in response, but at one point Keyhand lifted the silver probe from the wound and brought with it a piece of cloth. She dropped it on the table and prodded a little more before nodding. She set the probe down and reached out her hand, muttering something. One of the dwarf-maids put a new bowl in her palm, and the princess reached inside, smearing some kind of poultice onto her fingers and then onto the leg wounds. She wrapped them firmly with long clean cloths. All the while, Firehelm lay still, eyes open but apparently insensate.

“That’s done with the easy part,” Keyhand said, moving around the table to the prince’s other side and obscuring Korin’s view. Korin stepped toward the foot of the table to see. One of the dwarf-maids gave him a look over her veil, as if he was intruding, but he ignored her. Keyhand took hold of Firehelm’s shoulder with both hands, and then she worked her way down the arm, squeezing as she went. When she neared the elbow, Firehelm shuddered, his eyes sprang open wide, and he tried to jerk away.

“Still! Or I’ll have you tied,” she said, calm but stern. “Give him more tonic.” Firehelm groaned, his body tense as a board. Keyhand kept her hands clutched around the arm as one of the dwarf-maids took a leather flask and poured something into the prince’s mouth. He gulped, shuddered, and gulped again. When she removed the flask, he whispered something. Keyhand leaned forward, squinting to listen.

“Strikinghand,” he said louder, raising his good hand a little off the table. Keyhand looked around, but it was not hard to pick Korin out of the crowd. She raised a bronze-colored eyebrow at him, then motioned with her head toward the prince’s other hand. Korin approached.

“I’m here, my lord,” he said.

“Strikinghand!” the prince said, raising his shoulders off the table for a moment and looking at him. He grasped Korin’s hand. “Good. Brother. Good. No tying. Hold me down if you have to. I’ll try, but. . . Do what you must. No tying.”

Korin didn’t reply, only squeezed the prince’s hand hard with his own. He could barely move his other arm below the elbow, and blood still oozed, though the wound had congealed. He leaned forward, ready to use his weight. Korin looked up at the princess. She gave a slight smile, head tilted, and returned to her business.

“I need to feel for fragments, and feel how the bone has broken,” she said without looking up. “Then I will try to move anything that needs moved. He will fight, or pass out, or both.” Korin knew the explanation was for him, though she didn’t look at him as she spoke. She nodded to one of the dwarf-maids, who came and placed a strip of leather in the prince’s mouth. It was long and thick, and she kept a grip of both ends, ready to hold down his head if needed. Firehelm took a deep breath past the leather and closed his eyes.

It was everything Korin could do to keep the prince down as Keyhand began her work again. Korin tried to brace with his injured arm, too, however he could, and the blood flowed again. He pressed his own body atop him. Surely the prince’s muffled screams would break the stone, but somehow, Firehelm’s broken arm remained still. How long it took Keyhand, Korin couldn’t tell. Every moment was a horror to him. Korin felt it a blessing to the prince and everyone else when Keyhand attempted to massage a broken fragment of bone into place and Firehelm at last passed out, his eyes rolling back. Korin felt dizzy. His face glowed with heat, and he sank into a chair that had been pulled away from the table. He barely watched as they encased the prince’s arm in a heavy plaster cast. At last, the work was done.

Keyhand stepped back. Sweat dampened the fringe of her hair and beaded on her brow. She looked across the table at Korin.

“Now you,” she said.

“Me?” Korin asked, his voice weak.

She raised an eyebrow.

“What about me?” he said.

“I need to tend your wounds.”

“What wounds?”

“I assume that’s your blood dripping from your mouth, or did you kill ürsi with your teeth?” Korin remembered his mouth, the numb feeling he’d had. It was throbbing now. He licked his swollen, split lip and tasted the blood. “And we must see what of the rest of this blood is yours,” she added. The chamber wavered around him.

“Something to drink,” he said. His throat felt raw.

“Give him tonic and mead,” she said to someone.

The chamber door swung open and one of the Queen’s Guard, a dwarf-wif, leaned inside.

“Dame, there are more wounded. Badly. From the fighting.”

Keyhand sighed. Korin gulped down mead from a flask, knowing it tasted odd, but not caring in his thirst. Hands took him, began pulling at his gambeson, and he did not resist, just closed his eyes. He had never felt so tired.

4

The Prince's Friend

Korin drifted rather than rushed to wakefulness. He heard voices, saw lights. When at last he opened his eyes, the glow of oil lamps glimmered against the smooth stone of the chamber ceiling.

“The princess believes Yellowcoat will live, but Adzenose is dead.” It was the first thing Korin understood clearly, and it was spoken in a familiar voice. He turned his head and saw Spinner standing before the prince. The prince was seated in a carved wooden chair, his leg stretched out in front of him, immobilized in wood-framed wrappings. His casted arm, likewise, was wrapped tight against his body. He furrowed his brow, his jaw muscles flexing and unflexing. Korin realized he had not seen the prince angry during the entire battle, during the entire sortie beyond the ridge, but now he was angry.

Korin lay on a cot against the wall of the same chamber where the princess had tended them, only now no dwarf-maids stood in the flickering light. It was only the three of them.

“What of the wounded?” Firehelm asked.

“Most will heal,” Spinner said. “Enough to fight again. So says my lady.”

“Who not?”

“Ironroot has lost a foot. Slipstone may never have the use of his arm again.” Firehelm remained silent. His free hand curled in front of his nose as he stared down at the floor. Korin tried to sit up, felt sore, and paused. He wiggled his toes. He clenched his fingers, moved his good arm, then his wounded one. It hurt, but it moved. He turned his head to each side. Spinner saw the movement and looked over, and Firehelm noticed Spinner’s shift of gaze. The prince turned in his chair, wincing.

“Ah, Strikinghand awakes,” he said. Spinner looked at the prince. “This,” said Firehelm, “is the arm that struck my blows in the fight. A true warrior, as are you all.” The prince turned back to Spinner. “You have done well. I ask one more service before I send you to your hall to rest. Pour us more mead.”

Spinner filled two flagons from an earthenware pitcher glazed with rich golden hues. Firehelm motioned to the table next to him and Spinner set the cups down. “Help Strikinghand over, would you?” Spinner obeyed, grabbing Korin under his armpit and lifting. Korin was stiff, he felt bandages wrapped on his upper and lower right leg, and his mouth still throbbed. He explored the inside of his mouth with his tongue, feeling stitches. Spinner helped him over to a chair opposite the prince’s.

“Thank you, Spinner. Now you deserve rest of your own. More than I will grant you, I’m afraid. I will send for you when next I have need.” Spinner glanced from Strikinghand to the prince, and then made a slight bow. He turned to go. “Spinner,” said the prince. The dwarf stopped. “Remember, all who serve with me in these days will be rewarded.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Spinner said. Firehelm nodded once more and Spinner left the chamber.

“He fought beside me,” Korin said. “How he was not wounded, I can’t imagine.”

“The whim of battle is not to be understood,” the prince said. “But it still bows to destiny.” He took a drink from his flagon. Korin didn’t respond. He too sipped his mead. His throat felt sore, but he was more troubled by the prince’s words. Destiny. He thought of the dead. Was such their destiny?

“In truth, they all fought well, if bravery equates to skill. But you and I, we have been bonded by the spear-storm.” Firehelm looked Korin in the eye. “So it will not be easy to hide from me. What troubles you?”

“What did we accomplish?” Korin asked, side-stepping his misgivings about destiny. “Besides losing seven dwarves and maiming more? Were a few score ürsi worth it?”

“My friend,” Firehelm answered, his brow smoothing for the first time since Korin awoke. “You must learn to think about things differently. The battle we fought was not against the ürsi, but ourselves. Like gold ore in the furnace, we refined our spirit through fire and blood. In you, I have found a reliable brother and, I hope, a friend.”

Korin was taken aback by the prince’s declaration. He felt a flush come over him. He wanted to take another drink but he dared not move. The prince watched him closely.

“Others fought with more valor,” Korin managed to reply.

“Tell me, what have we learned about those in our company?” Firehelm asked. Korin tried to think.

“Hornhand keeps his head in the fray,” he answered at last. Firehelm pursed his lips and nodded.

“A stalwart fellow, yes. And?”

Korin considered the last few days and the months before.

“Minebrow wants to lead. . .”

“But?”

Korin somehow felt like it would be wrong to say something negative. The prince seemed to read his mind.

“We must take into account both strengths and flaws if we are to make wise decisions.”

Korin took a breath.

“But.. He is lazy.”

The prince nodded.

“Another.”

“Hardfall doesn’t listen . .”

“And of him we will say no more but good. The dead in arms need no criticism.”

“I’m sorry,” Korin said. He’d forgotten. The prince waved his hand.

“And what about me. What is my weakness?”

Korin frowned. He is too friendly. Too trusting. Could he make that sound better? Too magnanimous? “You’re thinking of something,” the prince said. “Go on.”

Korin sighed.

“You might be too magnanimous.”

The prince smirked and then pursed his lips, nodding.

“And you think it could put me at risk?”

Korin inclined his head.

“Then, my friend, keep an eye out for me. In days to come, we will accomplish great things. I will trust you to watch for danger, to look at the strengths and weaknesses of those around us. I knew early that you had eyes in your head. I need that. And I told you before, your hands are not your true weakness. You’ve grit enough. That you’ve proven. Now, be determined and decisive, be cunning, and your destiny will be great.”

Cunning, Korin thought. About what?

“My friend,” the prince interrupted Korin’s thoughts. “No, I did not sacrifice their lives to learn their weaknesses. We spent our lives to force the Ridgewards to attack. For years we have defended. Now, we have attacked, and led by a small band in the sight of all Ice-Cloak. If the ürsi truly broke, if we scattered their muster, then perhaps our flame will grow. We did that.”

The chamber door swung open without a knock, and the princess herself entered. She shut the door behind her, strode over to the pitcher on the stone table, and poured herself a flagon. Without even glancing at the two bandaged dwarves, she drained it off and sighed. Her mantle, apron, and skirt were blood-stained. Korin wondered if the fine fabric could be salvaged, but Keyhand wore it without apparent notice. She sank into a chair on the other side of the table, looked across at Korin for a moment, and then turned to her brother.

“A fine mess,” she said.

“It is every spring.”

“Usually less dwarven blood, more goat blood.” Her voice carried a hard edge.

“Have the ürsi breeched?”

“You’ll have to ask someone else, I’ve not stopped cleaning and stitching and wrapping and setting. It seems half the Ridgewards are wounded.”

“We must fight if we are to secure the peace of our mountain.”

“For now, that is up to mother—” she glanced at Korin. “—the queen.”

“For now. And then you?” Firehelm smiled, but Korin sensed tension in his frame, strength waiting to be unleashed. Not even his wounds dampened that spirit, but there was a carefulness in his sister’s company. Keyhand smiled back, but it was not with joy.

“So she wishes,” she said. “And ürsi blood is not worth dwarven.”

“Stop the ürsi and you’ll have plenty of replacements from the old colonies coming to join us.”

“That does no good for those who die. We have a duty to our folk.”

“I fight for the peace of our folk, as should we all.” Firehelm took a drink from his flagon. Korin noticed that he avoided his older sister’s gaze.

“I find that peace flourishes with less fighting,” Keyhand said lightly, and then looked at Korin. “But there is a guest in our family hall.”

“This is a brother,” the prince said. “Strikinghand.”

“I see.” Keyhand studied his face, and Korin tried not to shy from her gaze. In any other dwarf-maid, such brazen staring would have been uncouth, but Keyhand was the closest disciple of Bonesetter the Old. She had taken a prominent place in the running of the colony since her youth. Some thought her pretty, and Korin could see the point, though now her presence felt too alarming for such consideration. She wore no veil and her bronze hair was unbraided, tied back with a simple ribbon. “Well,” she said, draining her flagon. “Fights last a moment. Healing takes long labor, and there is more to do under the mountain than tend to your mess.” She stood, poured again, took a few more gulps, and left, leaving her unfinished drink on the stone. After a long silence staring at the door, the prince looked over at Korin.

“Do you think I should not challenge our future queen?”

It was exactly what he’d been thinking, but Korin just shrugged. Of course, it was far from certain Keyhand would be queen. Many did not like the idea of hereditary rule in Ice-Cloak. They did not want to become like the old colonies.

“She is my sister, which makes it hard, sometimes. And beyond that, she is not made of the same stuff as Brokenspear, or even my mother. They were warriors. My mother is old, now, and not prone to stir out in arms, but she was fierce in her day, oh yes. Our father was a warrior in name, but truly he was amiable. My sister too has always been amiable.” He glanced back at the door, then grinned. “At least, in most circumstances. She loved old Bonesetter, more truly I think than she even loved our own mother. Old cranky Bonesetter.”

Korin raised an eyebrow before he knew it. Bonesetter was one of the first ones under the mountain. She, as much as anyone, had laid the foundation for the colony, but as a healer and council-sitter, not a fighter. Her funeral feast lasted a week. It was said that Jade had no heart for running the mine, though the folk honored her as queen. It was Brokenspear’s council that kept Ice-Cloak stable in the years after his death. Their task was made easier, as it was the Battle of Four Kings that galvanized the disparate groups of dwarves into one folk—into Illenfärner.

“Yes, yes. Bonesetter was a great figure. We are all in her debt. But she was not a queen. Not a queen.” Firehelm let his eyes wander back to the chamber door.

Korin remained silent. The oil lamps flickered. He sipped more mead, feeling it sting his sore throat, his broken lip. Firehelm stared at the door with the look of someone who didn’t see what was in front of them.

The chamber door swung open again. Two of the queen’s guards strode in, looked around the nearly empty chamber, and parted to each side of the door. Queen Jade entered then, her shoulders square and her back straight despite her age, though she moved with a bit of a limp. Korin sprang to his feet, his leg almost giving out. He grasped the front of the table to steady himself and bowed his head, half in pain, half in respect. The chamber door swung shut behind her.

Queen Jade still wore her scale hauberk when she walked the mine, but she had taken to leaving her head bare, white hair braided and resting on her shoulders. Her skin looked the grey of limestone, but her green eyes still shone clear. She barely wasted a heartbeat looking around—her eyes swept the room, hesitated upon Korin, and then rested on her son. Firehelm leaned forward, just as startled as Korin, but he could not rise, his leg immobilized in front of him. He bowed his head.

“Mother.”

“My captains inform me that the ürsi have fled down the ridge. The fighting is over for now. Few breached, and they are being hunted. Others have tried to circle south, but in scattered bands.” Firehelm’s eyes glimmered as he squinted, and the corner of his mouth twitched. He glanced at Korin and then back.

“Then we succeeded,” he said.

“In the deaths of nearly fifty warriors, so far.” She frowned. “But yes. We may not have to sequester the herds this year. No doubt next spring they will mass again.”

“That’s why we must press our advantage.”

“Ah yes,” Queen Jade said. “You look thoroughly advantaged.”

“My leg will heal quickly. It’s not broken. I suspect my sister simply wishes to keep me put. I can lead my guards through the pass.”

“You are dismissed,” Queen Jade said, barely glancing at Korin and giving a short wave of her hand. He hesitated, more dumbfounded at the Queen’s presence and her sudden command than disobedient.

“Go back to your stonehold,” Firehelm told him. “Heal. Rest. I’ll summon you soon.”

Queen Jade stood motionless and silent while Korin limped out. One of the guards opened the chamber door for him and shut it again behind without a word. Two more guards flanked the door in the tunnel outside. They did not move or look at Korin. He realized his heart was beating fast.

He’d seen the queen before, of course, in assemblies, but not like this. There were over seven thousand souls under the mountain now, and still trickling in. There would be more—droves more—if those in the settled colonies weren’t afraid of the ürsi. The Battle of Four Kings had been fought after many of the dwarves of the lower castes fled to Brokenspear’s horn in hope of better lives, and Brokenspear had died to ensure that hope. They called him the King of the Cripples, for none were too lowly or despised for his welcome.

Korin limped down the adit tunnel and to the Upper Way. The southern caverns once resounded with the sound of picks and shovels, but the shafts had sunk deep over the years, and the sounds of mining drifted far below. Brokenspear had forbidden the natural rock of the cavern walls to be delved or carved, meaning much of the true beauty of the colony was preserved. There would be plenty of rock to delve under Ice-Cloak for a thousand years, but few caverns like this existed in the world. The cavern walls shone with variegated mineralizations that reflected the blue-green light of the Miner’s Eye. Stalactites hung from the roof and stalagmites rose below. The sound of the flowing water and the smell of the breeze made the caverns a pleasant place indeed. The Upper Way cut along the eastern wall of the caverns far above the cavern floor and the stream that flowed through it. There was a lower path that wound along the stream and between stalagmites, but the Upper Way saved him painful steps.

It wasn’t until Korin limped toward the first few dwarves he’d seen walking the Upper Way that he realized his appearance must be horrid. He still wore his long shirt, bloodstained and soiled. One of his pantlegs was cut away to his upper thigh, his leg wrapped in bandages below it. He had yet to see his face, but he knew it was swollen. The passersby stared at him, knowing he had come from the fighting. They spoke no word, but gave him space to walk by. He felt the eyes of all those he passed as they examined him. The guards at the bridges tried to hide their curiosity. They had not been in the fighting. The Upper Way, most of a mile long, joined the third gallery of the Chamber of Waters. It was a walk Korin had made a thousand times, but now he was exhausted and injured. He looked at the circling stair that led to the higher galleries. He looked down at his leg. Blood had soaked through the upper bandage since he’d started toward home. He took a deep breath, smelling the falling water, the hot spring, the minerals in the air. It helped to clear his head, steady him. The Chamber of Waters and the circling galleries remained busy night or day, and he felt the eyes of the folk on him. Bracing one hand against the wall, he lifted his stiff leg and set it on the first step. He wished he had a spear to use as a help.

One. Step. At. A. Time.

And so he made it to his uncle’s fifth gallery stonehold, the wrappings on his thigh red down to his knee.

5

Captain

Korin awoke, he knew not how long after he had collapsed onto his pallet. The miner’s eye glowed blue, with barely any green in it, lighting up the edges of the heavy drape. The finer stoneholds of the wealthy—the most skilled of the crafters, the traders, and the like—grew the Eglot variety, a valuable miner’s eye that produced the red and orange luminescence, but Korin’s uncle was a stone carver and a son of goatherds, and they lived in a small hold off the western tunnel of the fifth gallery. Korin pulled back the curtain of his alcove. Like many dwarves, he slept in a narrow cut in the stone, barely high enough to allow him to sit up and divided from the main chamber by a heavy woolen drape.

His uncle sat at the small table across the hold. The old dwarf, his graying beard reaching his lap, looked up as Korin slid his legs out of the alcove. His uncle’s eyes fell onto the stained bandages of his leg, then up to Korin’s face. Korin took a deep breath and smelled the foul scent of ürsi. He rubbed his nose. Was it in his beard? Inside his nostrils? It was disgusting.

“Someone came for you,” his uncle said, taking a bite of cave bread and chewing it in the side of his mouth. He nodded to a chair where a bulky parcel sat, wrapped in yellow cloth and tied with twine.

“Who?”

His uncle shrugged.

“They said the prince sent it, and that he requested your presence in the hall of the Prince’s Guard, as soon as you were able.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Korin asked, the gap between his brows narrowing. His uncle frowned.

“You are wounded, covered in blood, bandages stained, you smell of filth, your face is swollen and stitched. Let them wait. You must rest. Clean. Then rest more. Eat and drink.”

“I have a duty.”

His uncle huffed and took another bite. “How long have I been asleep?” Korin asked.

“I found you here when I returned at the end of my day. Now I go back.”

Korin’s uncle only rested in his own hall for six or seven hours at a time, part of it sleeping, part of it attending to his own necessities. The rest of the time he toiled in the mines and workings. There was no telling how long Korin had been there before his uncle came back and found him.

“I must go.” Korin made to stand up, and only then realized that his whole body ached and his leg felt tight and stiff.

“When your father died, my sister made me promise to raise you, to see you live to carry the line,” his uncle said, watching. “I have failed. If you follow this prince, I have failed.”

It was thought among dwarves that a male was required to raise a male, and a female a female. A young gilke—a male dwarf child—would often be attached to another stonehold if orphaned of his father. His uncle glanced over to the side of the room where the brass washbasin sat on a stone pedestal. It was filled with fresh water and a woolen towel sat next to it. Korin pulled his stained and torn shirt over his head, letting it fall onto the floor. Next, he stripped down the remnants of his trousers and limped over to kneel before the washbasin, dipping the towel in the cold water and beginning to bathe himself.

He would have gone down to the hot spring or even the cold pool in the Chamber of Waters, but those with wounds were not permitted to bathe there. That was one of Bonesetter’s old laws. Korin tried to clean out his nose to get the smell of ürsi from it. He unwove the braids of his beard, his fingers feeling clumsy. He soaked his beard with the wet towel and ran his hands through it, watching the water turn foul in the basin. When finally he felt clean, or at least the darkened water too fouled to help, he set down the stained towel and anointed his head and beard with a tincture of oil and herbs kept there in a flask, rubbing in the fragrance. He still scented the faint foulness of ürsi, but the oil helped. He dabbed some more beneath his nose, then retied his braids. Almost all dwarven warriors wore their beards in braids, often tucked down into their shirts before battle so as not to be grabbed by the foe.

Korin stood, bracing his hands on his knees for support, and walked over to the parcel that sat on the chair. He untied the twine and unfolded the pale cloth. Therein he found his helm first, sitting atop new trousers, a shirt of sturdy wool, and a new belt. Below the rest lay his own brigandine. The prince had remembered him. A dwarf of the status of Korin had no extra set of clothes. Clothes were patched and re-patched, sometimes until none of the original cloth remained. In the old colonies, the kings had taxed the wool from the goatherds, but no taxes were levied in Ice-Cloak thanks to Brokenspear. Only labor was taxed, and the goatherds and shepherds sold their wool and meat dearly.

Korin pulled on the grey-brown undyed woolen tunic. He lifted the trousers up overtop the bandages that he had not removed. The bandages smelled faintly of honey, and he knew the princess, or her maids, or whoever had tended him would have packed it with a poultice. So he’d left them in place. The new clothes were not fancy, but they were warm after his cold bath, the woven wool thick and strong. The prince’s own clothes and armor were fine, because Queen Jade did not let her son walk in disgrace, but beyond that, the prince was not wealthy, either. Queen Jade did not sponsor her son’s guard. Others throughout the mine, Korin knew not who, supported the prince’s vision. Still, the Prince’s Guard was not outfitted like the Queen’s Guard. Each dwarf had brought their own kit with them, such as it was.

He lifted up the stiff brigandine, letting it unfold. He’d made the armor of thick goat leather that encased plates of steel. The plates were small enough to allow flexibility but thick enough to turn a blow. Some argued that brigandines served to better purpose than mail—when well crafted. The best had close, overlapping plates of thin steel, enough to stop a thrust but light enough not to inhibit movement. Korin’s brigandine left much to be desired, but it was all he had, made with his own self-despised hands. The leather showed darkened stains, now, but someone had wiped away the blood and rubbed it down with scented oil. No doubt it had reeked of ürsi blood. He smelled their stench on it still, those foul beasts.

The dwarf-maids must have removed the brigandine from his body. Feeling the ache of sore muscles and bruises, he slid his arms through, then fumbled with the buckles and straps on the side. One better made would have an overlap where it came together, protecting from the obvious weak-point, or even a flap of mail. The best of both hauberks and brigandines had such. With their wide-set shoulders, the dwarves fashioned their armor to lace on the sides or back rather than fitting over the head. Korin had arranged his to strap along his shield-side. As he slid the leather straps and buckled them tight, he noticed the tremors in his hands. Funny, he thought. He hadn’t noticed the shaking since. . . since before the battle? Had he ever gone so long without thinking about it?

The Queen’s Guard wore mail sleeves and coifs. Korin had only his gambeson, a thick quilted wool garment, but it was not in the parcel. He remembered the wounds he had received and wondered if the gambeson had even been worth saving, torn and reeking.

He lifted the heavy new belt. It was dark goat-leather, double-thick.

“Are you sure you want to do this, nephew?”

Korin looked at his uncle who still watched him from the table, his hand on a mug. The light granite walls reflected the blue glow of the miner’s eye, as did his uncle’s eyes.

“It is an honor and my best hope,” Korin said.

“Hope for what?” His uncle’s other hand rested on his grey beard at chest height. “Certainly not survival. What is it you need? You may take my trade. I have no children.”

“You know I cannot—”

“Perhaps with more time, more practice—”

“No,” Korin said firmly. “I have given it time. It is this, or to haul ore and pump bellows.”

“You are still young. Hauling ore is better than death, isn’t it?” his uncle asked. Korin knew he meant well, as he did every time he’d tried to dissuade him for the past six months. They were each other’s only living kin. Korin’s father died back in Spired Rock. He hadn’t lived to journey with them to Ice-Cloak, and Korin’s mother disappeared while herding goats during a blizzard on a work rotation. They found her body in the spring. As much as his uncle wanted to help him, Korin had already failed time and again.

He looked at his uncle.

“So sure that I’ll die?” He tried to grin. It looked more like a grimace.

“When I heard of the fighting. . . I am glad you are alive. You are not built like a warrior.”

It was true, Korin knew. He was slight of frame compared to many. Even most.

“Nor an ore hauler,” he replied. With his belt cinched, he picked up his helm. It was a simple helm, a trade for untold hours of ore-hauling for one of the lesser smiths. His body had never shaken so much as in those long, grueling months. On the nasal piece flashed a single green tourmaline. It was a common stone, but it was something, the most precious Korin had, beautiful for what it was. He’d affixed it there, himself. Now, the helm’s steel bore a faint scar that ran down the right side. Odd. He didn’t remember being struck there. But what did he remember of that confused fray? He placed the helm on his head, feeling the now familiar weight of the armament. It made him feel more secure, more steady.

Steadiness was what he lacked. He was used to himself, of course, but few others failed to see the tremors in his hands and arms. They were less noticeable when he held something heavy, but he was far from precise in his crafting. He did not have the steadiness for fine work, though he’d tried learning many different crafts, hoping for a fit. Even the careful driving of wedges and drills could be hazardous with the occasional, stronger tremor that could throw his aim off and maim another dwarf. The armor, though, he felt like it helped. Shakinghand, he thought, and then remembered. No, I am Strikinghand. The thought firmed his resolve. His uncle must have seen it in his face, because he sighed and motioned to the table.

“At least eat some bread and drink some water.” Korin knew it wise to put something on his stomach before he left, but he would not sit down. He limped to the table, took a piece of the bread, and filled a mug of water from the pitcher. He dipped the bread to soften it and ate, chewing carefully. His mouth hurt, his lip broken and gums swollen, but he seemed to have all his teeth.

“Your mother was my younger sister by some thirty years,” his uncle said. “Your father was younger than me, as well.”

Korin swallowed but he did not take another bite, out of respect. He knew his uncle was making a claim—as the eldest of the line. The old dwarf’s grey eyes locked onto Korin’s. There was stone dust in his uncle’s beard, wrinkles on his dark face. He had the dark skin, same as Korin’s mother, same as Korin himself. Korin waited in silence for what would come next.

“Long have I lived under the stone, and the vein of my years is nearly exhausted.” His uncle paused. Korin realized he was holding his breath and tried to let it out slowly.

“You are kind and faithful,” his uncle said, looking down at the table. “I saw this in you when you were born. Your mother told me you were a gentle child in the womb, though such secrets of a dwarf-wif I know not.” He looked back up at Korin. “Many think gentleness a weakness, but it is also strength. Perhaps greater strength. I saw Brokenspear with my own eyes, in my prime, and despite the stories told of him by warriors, I believe I felt it in him, too. He sought to protect others. There is evil in the world that you cannot fathom, Korin.”

The sound of his true name struck him hard. His uncle had uttered his true name. Never had he heard his uncle utter his true name. Korin. Protector. He hadn’t even been sure his uncle knew it. No one else alive knew it, and it meant that Korin’s mother confided it to her brother before her death.

“I have faced the ürsi, Father,” Korin said, using the dignified title for the head of the line, rather than for paternity.

“No, no.” His uncle shook his head. “Not like the ürsi. The ürsi are little more than beasts, driven by base appetite. There are worse evils than ürsi. Whatever you do, if you live, beware of it. Innocence is honorable, but it rarely recognizes its foe.” His uncle leaned back, still watching Korin. Then, he lowered his eyes. “I have spoken my heart.”

Korin waited, unmoving. He could not ignore the importance and authority of his uncle’s speech, but he had no reply, nor did he truly consider it a choice. He simply waited a time out of respect. At length, he stood and walked to the door, leaving the rest of his bread and water behind.

“May you return in safety,” his uncle murmured. Korin nodded, hesitated at the door, but didn’t turn back.

“Thank you,” he said, then left.

Korin limped down the western tunnel of the fifth gallery, trying to make his gait as smooth as he could. He smelled the hot spring and the falling water, laden with dissolved minerals. It made his mouth water and he realized he had drunk nothing, just bit the moist bread. He would wait now until he reached the hall of the Prince’s Guard. Down the winding stair of the Chamber of Waters, each step sent a stab up his leg. There was always coming and going there, the murmur of voices, the fall of the waters that brought both noise and a cold breeze. The miner’s eye glowed in greens, blues, and faint yellows here, illuminating the fine stonework of the eleven galleries that rose hundreds of feet into the mountain. He passed dwarves ascending and descending the stair, moving about their own purposes. Some glanced at him, at his wounded gait. In his armor, he did not look so slight. It made him feel more confident, but he still didn’t like their eyes on him. Most ignored him, thankfully.

At the base of the stairway, Korin paused and glanced at the monument in the center, between the cold pool and the hot spring, surrounded by the smooth open space that could hold a thousand and more dwarves in assembly. The monument—a slab of granite the height of a dwarf—held a series of runes that glowed with red miner’s eye painstakingly cultivated within the groves. The miner’s eye was allowed to grow only in the runes on the monument, to make them easily read at a distance. Atop the monument stood the ossuary of Brokenspear and his wife, first King and Queen Under the Mountain. It was Brokenspear the Great who had given them their freedom at the cost of his own life. Atop the monument rested the chrysoberyl, burning with its inward fire. A Queen’s Guard stood to attention nearby, spear before him. The queen made sure that Brokenspear always had an honor guard. Korin made a slight bow to the monument, as did many who passed it by. He would seek to honor that legacy.

He took the Lower Way through the caverns this time. The hall of the Prince’s Guard opened in the Upper Caverns, down one of the side ways, but at the level of the floor. It was a long hall dug with a high ceiling and a few adjoining rooms. One of the prince’s supporters—Korin wasn’t sure who—had offered it to the prince as a barracks and training hall for his guard after the Queen had given permission for their formation. It wouldn’t have been hard to find out who had possession of the hall before, such things would be known, but Korin had no interest. What mattered was he was one of the prince’s picked guards. Strikinghand.

As he followed the curve of the caverns, Korin came to the stone door of the hall. Two dwarves stood to either side, spears and shields held in guard posture. Odd, Korin thought. Firehelm had never set guards before. As he reached the door, he recognized the guards as Meadsong and Oreheart. Meadsong saluted with raised spear and Oreheart turned and opened the chamber for him. Korin stared at Meadsong. Since when did Meadsong hail me? A bit of a wrapped bandage dipped below the level of Meadsong’s helm. Korin remembered Meadsong holding his head, the blood running between his fingers. Korin smelled ürsi again.

Korin hesitated, unsure.

“Are you well?” he asked Meadsong.

“Yes, rinlen, just a couple cuts is all,” the stout, open-faced dwarf said. He smiled. “It was a good scrap, that.” Rinlen was the dwarvish word for a leader, for a captain. Why had he called him captain? Korin looked over at Oreheart who stood by, silent and glum. He nodded at Korin’s glance. Korin remembered he had been close friends with Rook.

“I’m sorry for Rook . . . and all the others,” Korin said. Meadsong’s smile faded, and Oreheart nodded again, looking down.

“They’ll be remembered,” Meadsong said. “I’ll compose a ballad for them. It’ll be the first of the songs of the Prince’s Guard.” Meadsong got his name for a reason, both for a propensity to drink and to sing when he did, but his voice was strong and true, his smile ready, so his music was welcome. And he could do the valued throat-singing of the dwarven folk, manipulating vocal harmonics to sound as if the caverns themselves sang.

“I have no doubt it will honor them well,” Korin said. Meadsong’s smile returned. Korin remembered the skirmish on the hill, when he had frozen, when he had dragged Hefter back, and pissed himself. Meadsong had shouted for him to go, and Korin had hesitated. Now, both Meadsong and Oreheart watched him as if expecting something. It felt wrong. He wondered how Hefter and Witherweld fared, hidden in the refuge beyond the Queen’s West. They would have to go back for them.

“The prince is waiting for you,” Meadsong said, inclining his head toward the door. Korin nodded and limped through. They shut the door behind him.

The long hall glowed with the warmth of tallow lamps. It was odd to burn lamps in a hall with this much miner’s eye, but even the small flames comforted the heart, dried the air, spread the aroma of fire.

“Strikinghand!” Firehelm’s voiced called from the far end of the trestle tables. The guards dragged the tables out into the hall at mealtimes, disassembling them and leaning them against the wall during training. Korin doubted anyone had trained since the battle. Firehelm sat in a chair, his leg propped before him, his arm immobilized. Bread, flagons, sliced meats lay on platters on the table, and the guards sat on benches or on cushions along the wall, drinking and chewing. Tiny skewers of meat roasted over a long brazier of coals in the middle of the table, filling the hall with the warm scent of meat. Tea slow-brewed in a samovar, the spices adding to the quality of the air. All faces turned to Korin when he entered. Spinner sat near Firehelm, his hand loosely wrapped around a stone mug.

“Here he is, my rinlen!” Firehelm shouted again. My captain. His cheeks were flushed, his flagon in hand. Around the room, the dwarves wore their trousers and shirtsleeves, some still stained with blood despite washing. He saw many bandages. Korin counted at a glance. Seventeen in the room. “Come, we must speak,” Firehelm said, his voice unusually loud. Is he drunk? Korin walked to the far end of the hall, feeling the eyes of his fellows follow him. Firehelm motioned to the nearest chair that waited unoccupied. Spinner watched Korin’s approach as well. He still looked worried and confused. Korin suspected he’d said fewer words in the last day than he had in any hour of his whole life. Ürsi. Korin smelled ürsi again. He rubbed his nose as he sat down, hoping the smell fade. Most tried to ignore Spinner’s constant talk, but Spinner was Korin’s shield brother, his paired dwarf for marching and battle. He couldn’t help but notice him.

“Spinner, please prepare the captain a hot drink and a platter of food.” Firehelm smiled at Korin. Spinner stood and walked down the table. None of the other dwarves were quite close enough to hear. Firehelm’s voice dropped low, and his smile grew more serious. There was a hint of intoxication in his enunciation as he said: “I have told them of your brave deeds in the battle, and that I have made you my rinlen, my second.”

“I see,” Korin responded. He didn’t know how else to respond. He still reeled from the idea. Him, a captain? It didn’t feel right. How much more so for the others? And yet Meadsong and Orehart had spoken with respect.

“I would like—” Firehelm lowered his voice even more “—for us to hearten our warriors, or at least let them drown themselves in food and mead for now.”

“Hefter and Witherweld are still out there,” Korin said.

“Well thought. I have not forgotten them. You see, I am not at my best.” Firehelm lifted his good arm a bit. “And so I have already asked Hillwalker to take some of the Ridgewards to retrieve them. They should begin ranging to watch the ürsi, anyway. You are not at your best, either, nor our warriors. Hefter and Witherweld are safe and provisioned to wait a few days beneath stone.”

“What of our Queen?” Korin asked. He couldn’t believe he was having this privileged conversation with the prince. “Will she allow the sortie?”

Firehelm smiled and looked around the room.

“She will. She will.” His next words were nearly a whisper. “But she doesn’t know it yet.” He raised his flagon and drank. Korin raised his eyebrows. Firehelm laughed, extra loud now. Louder than necessary, Korin felt.

“Do you think me irreverent?” Firehelm whispered again. “You have lived at a distance from those who rule, my brother. Make no mistake, I love my mother, our queen. But this colony needs a warrior to lead it. My mother will see reason.”

Spinner set a platter of food in front of Korin, then a mug of herb tea and a mug of mead next to each other. Faint steam wafted from the tea. Spinner sat down on the far side of Korin.

“My thanks,” Korin said. Firehelm motioned to the food. Korin picked up a slice of goat and bit into it, then regretted his carelessness, feeling the pain of his broken mouth.

Keyhand is no warrior, he thought. He looked at Firehelm. The prince stared off into space. Was he just speaking a wish? Korin was the prince’s dwarf, no doubt. And he agreed, when he thought about it. The colony did need a warrior. Brokenspear had been a warrior. Queen Jade had been a warrior, though she had not carried a spear in decades. But Jade had already acknowledged her wish that Keyhand follow her to the throne. Keyhand is no warrior. In this colony, far from the old ways of the Grashal-Indal mountains, a statement from Jade did not make it so—no hereditary king or queen had ruled in Ice-Cloak, but the folk loved Keyhand. But Keyhand was no warrior.

6

The Recruits

Firehelm and Korin sat with two older dwarves in the prince’s private side-chamber. It was dim and comfortable, with carved cedar chairs covered in lambskins. The air smelled of spiced oil.

“Just when trade with Iron-Deep and Black Mountain should start up with the thaw, the ürsi come, and often the first caravans delay until mid-summer out of fear.”

The ürsi were the monsters from childhood stories, the threats and nightmares of dwarves in all the old colonies who had long ago rid their territories of the beasts. Only those with the most to gain willingly migrated into the ürsi wilds of the western Kara-Indal.

“Who can blame them?” said the grey-haired enameler. The dwarf was attired in a fine scarlet shirt and belted with more lapis than leather. His fingertips were darkened and he had the habit of rubbing them together.

“Not to mention migrants,” the sinewy smith added. “If it wasn’t for the ürsi, they would come again in droves, and no other colony could contest us.”

“We could force trade, then,” the enameler added.

“You see things as they are,” Firehelm said, his arm still bound to his side with wrappings of undyed wool. “That is why you are both so valuable to me. You understand what is at stake.” Firehelm’s leg was no longer extended in front of him. He had been on his feet, though not strenuously, for two days now. The princess Keyhand did not come herself to tend them, but some of her dwarf-maids arrived at the Prince’s Hall to change bandages and ensure no wounds festered.

“The people are with you to the last soul,” the smith said. “They see you as a hero for attacking the ürsi. They would support your endeavor.”

“I fear,” the other dwarf cut in, “that you may still face some—perhaps many—who would rather not risk it, would rather. . . hold the ridge.”

“I am not so concerned with what they think,” Firehelm said. Korin, who had remained silent through the whole meeting as he had in all the others, looked up at that. The prince’s constant questions to any visitors about the talk of the mountain certainly indicated that he was interested in what the folk thought. Spinner had begun to stir from his daze and his fountain of speech was returning. Korin had suggested to Firehelm that Spinner be sent out to speak with the folk, to find out opinions. The prince leapt at the idea. Now every evening, Spinner returned, many of his words left behind him in the caverns. He seemed happier, and he bore reports of who he’d spoken to and their thoughts on the ürsi threat, colony trade, the workings of the mines. Sometimes he returned more than a bit tipsy.

“What I am concerned with,” Firehelm continued, “are the opinions of such as yourselves—stalwart, insightful dwarves. On you I depend, both for counsel and for your material support.”

“Certainly, we are with you!” the smith said. The other dwarf, older, and a well-respected craftsman, held his tongue.

“I need rations. Spears, shields, axes. Better kit for my warriors.”

“Spearheads I can make you,” the smith said. Firehelm smiled.

“I knew you could be relied upon.” Spearheads, Korin thought. An apprentice smith could make five a day, and yet Firehelm acted as if it was a splendid gift. Korin tried to keep disdain from his own face. Cunning, the prince had told him. Such was the price of providing for a guard. It was a skill he had been learning by observation these past days. Firehelm turned to look at the enameler. The finely-clothed dwarf rubbed his fingers together again and took a breath.

“I’m sure some supplies could be. . . found for your warriors,” he said at length. Firehelm smiled again.

“Your support is well appreciated. Those who stand with me now in my need will stand with me in my plenty, I assure you.” The prince rose to his feet, barely any slower than usual though Korin knew he still had pain. Korin stood as well, and the others. Forearms were grasped and goodbyes given, heads bowed and smiles proffered. “I will look for it,” Firehelm said in parting. Korin already had the chamber door open and the two departed. Firehelm motioned for Korin to close the door and sank back into his chair.

Korin waited. The prince sighed. Korin knew the feeling. They’d been thus occupied for much of the past two days. It was only five days since the battle. Hefter and Witherweld were back. Hillwalker and his Ridgewards had retrieved them during one of their forays to track the movements of the ürsi. No more musterings had been sighted, though skirmishes still erupted along the borders and some sheep and goats had gone missing on the eastern slopes. The bells of Ice-Cloak had rung once more, when a pack fifty strong came up Prospect Ridge from the south.

Queen Jade had ordered the casting and placing of the great bronze bells above the Face, in a crevice in the mountain nearly unassailable except through the winding stone stair from the workshops below. There, she placed always three of her guards, watching the grand vista for the smokey signals of the Ridgewards, and ringing the great bells that echoed from the mountain like the throat of wind and forge.

Firehelm glanced at Korin and smirked.

“Does this business not agree with you, Strikinghand?”

“I—” Korin stammered. He must not have been hiding his face that well. Firehelm raised his hand and stopped his reply.

“It’s alright. I’d be worried about you if you did enjoy it. It is necessary, but—”

There was a knock at the chamber door, and the stone swung inward with the faintest grating. Meadsong stuck his head inside.

“A visitor, my lord,” he said. “Bearing your seal.” Meadsong withdrew and another dwarf stepped into the doorway, draped in a hooded coat that fell to his shins. Heavy fur lined the interior of the coat, visible at the edges. The hood obscured his brow and eyes, but his full brown beard hung down freely. The beard still bore the marks of well-trained braids, not long loosed. His attire, not unusual in the winter for those going to the surface, was out of place within the mountain.

“Ah,” Firehelm said, and turned to Korin. “Strikinghand, for this meeting I must ask you to step out.”

Korin wrinkled his brow, betraying emotion again before he caught himself. He had been privy to all the prince’s meetings these past two days, and already he had become jealous of the intimacy he had somehow won with the prince.

“Don’t take it hard. There are still some things a prince must keep in confidence, for the sake of those who confide in me, and not for my own part.” He smiled. Korin stepped past the coated dwarf. He smelled oil on him—the oil used for armaments to keep rust away. A guard, maybe? Meadsong swung the door closed behind him as he left.

“I don’t know how you can stand to sit all day for talk,” Meadsong said. “Better you than me. It’s boring enough to be kept to the hall, let alone have to listen to talk the whole day.” The fair-haired dwarf looked pointedly at Spinner when he said this. Spinner sat at the table, just returned from his day’s ramblings and now jabbering at a disinterested Pinechin. Somehow, Spinner chewed a chunk of cave bread at the same time. Korin grinned at Meadsong and shrugged.

On the evening of the fifth day, Korin sat with Spinner at a table in the hall. They ate their evening meal. Firehelm was gone to dine with his mother. Spinner had regaled Korin already with the talk of the lower cavern miners with whom he had spoken that day. Exploratory miners tended to be a rowdy lot, and Korin was not surprised to hear that they favored an aggressive response to the ürsi. Spinner dug into his second helping of goat stew and his second telling of a verbal exchange with a mine captain when Korin lifted his hand to stem the tide of speech.

“The prince has a new purpose for you,” he said. Spinner stopped mid-chew. That had grabbed his attention. “He wants you to go among the ore haulers, goatherds, wherever you find young able-bodied dwarves who may be interested in joining the guard. We must replace nine of our number.”

Seven dead, two maimed. He had visited Ironroot and Slipstone with the prince. Slipstone’s arm still hung in a sling, useless. He barely spoke. Ironroot had the better of it. The loss of a foot still left many fine crafts open to him, and indeed, a wooden or metal replacement could be fashioned and he would walk again.

“I’m sure we can replace them. Surely the Queen must let us have more than twenty-seven now?”

“We can hope. I happen to know that Firehelm wishes to raise the question, tonight,” Korin said. He was pleased to be privy to such information, and telling Spinner made him feel important, but as he said it, he realized that it would no longer be favored information. Spinner was a dwarf to spread, not conceal.

“Should I have them come here?”

“Hmm?” Korin asked.

“The new recruits. So Firehelm can meet them?”

“Oh yes,” Korin said. “But Firehelm has asked me to meet all those who wish to join and report to him. He will not be meeting these himself.”

Korin had been surprised when Firehelm told him that, so he was not shocked to see Spinner’s eyebrows shoot up. “So tomorrow,” Korin continued. “Spread the word.”

Small dwarven mines tended to keep to a shared schedule, an agreed upon cycle of sleep and work not always related to the heavens. Bigger mines within a colony could rotate, with some working and some sleeping. But the thousands of dwarves that now dwelt below Ice-Cloak had splintered into a myriad of schedules and private workings. Claims granted to mining brotherhoods delved under close scrutiny of Jade’s chief mine wardens. Artisans and smiths worked in the Face of the Mountain, normally just called “the Face,” where chimneys drilled outward through the rock vented smoke and fumes far up the mountain slope. These days, a haze always lingered there, and in the winter the snow above the vents turned grey. And for three weeks a year, every dwarf was required to serve the colony, whether in woodcutting parties, herding, or harvesting. This was decided by lots and overseen by the Queen’s Bread Warden. Only the Queen’s Guards and Ridgewards were exempt.

Like the other small enclaves of dwarves at work beneath the mountain, the Prince’s Guard kept to their own schedule of waking and sleeping, varied only by those set to guard the doors. Two dwarves always stood outside in full kit, spear and shield ready. Because of the varied waking and sleeping and working, the colony never seemed so full and so busy as it truly was. Most work happened in workshops and chambers out of sight, and the mining now reached well beneath the caverns, the sound and song of delving lost below. Thousands of dwarves might live in the colony, but it was still possible to find solitude even in the caverns.

But Spinner. Spinner had a gift—one which Korin had noticed early—of finding people to talk with. For many, it was annoying, but it was also useful. Spinner was shorter than average, a bit stouter, red of face, eager enough to drink. As a warrior, he was nothing special, and Korin did not know how he managed to escape the battle unscathed. He had tried apprenticing with a stone-mason, a jewel-cutter, and had sunk so far as to try to join a family of goatherders on the mountainside, but for reasons he uncharacteristically wouldn’t say, nothing had stuck. Korin suspected he knew why none of the other occupations had stuck; no one wanted to be stuck with him. But for all that, Korin just couldn’t hate the fool. In fact, he found he liked him, even if he couldn’t stand him in long doses.

Korin took a drink from his mug. It stung, and he reached up and touched his still-swollen lower lip.

“Is it true that Keyhand tended to your wounds, herself?” Spinner asked.

“Ay,” Korin said. “She did.”

Spinner sighed and shook his head.

“Is there any such as she under the mountain?” he muttered.

“Hmm? Keyhand?” Korin felt a fierce loyalty to Firehelm, and it made him hesitant to praise Keyhand. She was no warrior.

“They say Queen Jade had great beauty in her day, too. You can see it, now, even buried as it is by years and cares.”

“Oh, you mean Keyhand’s face?”

“It takes more than a face to have such beauty as Keyhand. She is great beneath the stone. I must say I’ve always been partial to veiling for just that reason. It’s easy to judge a maid’s quality with a more level-head if you don’t know how she looks. I know, I know the princess doesn’t veil, but then, in case, no matter how you judge, she is a jewel of the mountain.”

Korin didn’t respond. In truth, he had never considered the veiling practices of dwarf-maids overmuch, and it was not something his uncle had spoken of, either. Korin did not complain to see a beautiful face, but then, sometimes the brazenness of it put him off. He’d noticed that Keyhand’s handmaids veiled, and even Old Bonesetter wore a widow’s veil. The Queen never did, and others enough followed suit that it went with little comment.

“Any news?” Korin asked.

“Sounds like Azure accepted Snowbuckle, so there will be a wedding.”

Korin didn’t know who either of them were. Korin had lived in Ice-Cloak his entire life, whereas Spinner had only arrived thirty years prior, just after he’d reached the age of rhundal. His parents were low-tier stonemasons from Black Mountain, or maybe it was Quartz-Rhime. Still, Spinner knew more people and knew them better than Korin by a long shot. He liked everyone—at least it seemed that way. Korin still remembered walking, hand in hand with his mother, west through the wilds of the Kara-Indal to Ice-Cloak as a child of ten, practically a babe.

“I meant news, such as the prince wanted you to collect,” Korin said.

“Right.” Spinner blinked at Korin.

“Like how do folk feel about Firehelm,or the Prince’s Guard, or Keyhand?” Korin asked.

“Everyone loves Keyhand.”

Yes, yes, it was true. Folk loved Keyhand. Even the ones who didn’t want hereditary rule in the mountain. Korin had nothing bad to say about her, or the queen for that matter. It wasn’t like Ice-Cloak was ruled by a despot and a few rich families, not like the old colonies. Then again, Keyhand was not a warrior. Korin wished he hadn’t mentioned Keyhand again.

“Apart from Keyhand, then?”

“Little else has changed. Some still say we’re just trying to get ourselves killed,” Spinner continued. “Trying to go after the nest.”

“How many are some?”

“Well. A lot. There’s been no change. Some call Firehelm bold, others rash. Seems like the same thing to me, more a matter of how it works out in the end.”

Korin thought about that. He had a point.

“Or the odds to begin with.”

Spinner nodded.

“What are the folk talking about most?”

“The fight. They’re calling it the Battle of the Ridge.”

It wasn’t a terrible name. Korin sighed. He didn’t want to think about the battle, didn’t want to see it or hear it or smell it again in his mind.

“Actually, I heard one of the wounded Ridgewards saying—”

The announcement of a delivery at the hall gave Korin an excuse to leave the table. He joined the others huddled at the door. A line of haulers entered, bearing cloth-wrapped bundles and depositing them against the chamber wall. As soon as they were gone, the Prince’s Guards looked from one to another and back at the parcels. Korin did the same, until he noticed Meadsong watching him. When he caught Korin’s gaze, Meadsong raised an eyebrow.

“Should we open them?” he asked. Korin looked around at the group. The other seventeen guards ringed him, looking to him for a decision.

“Open them up,” he said. They fell to it. Spears. Axes. Shields. The deliveries they had arranged over the past few days. The dwarves inspected the handles—mostly maple. Maple was not preferred over ash or hickory, but those trees were scarce and had to be imported from other colonies. This early in the year, such handles were precious. They poured over the axeheads, the sockets, the fit of socket to haft, murmuring.

“They aren’t the best,” Meadsong whispered to Korin and Oreheart as the three clustered together, inspecting. Korin examined an axeblade. It had a steep, shallow grind.

“Apprentice work,” said Oreheart. “Looks like a woodaxe. To much metal on the head.” He hefted the weapon, feeling its balance.

“Repurposed, do you think?” Meadsong asked Oreheart, but he looked at Korin. Korin had similar thoughts. The prince would not be happy at the quality. Yet to complain would be to alienate what supporters he had. Korin realized he would never have had such a thought even a week ago. He heard others grumbling. He saw Hornhand, Dimforge, and Tar sharing dark glances. Everyone needed at least something after the battle, whether a new shield, a new spear, a new axe. Korin returned to the trestle table. Someone had left a rasp there. Always something needed mending or honing. He took the rasp and returned to the weapons. Picking up an axe, he skated the rasp across the steel, listening to the sound and feeling the touch of metal on metal. It was well quenched, at least. Hard.

“Brothers, the steel is forged,” he said. “Oreheart.” The dwarf watched him, dark eyes glinting with the blue of miner’s eye. “We’ll need the rasps, files, grindstones, both the treadles and the hand stones, all grits.” Within a woodaxe hid a fighting blade buried.

“Ay,” Oreheart answered.

“Spinner?” Korin asked. The dwarf looked up at him. He alone seemed unperturbed. “We’ll need planes, carving knives, chisels. Woodworking tools. We don’t have them. Do you think you could borrow some, for the use of the prince? Do you know anyone?”

“I think so.”

“Then don’t waste time. The rest, let’s get the tables cleared.”

They’re listening, Korin thought. Up till then, he had been privy to the councils of the prince—except the meeting with the dwarf of the warm coat—and the prince had included him in his thinking, but Korin had done little by way of command. Now, he was surprised both by himself and the others.

When Firehelm returned hours later, he found his guards sitting in a circle, tools laid out and grindstones scraping. Korin sat at one of the whirring treadle grindstones, determined to put a new grind on an axehead, but his hands and arms trembled. The spasms and tremors had grown worse the longer he worked, but he refused to give up in front of the others. The effort to keep himself still always made it worse. He poured more water on the wheel, using it as an opportunity to rest his hands. Firehelm stopped at the chamber door and surveyed the scene. The glint of shavings and iron-dust speckled the stone floor. The briefest moment of confusion gave way to a resigned understanding. Korin lifted the axe blade back to the grindstone. The steel skidded with a tremor.

“Strikinghand,” Firehelm said.

“Ay, lord?”

“Have someone finish for you,” he said. “I must speak with you.” He pointed toward his side chamber. Korin nodded and stood. Spinner, who sat next to him and had kept up a stream of chatter that Korin stopped hearing an hour before, took the axe and sat down at the wheel in his stead. Korin followed Firehelm into the chamber and the prince shut the door.

“You needn’t hide,” the prince said. “Nor do you need to put your hands on display.”

“I can do my part, and everyone knows.”

“I did not name you captain for your skill at honing an axe. To a warrior, knowing something is never so strong as seeing it.”

Korin didn’t respond. He didn’t know what to say, and he felt irritable. He’d been sitting in the hall with seventeen equally irritated dwarves, most still healing, for nearly a week. At least the work occupied their hands. It was as if Firehelm read his mind.

“We will resume drilling and training soon, and preparations for our departure.”

“Did the Queen grant us permission?”

“Not yet.” Firehelm sat down in his armchair. His arm was still bound to his side, the plaster cast wrapped in a sling, but he didn’t wince when he sat. “You know, I’ve never asked you if you read runes?” Korin didn’t respond. What if the prince found his lack of knowledge to disqualify him from such a place of confidence. “Do you?” the prince asked.

“Mine runes,” Korin answered. It meant no, more or less. Mine runes were directional or informational in a simple sense, like signs pointing to adits or warning of unstable rock, and then there were the proper speaking runes used to write messages or record knowledge. Even some mine runes eluded his grasp.

Firehelm nodded but didn’t seem particularly interested.

“Do you remember the dwarf who came here yesterday?”

The dwarf of the coat, Korin thought.

“Yes,” he answered.

Firehelm smiled.

“And that is why you are my captain. You know which I mean, though we had a number of guests. I suspect you found him notable.”

“Yes.”

“So tell me about him.”

“As regards?”

“Everything you think or suspect.”

“Why wear a coat in the mines?”

“Yes, yes.”

“And he smelled of oil. Weapons polish, like mail, yet he wore none.”

“And this leads you to believe?”

“He is a warrior, maybe a Queen’s Guard, and he didn’t want to be recognized but did a poor job of not being noticed.” Firehelm laughed this time.

“My captain,” Firehelm said. “Precisely. Nor do I wish him seen here again, or myself with him. So I must arrange communication through other means. But then, the matter is delicate, and I would prefer to hear from him directly, or as nearly as possible. I fear he must write to me. It’s just a matter of delivery.”

“We could send Spinner,” Korin suggested. “He could go anywhere and no one would find it strange.”

“No, we should send you. Spinner has no secrecy in him. More discretion than that is necessary. But you will not meet with my correspondent directly.”

7

A Fine Tale

After a short sleep, Korin awoke and without breaking fast slipped out into the caverns. He took the Lower Way, south past Jade’s Pool and toward the adit reservoir. Before he reached it, he veered down a side cavern. These were the South Caverns, and the mines below were decades old now. A few mine adits pocked the rock, but they were merely the openings to shafts that plunged hundreds of feet below. Not even the songs of the miners could be heard from down those depths.

A few feet above the base of the northern sidewall was a vein of iron pyrite. Korin glanced around, making sure he was alone, and then approached it. Sure enough, there was a cleft in the vein, old marks of a chisel. Mining had been outlawed on the cavern walls since Brokenspear’s day, but these marks may have been Brokenspear’s own from all their sign of age. From within the crevice Korin pulled out a wadded up bit of lambskin. He stuffed it into his belt and headed back to the Prince’s Hall.

Most of the dwarves this far south in the caverns were miners, and while they spent the majority of their time deep within the shafts, they still came and went. So it was no surprise that Korin encountered a few miners—noticeable from the dust-worn clothes with leather-padded knees, the callused hands, the muscled shoulders—walking the path back from the Chamber of Waters. He did not know them, but they saw him coming and slowed to a stop.

“Well met,” the older of the three said, raising a hand to Korin. The dwarf’s hair had already greyed, marking him as over a century and a half old. Korin stopped and raised his hand. He did not want to speak or to stop while on this errand for the prince, but to avoid it would prove more notable than to see what these miners wanted.

“You were in the battle,” the older dwarf said. Korin furrowed his brow.

“How did you know?” The prince had told him to go unarmed and unarmored.

The dwarves looked at each other and smirked.

“You limp from a wound and your beard is braided in warrior’s plaits,” one of them said. He had black hair and a loose beard tucked down his shirt. Korin could have kicked himself for not unplaiting his beard.

“And your clothes are new, unmarked by work,” the older dwarf added. Korin nodded. The prince’s gift of new clothes.

“Were you with the Ridgewards?” the dark-haired miner asked.

“He’s a prince’s dwarf,” said the older miner. Now Korin felt truly baffled. The elder miner saw Korin’s surprise. “The Ridgewards are still afield, all who can walk, and the Queen’s Guard pride themselves on their armor.”

The old dwarf was astute, Korin had to give him that, but he didn’t like how the brows of the other miner’s lowered at the revelation.

“I am a prince’s dwarf,” he admitted.

“It was a fierce fight, they say,” said the black-haired one. “Many died. My cousin among them, going down to save the prince.”

“A worthy sacrifice,” Korin said.

The third dwarf snorted and spoke for the first time. His skin was coarse, the same grey as his eyes.

“In the old colonies blood-born princes thought they could order folk to their deaths. And for no claim besides the blood of their father and the water of their mother. We buried them in the gulley at the Battle of Four Kings. I followed Brokenspear, though I was barely past rhundal. Not for blood, but for greatness. Jade, too, I acknowledge, for she holds to the ways of Brokenspear and was no blood queen. Your Firehelm has no right to claim the lives of our folk.”

“Easy, Chiselfist,” said the older dwarf, raising his hands.

“We wanted news, not a fight,” the black-bearded miner added. Korin kept his mouth shut. He would fight an ürsi, he knew that now, but to fight with words? He felt unarmed. His hands trembled.

“Firehelm wanted a fight, and that did for your cousin,” Chiselfist said. The other dwarf set his jaw and didn’t respond. Chiselfist’s eyes lowered to Korin’s hands.

“A scared prince’s guard, are we?” he said. Korin squinted and flushed.

“Enough,” the older dwarf said sharply. “Best be back to our delving.”

He nodded at Korin, and they went on their separate ways. Korin felt relieved to leave them. Once, he had wished he could be a skilled miner or crafter, have companions like those dwarves to work with, but his shaking hands. . . Now, the prince had given him a brotherhood of guards and a place of trust. He regretted he had not lashed at those miners either by tongue or fist. But then, he had a purpose there.

Around half a mile further, Korin took the turning toward the prince’s stonehold. He passed Spinner as he approached the hall door. Spinner slowed and smiled, ready to speak, but Korin waved a hand.

“On a duty for the prince,” he said, and walked past. The guards at the door saluted and Korin entered, heading straight for the prince’s chamber. Firehelm was awake, dressed in a robe, and sitting at his pine table with a candle in front of him. Korin closed the door and laid the folded lambskin in front of . In the candlelight Korin noticed a pale glob of beeswax on the folded lambskin. It hardly qualified as a seal, for it bore no sigil, but Korin was thankful he had not unfolded it. It would have been noticed.

“All went well?” Firehelm asked, picking up the small parcel. He glanced at the seal, popped it open with his thumb, and spread the lambskin on the table. Korin saw the runes, those jagged shapes, lines and angles so easy to chisel into stone or metal. Here, it appeared the runes were written with charcoal. Firehelm’s lips moved as he read over the runes, his finger tracing below them. He did not look away till he reached the bottom of the nearly foot-long piece of skin. Then, he dropped it in a bowl of water that sat on the table. He scrubbed it with his fingernails, and the charcoal lettering dissolved away. When he laid the wet skin back onto the table, there was no trace of the runes.

“Well,” Firehelm said. “I do not like to wait, but it seems I am condemned to it.” He shrugged his shoulder, lifting his wounded arm slightly. “We will speak again after the evening meal.” Korin took the cue and left the chamber. Firehelm never stood on ceremony. He did not request anyone bow or back away, but still Korin felt self-conscious turning his back on the prince.

Spinner was effective; there was no question. After only a few hours, the first young dwarf arrived at the chamber door. Dimforge stuck his helmed head inside, saw Korin, and said only:

“Recruit.”

“Wait two minutes and send him in,” Korin answered. Dimforge nodded and ducked back out. Korin looked around the hall. A handful of dwarves, mostly those still recovering from wounds, sat around at the edges of the space on mats. Dirty dishes lay scattered across the table.

“Get this place cleaned up,” Korin said. “Then get out of sight.” Korin followed his own direction, rushing picked-over platters into the small side-closet they used as a larder. He made a mental note to regain some martial order in the place from here out. They had convalesced long enough. The able had better start training again.

Korin’s direction was obeyed, and before the two minutes passed, the tables were cleared and the hall empty but for Korin. He hesitated in the empty space, unsure. Then he set a single chair in the open space between him and the door. He stepped back a few paces and waited. When the door swung open, a young dwarf timidly stepped inside. He wore only rough work clothes, slightly stained, but he had braided his beard like a warrior. The dwarf glanced side to side, seeing a room empty except for Korin.

Korin’s hands shook. His elbow twitched. Hide them, was his instinct, but he forced himself to let them hang by his side. To hide them was weak. Let them shake. It was not Korin being examined, now.

“Sit.”

The young dwarf looked at the chair. His cheeks were flushed, Korin could see. He was nervous. He looked from the chair to Korin. A senior dwarf, whether in age or position, would not invite the younger to sit while he stood. A young dwarf knew better than to sit in such a situation, but a young dwarf also knew to obey the commands of an elder, whether in age or position.

“Sit,” Korin said again, this time motioning to the chair. The young dwarf gave in and sat down, growing even redder. He put his hands on his knees, and then folded them in his lap. Korin saw the dirt beneath his fingernails, the kind that takes months to grow out.

“Why are you here?”

“To serve the prince. To fight ürsi.”

“You would replace one who died,” Korin said. “You will train hard, harder than you know, and still you might die.”

The young dwarf twitched, but he managed to hold Korin’s gaze.

“Only the prince is brave enough to fight them,” he said with an attempt at a defiant expression.

“What do you care about ürsi?”

“My family are goatherds.”

“And you wish to leave disgrace?”

The dwarf’s eyes narrowed.

“My family bears no disgrace. My father bore arms for Brokenspear. I want revenge.”

Goatherds endured the worst of the ürsi attacks, Korin knew. If anyone would have a vendetta, it would be them.

“Revenge for what?”

“My sister.”

Korin paused. He would leave that alone.

“Do you stand an inheritance?”

“No,” he replied. “They call me-”

“You will have no name here,” Korin interrupted. “Until you are given one. Those who serve Prince Firehelm in small beginnings will know great things in the end.” It was a mimic of Firehelm’s own words. “If you wish to join our number, return tomorrow night and be prepared to swear fidelity to the prince’s guard.”

“Are. . .” the dwarf began, and then stopped.

“Go ahead and ask.”

“Are you the one called Strikinghand, captain of the prince?” The dwarf glanced at Korin’s hands. He felt the impulse to hide them again, but he restrained himself.

“Yes.”

“I would be honored to serve,” the dwarf said.

“Then return tomorrow,” Korin said, and nodded to the door. When the chamber door shut behind the prospective recruit, Korin was surprised that his own heart was hammering. How would the young goatherd have heard of him?

That recruit was only the first. Within hours he’d spoken to five more. Korin enjoyed the discomfiture each showed when he told them to sit while he himself remained standing. After the first two interviews, Korin’s arms shook uncontrollably, but he forced himself to continue, letting them hang by his side and keeping his tone of voice even and calm. Imposter, he said to himself. A captain who cannot command his own hands. And yet the dwarves sitting before him looked at him with a kind of fear or reverence plain on their faces. More than one asked if he was Strikinghand. Korin tried to use their nerves to learn what he could of them, but there was not overmuch to learn. Their stories were similar. Ore haulers. Goatherds.

Brokenspear had lured the indigent of the colonies to Ice-Cloak with the promise of freedom—the freedom to learn. Where dwarven tradition had only allowed trades to pass to heirs, guarding the secrets of crafts, Brokenspear set up master-teachers for all comers. For the opportunity to learn, to make more of their lives, thousands of goat herders, ore carriers, and miners had flocked to the mountain. It also brought about the war that lost Brokenspear his life.

Queen Jade upheld the tradition of master-teachers. There was still a colony master for each of the major crafts, willing to take apprentices and supported by the crown. But many of the goatherds realized it made sense to keep herding goats and sheep and planting radishes and roots, for thousands of mouths needed feeding and, unlike the old colonies, they could set their own prices. Queen Jade kept Brokenspear’s tradition of taking no tax from the people, not from herds or from the wealth of the claims. Only work was taxed, three weeks per year. And so the Queen managed her own stonehold, grew her own herds, planted her own crops, built her own monuments, and supplied her own guard. But not the prince’s guard. She had permitted him to retain twenty-seven guards of his own, but she had not granted their material support.

After the fifteenth recruit, Korin made his choices and informed Dimforge to turn any others away. He chose the nine with the hungriest eyes, the most desperate faces. Rank novices the lot of them, not warriors. But ore haulers, goatherds, third-tier miners, they all knew labor, their muscles hard like bands of iron, their shoulders broad. With the right drive and training, they would fight.

They had all been the same, anyway. Ice-Cloak as yet had no hereditary warrior families. Some days he still felt like a rank novice, but then he saw the bodies of the fallen in his head. These new recruits had seen little. Battle had not tested them. One did not engrave a new design overtop an old. Fresh metal, hot from the forge could be stamped with the mark of the prince.

The recruits selected, Korin felt he needed some time of quiet work, and so he retrieved his brigandine and sat at one of the trestle tables to patch the leather. It had taken damage in the battle. The outer layer of leather comprised many squares laced together, making it relatively simple to remove damaged portions. For Korin and his shaky hands, the difficulty came in not sticking himself with the iron awl he used to puncture the leather for new lace-holes. He’d done it before.

He heard someone arrive at the hall and looked up to see Spinner. A few of the other guards here and there looked suddenly more occupied in their tasks or conversations. Hornhand stood and walked into the larder as if he needed to get something. Spinner saw Korin and smiled, walking straight for him. Korin didn’t feel much like being talked at but he was supposed to listen to Spinner’s reports. Spinner’s face was beaming and flushed. It was likely he’d had mead. Korin braced himself; he felt like he’d talked enough for a week already, but Spinner had done a good job getting recruits and someone should tell him so.

“You succeeded,” Korin said. “We have our recruits.”

“There were more who wished to join than the queen would allow,” Spinner said. “So I spent more time sharing the stories like Firehelm requested.”

“What stories?” Korin asked. Firehelm had mentioned nothing to him about stories.

“He told me stories to tell of the Prince’s Guard. Of Meadsong, Hornhand, and of yourself.”

“Of me? What stories have you been telling of me?” Korin was more surprised than angry, but he realized he sounded the latter.

“The prince told me what to say,” Spinner said, a little defensively.

“Obey the prince, surely,” Korin said. “And tell me these stories.”

“He told me to tell how Meadsong sang for joy during the battle with the ürsi,” Spinner said. Korin crinkled his brow. He didn’t remember that at all. He did remember Meadsong holding his head and face, blood leaking between his fingers. “And how Hornhand had blown such a blast on the horn that the Ridgewards knew they had no choice but to attack, and how he fought with one hand and blew the horn with the other, leaving his shield behind.” Surely, Hornhand had sounded the horn, but Korin remembered him keeping his shield strapped to his side. There was no reason to leave it behind.

“And what of me?” he asked.

“Well,” Spinner paused, looking like he didn’t want to speak, which made Korin even more curious.

“Well?”

“He told me to tell how Strikinghand fought as the hand of the prince in the battle, slaughtering the ürsi before them, how Strikinghand is so thirsty for ürsi blood, so filled with rage at the beasts that he shakes, and only force of will puts ice in his voice and gives him calm.”

Korin actually laughed. It was absurd. But then he remembered the expressions on the faces of the new recruits.

“You’ve been telling the folk this?”

“The prince told me to.”

Korin nodded and laughed again.

“The folk speak of the battle, and they wish to hear of it,” Spinner went on. “They know I was there, and they believe me.” Korin didn’t respond, too distracted with his thoughts. Spinner shifted on his feet. “Meadsong has crafted a ballad. The prince sent him to spread it through the mines. It’s not just me.”

Korin knew the prince often mingled with the guards, eating and drinking with them, listening to the stories of their young lives. But Korin had not realized that he had been directing such activities outside of Korin’s knowledge. On one level, he felt hurt. On another, he knew it was the prince’s right. The stories weren’t true, and that bothered him. But then, was this about true stories, or was this about taking the fight to the ürsi? What mattered was what was best for the colony, surely.

Spinner grew tired of standing and sat down uninvited on the bench next to Korin. He yanked his boots off, spreading his wide toes on the stone. Korin wrinkled his nose. Spinner acted more companionably with Korin than the others did, but then, he and Spinner had been shield brothers, paired together in training and battle.

“Ah, better,” Spinner said. “Nothing worse than wet boots. Stepped in a mine-pool when I was talking to one of the lads in the south cavern claims. Fellow didn’t even warn me.”

Korin grunted. He finished a new square of leather and moved on to another. Spinner thrummed his fingers on the table and looked around. There were only a handful of the guards present, mostly mending and honing and cleaning as they did obsessively. Some still visited their families after the day’s training. Others ate and drank with friends or visited the hot spring.

It could be dull, being a warrior. Korin hadn’t considered that when he’d asked the prince for the honor to join his guard. They trained hard, sometimes for ten hours in a day. Beyond that, their muscles fatigued and they started to make mistakes. Continuing to practice those mistakes would not help. That left them what? To mend and polish what was already mended and polished. For those more sociable dwarves, maybe it was not so difficult. Spinner served as an overly prime example of that. In the claim mines, there was always work to do. In the workshops far up the Great Stair, cut into the Face of the Mountain, the smoke vented safely and the forge fires never went out, blazing hot in the coldest of winters. Yet a warrior did an awful lot of waiting and standing.

“Got any stories?” Spinner asked. Korin furrowed his eyebrows.

“What kind of stories?”

“Any kind,” Spinner said.

What kinds were there? Korin could talk about plenty of things. He’d learned a fair bit of stone cutting theory from his uncle. He’d learned enough smithing to manage the plates of his own brigandine, though that was basic stuff. He’d mined, but mostly rough hewing and ore hauling. But stories?

“Um, I know about Brokenspear,” he said. “The Battle of Four Kings.” It was the battle that had settled the issue of whether Ice-Cloak would stand in independence or fall under the dominion of the old colonies. News of Brokenspear’s victory spread east and south with the fleeing foe, until within a year’s time every dwarven ear had heard even in the southern Grashal-Indal. More goatherds and laborers than ever flocked to the mountain, bringing on the hungers that resulted in the death of Korin’s father and eventually the migration of his mother, uncle, and himself. Korin had learned every detail he could.

“—oh, and the cataclysm,” he added. He knew that story, too.

“Tell me one,” Spinner said. Korin looked over at him, tearing his eyes from his work.

“Oh, I don’t tell them,” he said. “I’ve just heard them plenty.”

“I heard a great telling of the cataclysm from Hillmane’s mother,” Spinner said. Korin didn’t know Hillmane, either. There were over seven thousand dwarves in Ice-Cloak. How many did Korin know? A hundred? More by reputation or sight.

“What do you mean?”

“She tells it with the dragon.”

“What dragon?”

“You know how sometimes folk tell it with a dragon in the story?”

Korin did not know that. He’d never heard it with a dragon. He shook his head.

“Oh, it’s better that way.”

Korin didn’t say anything, but he knew that Spinner was going to tell him.

“It begins the same. In the beginning, the dwarves lived in the cavern beneath the world, where the seven pillars of creation held up the earthen firmament. There, the rock fed them, and the ore lived. We made marvels beneath the world in those days, treasures beyond ken or compare—”

Yes, yes, that was the same story he’d always heard. Even his uncle told him this.

“—but a great dragon lived above the firmament in those days—”

There it was. He’d never heard this.

“— flying in the air and ravaging the lands, scorching them black from his flames. The sun tired of seeing the green earth burnt, and when the dragon flew near one day, the sun said:

‘Wyrm, what marvelous scales you have.’

This pleased the dragon, and the sun continued: ‘There is nothing brighter beneath me than your scales, but under the stone the dwarves dwell, with treasure so bright and fair that even your scales are pale.’

The dragon grew furious at this, and he dove to the rock and poured out his fire on it. Only a dragon’s fire can melt the stone, and he bored a hole down through the firmament, and as he did, it fractured, forming the fissure to the caverns below. The dwarves battled the dragon there with weapons and armor of living steel. Great was the slaughter, and when the eldest of dwarves struck the dragon through the heart, the fire of the dragon boiled forth and consumed him. The world shook, burned, and groaned. It was the great cataclysm. The survivors climbed up through the fissure and beheld the world above for the first time, seeing the stars like jewels in the heavens—for the sun in shame hid when first they arrived. They could not return, for from the dragon’s wound his spirit spilled forth, a dragonfire that yet burns among the pillars of creation. They covered the fissure with living steel to prison the dragon’s spirit, and there it still haunts the deep. Since that time, our folk have dug in the cold stone above, among the dead ores. Without the living ores to feed us, we learned to eat the plants and animals and suffer the oppression of the sun.”

Spinner smiled, nodding to himself, and smacked his lips as if tasting mead.

“I don’t think I believe that,” Korin said. “About the dragon, I mean. And the sun is a ball of flame in the heavens. It can’t talk.”

“Oh, I’m not sure how much of anything about it is true. I mean, the cataclysm, of course, just look at the rock, but a dragon and seven pillars under the world and a talking sun and eating ore?” Spinner grinned. “Makes for a mighty story though. Kind of like how hating the ürsi makes your hands shake.” Spinner winked.

It was a good story to be fair, that Korin couldn’t deny—the dragon tale, not the foolishness about his hands shaking. As a gilke of ten,stories of dragons had always frightened him, and there were lots of children’s tales with dragons. His uncle had given him a child’s helmet of brass, burnished bright and shining. Korin had kept it hidden in a small salt barrel until his uncle found it there. He’d been scared a dragon would want it for its horde.

Ouch. He’d gotten himself with the awl. Dragons always made his hands shake worse. He sucked on the palm of his hand. Damn shakes, the curse of his life. Spinner observed him, for once holding his tongue. Now it was Korin searching for a distracting bit of talk.

“If the smiths of this mountain had an ounce of sense, they’d make us all fine mail hauberks,” he said. “Something with a cover for the laces.”

“And coifs.”

“And vambraces. And greaves.”

“And some nice articulated gauntlets,” Spinner added with a wistful look, flexing his hands. “Like the Queen’s Guard have. I don’t fancy losing my fingers.”

Korin nodded. He could well agree with that. Shake as they might, what would he do without fingers? Or hands for that matter? That was no life for a dwarf. Better a spear to the gut. He thought of Ironroot and Slipstone, no longer numbered among the guards. At least Ironroot had his hands.

It was true, the Prince’s Guard could use better kit. They wore what they had, each what they brought, and it was a mishmash of functional if not fine arms and armor. As much as the smiths and crafters of the mountain loved to forge and fashion, they did not give for nothing, nor did they spend all their time making weapons of war. There was much else of use and beauty to occupy them. Korin had seen a drinking horn recently, bound in gold and silver, engraved in a most spectacular manner with scenes of the mountain. Most of the inhabitants of Ice-Cloak would sooner have that than a fine hauberk they hoped never to use.

After the Battle of Four Kings, no other host from the colonies had mobilized against them. The upheaval in Red-Vein, Iron-Deep, and Spired Rock after the loss of their sovereigns was enough of a deterrent, and most of the other colonies were even further away. Dark were the hungers that befell those three colonies in the following years, with food scarce and dear and the remaining goatherds stripped of their flocks. Now, after one-hundred eleven years, trade had grown to a point that, as much as the wealthy of the old colonies resented the upstart goatherds and ore haulers, their own hordes had benefited as well. Dwarves loved trade more than war, though they sang of it less.

The prince sat at his pine table and motioned for Korin to take a seat.

“What did you think of the new recruits?”

“Eager and green,” Korin said.

“As were you two weeks ago,” Firehelm said. “As was I. Are there enough?”

“We have turned many away. Those who join return tomorrow night for oath-making.”

“Good. We will begin training the following day. I will send a message to Onehand and ask him to return. I want each recruit paired up with one of the veterans, those who are soundest, and the recruits must show respect to those who fought the battle.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem. It seems they are quite frightened.”

“Oh?” the prince raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, apparently I am full of rage.”

Firehelm leaned back in his chair and laughed from his gut, setting his good hand on his belly.

“Oh yes, trembling with it, I hear!”

Korin stared at him, and the prince tried to rein in his mirth. “Come now, friend. Words are tools. Words are weapons. We need the support of the mountain. My mother is not completely void of caring what the people think, no matter how impervious she seems. Forgive me my stories.” Firehelm beamed at Korin with flushed cheeks. Korin couldn’t resist and smiled. “There we go, there we go,” Firehelm said. “We each play a role here. I want my captain to have a reputation that inspires, and so I will help build it, as you will help build my own reputation as prince. Tell me about these recruits. What sort are they?”

“Goatherds and ore-haulers. No craftsmen. But eager, who believe in the cause.”

Firehelm ran his fingers down his braided beard and stared past Korin.

“Brokenspear was a visionary, you know,” he said after a few moments, his tone quieter. “My mother and father knew him better than most, and they told me more than what is widely known.” Firehelm paused and Korin waited, not wanting to interrupt. “Brokenspear did what he had to do for the survival of the colony. He would have pursued the greatness of Ice-Cloak to the ends of dwarfdom. He must have known that not all dwarves are equal, that greatness would rise to the top in the end, just as he did, and there must always be those who herd goats to serve the rest. Brokenspear would have known this. But he did and said what was needed.”

“But he freed the folk and made them equal,” Korin said, his brow furrowed.

“Oh yes, he freed folk. The colonies had grown stagnant. They needed shaken up, and now we can pan our sample. That which has little weight washes away and leaves the gold.” Firehelm must have seen that Korin was still uncomfortable. “Let me ask you, is a blade with untempered steel worth the same as a blade with tempered steel?”

“Of course not.”

“We judge worth by quality. So we must do with our folk, and let quality rise and—” he paused “—the crude fill their proper place. You must know this, deep in your gut. Not everyone has the same worth.”

“Did you not want goatherds?” Korin asked. Firehelm grinned.

“We know their quality by their actions and their loyalties. These who come to me, to us, show their merit. They hunger for something more. That’s what drew so many to Brokenspear. It can do the same for us, until Ice-Cloak stands unparalleled. We could empty the so-called oppressed from all the halls of all the kings and so long as the ürsi threaten us, each would help.” Firehelm looked Korin straight in the eyes.

“I too wish to be known as a visionary, my friend.” He smiled again. “And so we will say what we must, and know what we know. The war we fight against the ürsi is a fight for the hearts of our folk and all dwarfdom, and a warrior does not despise a weapon. But enough of this. Tomorrow you bring me another message, but not from the same place.”

8

The Eleventh Gallery

The Chamber of Waters had been dug by the first dwarves under the mountain, by Brokenspear and the rest. It was a massive tall cavern with hanging stalactites hundreds of feet above, and a waterfall falling down one side. A breeze perpetually blew from the cold falling water. On the far side of the cave, the multi-colored mineral stacks of a hot spring steamed as the bubbling water flowed down its sides and into terraced pools. The dwarves had smoothed the channels of water, lined the floor with flagstones, and carved a great spiraling stair that circled around the chamber and connected to eleven different galleries. From the galleries, passages ran north, south, east, and west to provide stoneholds for many of the dwarves. And in the center of the wide chamber floor stood a hexagonal monument, a black granite plinth speckled with veins of white quartz. Atop it, stood the ossuary of the King and Queen of the Cripples, and atop the ossuary, the fantastic chrysoberyl that the king had dug from the rock himself. Often, passersby would stop and gaze at it, captivated by the stone and the memory it held for their folk. They called it the Tukith-i-Illenfärner. The Spirit of Ice-Cloak. None dared touch it or move it from above the venerated bones. A Queen's Guard stood before the plinth in silence. This was the heart of the colony.

Korin sat in a broken circle with a few of the other Prince’s Guards in the Chamber of Waters. He gazed across the chamber floor at the Spirit of Ice-Cloak as the waterfall thundered down nearby, drowning out other sound from beyond their circle. The Chamber of Waters was often used as a feasting hall because of the sound-dampening effect of the water. Steam rose where the stream from the hot spring joined the cold pool beneath the waterfall, and Korin breathed deeply of the mineral-laden moisture. A pitcher of mead stood at their center. In turns, they poured and drank as they talked. Korin had yet to need a refill. The others may have been enjoying their evening after training hard through the day, but Korin was nervous. They had come, taken a dip in the hot spring to ease their tired muscles, and now enjoyed a drink together. Meadsong sat with his back to the waterfall, drinking and humming. Next to him, Hornhand drank in amiable silence.

For the past few days, Korin had focused on the new recruits and drilling with the veterans. The training was not complex, comprising a handful of motions drilled again and again until they became second nature. But Onehand, having faced a more gruesome and deadly battle than a fight with ürsi, was relentless in the drills. He demanded that each guard be able to drive a spearpoint with crushing force into a target no bigger than a hand. The dwarves separated into pairs. One held out a piece of wool-padded wood attached to a pole, moving it constantly as their shield-brother stabbed at it, wielding the spear one handed and keeping their shield high. Rotating back and forth, they did this until the blows came in quick, accurate, and powerful bursts. By the end of the training sessions, their shoulders ached from the strain and the impacts. This was just one of a number of drills they practiced for hours on end.

In training, Korin was subject to the same rigors, but in at least one thing his day departed from his brothers. In morning and evening, Korin carried sheepskins of charcoal runes to and from the prince. Korin sipped at his mead. To the other dwarves in the Chamber of Waters, it looked like a normal gathering of compatriot dwarves taking their ease. They did not wear their armament, and their clothes varied in quality and showed no cohesion. Their braided beards betrayed them somewhat.

A stranger approached them and sat down next to Korin, settling onto crossed legs like the rest.

“Death to ürsi,” the stranger said. Korin felt his pulse quicken.

“Ay, death to ‘em!” Hornhelm said, and drank. Meadsong offered the stranger a mug, and he took it with thanks.

“And what’re you called, friend?” Meadsong asked.

“I am Rifter,” he answered. “I am known to Strikinghand.” Korin nodded and smiled, suspecting he looked as false as he felt. He had never met this dwarf before. While the others may have simply been relaxing after their training, Firehelm had sent Korin with a purpose. A stranger was to meet him, but only to identify another stranger whom Korin was to follow. And all was to be discrete. It was not a business he relished, but Firehelm had entrusted him with the duty, sending the group of guards with their pitcher of drink to take their ease.

The stranger's statement pacified the others, and soon Meadsong was singing again. One of the new recruits who had tagged along with the veterans laid back on the cool flagstones, his hands under his head, looking up at the falling water. Korin knew he would feel even more exhausted than those who had been with the guard for many moons.

Rifter sat without saying much, and Korin said less. Normally he liked the Chamber of Waters, but he was not enjoying himself, even though Meadsong sang one of his favorites, the Ballad of the First Dwarves.

It told the selfsame story Spinner had told of the cataclysm, the fissure, and the pillars, but within the ballad no dragon made an appearance. It was the story as his uncle had told it, more or less. As a child, Korin had asked his uncle about the cataclysm after he’d heard the ballad sung at a midwinter feast. He still remembered his uncle’s explanation. It only confused him more:

“Why would the creator let his work be marred?”

“We dwarves are makers, like the creator. A master has apprentices, but there is one master. The work of his hands reflects his mind and skill. How foolish for an axe to call itself ‘maker.’ Yet humans and elves make themselves gods to think as they do and act as they do, even look as they do.”

“But that’s not what I asked. I asked why the creator would let his work be marred? Why allow the cataclysm?”

“Other hands may mar the axe, without marring the skill and intent of the smith.

“How can you know the creator’s intent?”

His uncle motioned around him at the rock.

“In the stone, in the ore, even in the sun and the moon and the trees, the falling waters.” His uncle hesitated. “And some say, in the old runes.”

“I still don’t understand why he’d let it happen.”

“The blade must be heat-treated. I expect so must the soul.”

Among the dead ores
And the cold stones
In the shallow ground above.

Meadsong finished the final verse. There was something like a collective sigh from the listeners as the song disappeared into the fall of the waters. Rifter tapped Korin’s arm and nodded toward the opening to the south entrance of the Chamber of Waters. A dwarf walked through the entrance arch to the Chamber of Waters, his clothes plain and weather-worn. He had a blond beard, a face flushed red from the sun—burned, not darkened. He was another that Korin didn’t recognize, but then, that meant little enough. Meadsong took a long swig from his mug and reached for the pitcher, Rifter stood.

“Thank you, friends, for the mead and song. And strength to the arms of the Prince’s Guard!”

The others raised their mugs at that and drank as Rifter departed. Korin watched the blond-bearded dwarf who had entered the chamber. He passed perhaps ten yards from them, heading to the gallery stair. His head-hair was combed and clean, braided down past his shoulders. Also his beard was combed and oiled, hanging free. A number of other dwarves ascended and descended the stairs, as was true at most times of day or night.

Korin rose to his feet.

“I think I will visit my uncle,” he said. The others waved to him. Korin drained the rest of his mead and turned to the stairs, following the blond dwarf at a distance. Korin tried not to follow too closely. But then, the dwarf did not look around him much. He walked at a quick pace up the gallery stairs, circling around the Chamber of Waters, up and up. By the time they reached the seventh gallery, Korin had dropped even further back. Fewer people meant a greater risk that he would be noticed. At the landing of the stair to the eleventh gallery, the stranger stopped right in front of the empty guard chamber and looked around. The 11th gallery stair alone out of all the others had a guard chamber dug at its foot, but it was never used.

Korin pretended to head down the south tunnel. He walked out of sight and waited what felt like forever but amounted to little more than a score of heartbeats before he peeked back around the corner. The dwarf was climbing the stairs to the eleventh gallery.

The eleventh was the smallest and most remote of the galleries. It was such a climb that fewer folk had chosen to extend and delve the cardinal passages there, preferring lower stoneholds. Brokenspear himself was said to have lived in the eleventh gallery, although the gallery passages had long ago subsumed his hall. At least, so he’d heard.

Korin waited until the stranger was out of sight, but he remained full of indecision. If he followed and was seen now, it would be obvious that he was trailing him. There weren’t many places to go on the eleventh gallery—a dozen or more stoneholds, short cardinal passages, nothing beyond. But Firehelm charged Korin with discovering if the stranger met with anyone and where. Instead of following, he waited in the mouth of the tenth gallery south passage. Chasing up the stairs now would give him away. He could only hope that the blond dwarf had arrived first to any meeting.

After a few minutes, someone passed him from further down the south passage, mattock on shoulder. A miner headed to a claim, no doubt. The dwarf paid him no head, but Korin fiddled with his shaking fingers. He wished he’d brought something, anything to work on, even just a blade to sharpen. He could have leaned over the gallery wall and put an edge on a knife. At least that would have looked somewhat normal, rather than lurking in the opening arch of the passage. The eleventh stair remained empty.

Someone hurried past the mouth of the passage. Korin startled, but she didn’t see him because she wore the hood of a cloak pulled far forward. The smell of spiced oils reached him on the air of her passing. He saw long, loose hair hanging from the cloak. She walked to the stair and began the climb, at one point skipping a step. She was eager. The cloak was of fine woven fabric, workings of silver thread on the hem.

She never looked back, and Korin followed, first to the foot of the stairs, and then up. When he reached the top, trying to match the pace, he saw her enter the shadow of the north passage. Heart beating, he followed to the opening and peeked around. Only the cloaked figure walked the passage, and then she stopped at the utter end, pushed open a door on the sidewall, and entered a stonehold. Korin walked away from the passage arch and settled back against the gallery wall. Across the opening, the mountain spring sprang from the rock, plummeting to the Chamber of Waters far below. Miner’s eye glowed along the stone in varied hues of blues and greens and yellows. The natural stone of the chamber roof vaulted above his head. A short inner wall protected from the irregular ovoid opening at the center of the gallery. Over its side, the view of the ten lower galleries extended down hundreds of feet to the stone, the tall cavern growing wider lower.

Korin was relieved that Firehelm told him not to eavesdrop on the meeting under any circumstances, only to observe who the blond dwarf met. So far, he assumed that the meeting was with the cloaked dwarf-maid, but then, he couldn’t be sure. He hadn’t even seen her face to identify her or seen them together. But if he leaned there against the short inner wall, he couldn’t miss anyone else moving to or from the 11th gallery.

Over the next while, only one other dwarf passed by—leaving the gallery, not entering it, and from the south at that. Korin rehearsed his description in his mind just in case. Yellow tunic, studded belt, beard. His hands were relatively soft, no thick mining calluses. An artisan of some kind, perhaps? But why the sunburn?

There was no way to gauge the passing of time. The water poured out of the rock in a never-ending rush. Korin could feel the cold breeze that flowed off of the water. Stalactites covered in miner’s eye hung down below the level of the gallery, partially obscuring the view. Time was an almost immaterial thing below rock. Those dwarves who had no business on the surface settled into their own rhythms of working and sleeping disconnected from night and day. The colony never slept — not all at once.

The dwarves still commonly referred to the passage of time in terms of the night sky, though few in Ice-Cloak paid heed to the practices of the old colonies where an entire caste of dwarven clerics lived their lives trapping the power of the heavenly lights within jewels. At least, that’s what they believed they did.

Queen Jade had forbidden the few followers of this belief from drilling channels for light to the surface. Such tunnels could compromise the safety of the colony. So, those who practiced the trapping of light into jewels did so in the winter, weather permitting, on the frozen surface of the lake. To Korin, as to most under the mountain, the Ulemë Kirian was the belief and practice of their oppressors, or at least their parents’ oppressors back in the old colonies. Still, ways of speaking changed slowly for the dwarves, if at all, so day and night meant sleeping and waking.

Korin was staring at the falling water when he heard steps and a hushed voice. He glanced over. The cloaked figure approached down the north passage. If Korin moved now, it would be obvious, so he tried to look disinterested, staring back at the falling water. But he needed to see more about the cloaked figure. She was about to step out into the brighter gallery. Now was his chance. He looked up, hoping to see the face within the hood.

Their eyes met, and a hint of recognition fluttered across her expression. Korin recognized her, too. It was Keyhand, daughter of Jade, princess of Ice-Cloak. He had been spying on the princess. Korin flushed, his heart beating fast. A look of concern spread over Keyhand’s face as she came close. She hesitated.

“You,” she said. “I have seen you.”

“My lady,” Korin responded with a shallow bow. Keyhand studied Korin for a few more moments, and then her eyes widened. It was obvious that she’d placed him. Her gaze fluttered toward the north passage and back. Then she mastered her expression. She said nothing more, turning to the stairs and descending from sight. Korin didn’t follow. He would wait until the princess was well gone.

It was not long before he heard a door close and looked at the north passage to see the blond dwarf approaching. He’d come out of the same door Korin had seen Keyhand enter. The stranger looked up and saw Korin standing in the gallery. He had only seen Korin for a brief glimpse before, and he didn’t react, but Korin did not want to wait around for the stranger to arrive, so he turned and headed down the stairs, knowing his sudden hurry might look suspicious but rushing anyway.

Korin descended the galleries rapidly, feeling the flush in his face. At the landing in the Chamber of Waters, he glanced at the grand arch at the north end of the Chamber of Waters. Keyhand was not to be seen. Long ago, Queen Jade ordered that northern archway created. Beyond it a stair descended further beneath the mountain. It opened onto a bridge with no rails that spanned a deadfall—a defensive measure. Across that bridge awaited a gate and then the throne room. Beyond the throne room were the private royal chambers. Firehelm had grown up in those chambers, but Korin had never entered. He had only seen the throne room once, during a council of elders when the folk had been invited to listen. He’d gone only to see what it looked like.

Of course, he’d also appreciated the announcement that the work duties had been reduced from four weeks a year to three, the whole reason for inviting the folk. It was the first time he had seen Firehelm. The prince watched and listened carefully from outside the circle of elders, Queen Jade presiding upon a throne of polished jade. On her brow she wore a crown set with the magnificent fire opal said to have been the first stone delved from Ice-Cloak. It was named Orith-i-Illenfärner, the “Blood of Ice-Cloak.” It had been reset for Queen Jade, pulled out of the crown-helm of the king of Red-Vein who died at the battle of Four Kings. One day, Keyhand would likely wear that crown—she who swam in her mother’s womb during the great battle.

Now, two Queen’s Guards stood at the arch, but Keyhand either already entered or went another way. The Prince’s Guards who had accompanied Korin to the Chamber of Waters were gone, no doubt headed back to the prince’s hall by now, and Korin hurried away.

“Describe him to me,” Firehelm said. He sat in his chair behind the table in his private alcove. Korin stood near the door.

“A blond dwarf, weather worn clothing, sunburned face. Hands somewhat soft.”

“I see,” Firehelm said. “And I suppose there is no doubt he met with my sister—the princess, I mean.”

Korin blushed. The idea of reporting a secret meeting between the princess and an unknown dwarf was beyond discomfiting. It felt despicable. But it was his order.

“There is no doubt.”

Firehelm nodded.

“She saw me,” Korin said.

“Did she know you?”

“I fear so.”

Firehelm sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a moment. Korin’s body tensed, waiting to see how Firehelm would proceed.

“It would have been better otherwise,” the prince said at last. “I should have considered that she had met you, but to be honest. . .” He sighed. His eyes looked a bit red and unrested. “No matter. I do not mind that you are not a natural sneak. I wouldn’t have it in my captain. There was simply no one else I felt I could trust.”

Korin took a breath, feeling a sense of relief. He still had no idea what this was all about, but if Firehelm didn’t see fit to tell him, he wasn’t going to ask. It was not his place, and he knew that Firehelm sought the best for their folk.

Again, Firehelm seemed to sense his thoughts.

“My sister,” he said, “is expected to lead this colony one day. I love her dearly, but as we have agreed before, she is no fighter. And maybe she is more. . . more careless with herself than is to be desired. It behooves me to watch over her safety and honor, as a brother and a prince under the mountain.”

Yes, Korin thought. That only made sense. No wonder he had taken such an interest. Firehelm watched Korin’s face, his clear eyes searching for something there. “I hardly have to say to one as reliable as yourself that no one can hear of this. The princess’ reputation is of the utmost importance. I will see to the rest personally.”

Korin bowed his head, blushing again.

9

Crown Prince

The next day, Firehelm departed the stonehold early. He told Onehand and Korin to continue the training, as he expected to be gone for a few days. Korin risked a questioning look.

“It’s time to force the point,” he said. “I hope to have permission to sally soon.”

Korin grinned. If the question could be resolved in a few days, there may still be time to manage the expedition that summer, when they had the benefit of a disjointed and scattered enemy. The Battle of the Ridge would not be wasted.

Really, Korin had little to do. Onehand drilled the guards without aid, his disfigured face stern and his voice harsh. Korin trained just as hard as the others. To ensure the details of daily living—deliveries of food from Firehelm’s supporters, supplies for the hoped-for expedition, and managing the rotation of guard duties—there was not more than a couple hours of work a day. In previous times when Korin had free moments, he liked to take walks in the caverns, enjoying the breeze and the sheen of miner’s eye on the rocks and minerals. But with Firehelm gone, he felt duty-bound to remain present in the stonehold at all times. He made sure Spinner continued roaming the colony, speaking and hearing and telling his tales. Despite that, Korin endured plenty of his good natured prattle, for the smiling dwarf had to return to the stonehold sometimes, if only to eat and drink and sleep. Meadsong hummed his ballads while the dwarves obsessively burnished and honed and polished their war kit.

It was the morning of the third day of Firehelm’s absence when Hornhand stepped inside the stonehold door.

“Strikinghand.”

Korin looked up from the table where he sat sipping a mug of scalding hot herbal tea, dark with leaf and honey. He liked to hold the hot mug. It helped to calm his hands.

“Mm?”

“Delivery.”

Korin rose and headed to the door, leaving his mug behind. Normally he would be a tad perturbed with an interruption to his morning ritual, but he had expected no delivery that day, and he was curious. At the door, four dwarves held two wooden crates in pairs and a fifth dwarf stood in front. He gave a shallow bow.

“The delivery from my master Sheenkiln,” he said. Korin raised his eyebrows. Sheenkiln was a respected smith. It bode well if he’d decided to support the prince’s cause.

“We thank Sheenkiln for his gift.”

“It was no gift,” the apprentice said, then he thought better. “I mean no offense. My master was pleased to forge for the prince. But the prince paid.”

Korin frowned. He had not known that the prince had made any such arrangements. So far, all their new kit and supplies had come as gifts to the cause. But his confusion made no difference to the task at hand. He motioned for the deliveries to be brought inside. The strangers left as soon as they’d set down their burden in the hall.

The crates were closed, tacked down by nails.

“Should we wait?” Hornhelm asked. He had followed the crates inside, curious, letting the new recruit on guard duty with him remain at the door. Korin hesitated. He had received no orders to wait. He had received no direction about such a delivery at all.

“No. Open them.” A couple of the guards had already brought out files to pry up the lids. The rest of the guards ringed around. The smell of polishing oil and grease flowed out of the crates as the lids came off. Korin reached in and pulled back a cover of rough felt. Murmurs and exclamations shivered through the group.

Within the crates lay stacks of warmasks in rows. Korin realized the others were looking to him, so he reached down and picked one up. The blued steel was flawless. Not thick, but it would turn a strike. Korin had seen the warmasks of the old colonies. Some families kept them in their stoneholds as relics and trophies from the Battle of Four Kings. They were enameled with color and costly metals, set with gems and fashioned to depict horrifying expressions. The masks in the crate were not so. They lacked ornament except for a geometric impression of a face. They all bore the same grim expression, neither vicious nor grotesque. Korin’s fingers left prints in the thick protective grease.

He looked up at the guards and smiled.

“The prince has given us warmasks,” he said. He didn’t stop to have them counted. He knew there would be one for each. “Take one, all of you.”

The guards swarmed the crates, murmuring in awed excitement. All the masks appeared identical until one of the new recruits held up a leather bag and started to open it. Hornhelm snatched it away from him.

“Strikinghand,” he said, holding it up. There were runes on the bag. Korin couldn’t read them, but Hornhelm must have seen the hesitation on his face. “It says your name, and there is another with the name of the prince.”

Korin took the bag from Hornhelm and opened it. Within was another mask, identical to the others except this one had yellow enamel worked into the geometry above the eyes. Korin stared at it. It was the most precious thing he had ever received apart from his names.

“This one is the prince’s,” Hornhelm said. He peered into the other bag and then held it open for Korin to see. It too was the same mask, except above the eyes glinted a vibrant red enamel like flames. Korin grinned, and Hornhelm grinned back. At the bottom of the crates they found bundled sheets of leather and wool. These they would use to line the insides of the masks to fit comfortably against their individual faces and provide padding against blows. The masks themselves were tapered at the top to allow for a helm to slide down in place over the edge, covering any gap.

“The prince has given us gifts as his guard,” Korin said, loud enough to cut through the chatter. “Gifts for warriors. Let’s get to work.”

A happier day had not passed within the stonehold of the Prince’s Guard, as twenty-seven dwarves prepared their warmasks for battle.

The following midday, in between their morning and afternoon training, Spinner burst through the stonehold door. His face was flushed and his breath came in ragged gasps. He leaned over, holding his knees, trying to speak through his heaving. Korin had been sitting at the table, tweaking the fittings of his warmask with a few others. He stood and hurried to Spinner.

“Breathe, Spinner. What is it?”

“The prince!” Spinner gasped. “I mean, the princess, she. He’s prince!”

“What?”

Others were gathering around. “Start at the beginning,” Korin said, bending over and putting his hand on Spinner’s back.

“The princess has renounced the rule of Ice-Cloak!” Spinner stood up straight, sweat running down his face. “I ran from the Chamber of Waters. She did it this morning. She said that even if the folk supported her, she would refuse the crown. Firehelm. He’s coming back—back here.”

“When?” Korin asked.

“Now. He’s on his way.”

If Keyhand meant to refuse the rule, then the greatest source of opposition to Firehelm’s leadership was removed. It wasn’t a done deal, but the odds of a King Firehelm ruling under the mountain had just increased tenfold.

Korin barked orders. Chaos erupted within the stonehold.

When Firehelm entered, two rows of guards met him in full kit, warmasks covering their faces, slamming their spears against shields and cheering:

“Long live the prince!”

Korin stood before Firehelm’s table that evening in his side chamber. Instead of the afternoon training, they had eaten and drank and celebrated. Now, Firehelm leaned back in his chair, smoking a long-stemmed pipe, filling the chamber with blue-white smoke. The luxury of hill-smoke had only recently made its way into the colony. Korin had never seen Firehelm smoke before. It smelled of spruce and spice.

“Well, Strikinghand. We have done it. After my sister’s abdication from rule, the queen gave us permission for the expedition.”

“Did Keyhand say why?”

“Hmm?” Firehelm asked.

“Why she abdicated?” Korin couldn’t help but think of her expression when she’d recognized him on the eleventh gallery.

“Believe it or not, it seems she has come around to our way of thinking. She did not say much, but when she informed our mother of her decision she suggested the colony needed a strong hand to guide it. But enough of that. We have some planning to do. I hope to leave soon.”

“But, now that you’re the obvious choice, don’t you think you should stay? Give the colony time to adjust to the idea?” Korin knew that Keyhand was well-loved in Ice-Cloak. Firehelm released a mouthful of smoke.

“No one has ever yet reigned here by heredity. To most, it is usual that an heir should take the throne as in the old colonies, but some still hold close to the belief that Brokenspear made all equal. Some would not have me as king, but would rather pick a lord. I need a name beyond Son of Jade—something that cannot be denied. This expedition will ensure that.”

Spinner had reported that not all supported heredity. They all knew it from first hand. But the succession could be another fifty, even seventy-five years away.

“Yes, but, there’s time, your mother still rules, and—”

“The queen is dying,” Firehelm interrupted. “Her bones are eaten within her. I fear she will not see another spring.”

Korin’s mind reeled. He had heard no whisper of this, and if it was true. . . Soon, he could be the captain of the King’s Guard. Let the folk squabble, but who was better to lead them than Firehelm? It was more than Korin could have ever hoped for in life, to find himself in such service. What was this world that was so good to him? But he felt guilty for the sense of joy. The queen was a hero as well as a sovereign. He did not wish her death. Firehelm watched the emotions wrestle on Korin’s face.

“I grieve for my mother,” he said, stretching out his spear-arm and flexing his fingers. He had returned without his plaster cast. “Would that she had many more years beneath the mountain. But the expedition must go on, and every day is an unwanted delay. We leave in two days time. The sooner the outcome is settled the better.”

“We need far more supplies,” Korin said. “The gifts we have received have fed us, but we need marching food and more travel kit.”

“And you shall have it. I have already secured many promises. More are ready to offer favors, now that my sister has stepped aside. I see no hindrances to our departure.”

Korin tried to take in all the new information. Firehelm watched him.

“Say whatever goodbyes you desire beneath the mountain,” he said. “And say goodbye to your life as you know it. When we return, we return heroes.”

Korin took Firehelm’s advice. He visited his uncle and said his goodbye. He didn’t look forward to the meeting, but decency required it. His uncle said little. In truth, his uncle had already said his piece. He nodded when Korin told him the news, wished him good speed and safety, and then fell silent. It was the audience of but a moment, and Korin returned down the gallery stairs. The idea of leaving the colony, not just to cross the ridge but to cross many, to tread where no dwarves had yet ventured, to push into the unknown lands from whence the ürsi sprang—to an extent it seemed as foolish as his uncle thought it. But then, what were heroes but those who took such risks? Firehelm went with them. That’s how much he believed in it. Certainly one with such a high destiny as he would not fail.

As Korin walked out of the Chamber of Waters and into the upper caverns, he saw the sweeping carvings in the rock near the Hall of Memories. Some folk called it the Hall of Heroes. On an impulse, he walked over to the door. It was dim in the chamber beyond. No miner’s eye was permitted to grow there. There was no actual door, just a stone arch surrounded by relief carvings of the history of Ice-Cloak. Korin glanced at the depiction of Brokenspear fighting the bear. It was his favorite of the carvings. He stepped within and waited a moment, letting his eyes adjust. In front of him, rows of ossuaries rested on plinths. Stepping forward, he looked at the first inscription.

HERE SLEEPS BREAKER
LIBERATOR OF THE OPPRESSED

He couldn’t read it, but he had heard it recited many times in the Ballad of the First Ones. The next plinth only bore a few simple runes, but the plinth after that was engraved with the relief of a woodaxe beneath runes. They said in the mountain that Brokenspear carved these first plinths with his own hands. Korin didn’t know if it was true, but he liked to believe it. He looked at the woodaxe, wondering about the dwarf whose bones rested within the ossuary. What kind of a dwarf had he been? He was the third entombed in the Hall of Memory where rested Ice-Cloak’s first heroes. No one since the Battle of Four Kings had been interred within this dim silent space. Certainly, the dwarf of the woodaxe must have been a warrior of great merit. He had heard Breaker’s story, how he liberated the first indentured servants. He tried to remember more lines of the ballad.

“Then Farseer, in glory rests.” He was fairly sure that was the next line. He couldn’t come up with any more. He had heard a tale once about Farseer saving Brokenspear from a bear, although that story confused him because Brokenspear slew the bear with Breaker’s aid. He could not remember hearing about the third, the dwarf of the woodaxe. But if the company he kept was any indication, he must have been great. Here his name would be preserved for a thousand generations.

I want to be great, thought Korin. And deep in his gut, he knew that his friend and his prince would lead him to that greatness. He reached out, touching the grooves of the carving of the woodaxe. He heard footsteps and spun around. Queen Jade stepped through the door of the chamber. She squinted into the dimness as Korin dropped into a kneel, placing both his hands upon his knee and bowing his head.

“Who’s there?” the queen asked.

“I, uh. I am called Strikinghand, my queen. I serve your son the prince. I am sorry for disturbing you.”

“Ah.” She hesitated, then stepped further into the chamber. “I am just not used to finding anyone here.” Korin noticed the limp he had seen before, as if her leg did not want to support her. It looked even more pronounced, now. Maybe seeing her in silhouette made it more noticeable. The queen stopped next to the first plinth, looking at the ossuary atop it.

One of the Queen’s Guards leaned in through the entryway of the chamber.

“My queen, is all well?” He must have heard their voices.

“Yes, it’s fine,” she answered, not looking over. The guard stepped back, standing just beyond the door and watching inward. The queen continued to look at the ossuary. Korin did not rise. He didn’t know what to do or what not to do.

“You go with my son on his expedition?” she asked after a moment.

“Yes, my queen.”

“I worry over him.”

“He is a great warrior,” Korin replied.

“He is too like me,” she said with a grimace. With his eyes now well adjusted, he could see the faint sheen of sweat on her furrowed brow, reflecting the light from the doorway.

“But my queen, you . . . you-”

She raised a hand to stop him.

“I was a bitter maid surrounded by greatness.” She motioned vaguely at the plinths before her. Her voice sounded tired. “And now, all the great ones of old lie entombed. Keyhand has that greatness in her, I think—but then, she has set aside the mantle.” Queen Jade shook her head. Korin didn’t know what to say. He stayed on his knee. The queen pursed her lips and waved him out. He obeyed, eager to be gone.

Twenty-six dwarves stood in rigid array, their blued warmasks grim, barely reflecting the light of the miner’s eye. In front of the twenty-six stood Korin, the weight of his brigandine barely lending his arms any steadiness. He felt certain that the eyes of the mass of dwarves rested on his shaking hands. In front of Korin stood Firehelm. Queen Jade, in her turn, stood before the great plinth of Brokenspear. Korin wondered why she’d chosen to do this here, rather than in the throne room. But then, the plinth of Brokenspear was itself auspicious. There was no greater warrior, no greater hero of Ice-Cloak, and atop the plinth, in an ossuary crowned by the great chrysoberyl, his bones rested with the bones of his wife, whose love he never abandoned even when he became king. For her, he forsook all heritage of blood. Korin felt a swelling pride in his breast.

Yet there stood Queen Jade. She was the last living leader of the first days beneath the mountain. The stories that Korin had heard growing up were her life. His heroes were her companions. Now she looked ashen and somehow unstable. She wore a mantle of green with fine embroidery, and a simple helm that bore scars of battle. Her arms still bespoke strength, her carriage and posture were firm, but Korin could sense the pain lurking beneath it all. She held an ornate, long-handled axe, its broad bearded blade inlaid with silver designs, but she held it with its butt planted against the stone, her weight shifted onto it. What had been a war-axe now served as a cane. She seemed to favor her left leg.

“My son,” Jade said. “May your arms bring safety and peace to Ice-Cloak. Go now and return in triumph.”

That was all. Firehelm paused as if expecting more, and then he bowed. He let the bow linger for a few extra moments. Then, he rose, turned, and strode through the parting ranks of his guards. Korin followed next, and then the twenty-six others in doubled line. Cheers erupted from many voices, both in the Chamber of Waters and the ringing galleries above. Despite that, Korin couldn’t help but notice other faces, especially of the aged, who watched in silence, expressions blank or brows furrowed. He did not see his uncle among the throng, but he imagined he wore a similar expression if indeed he looked on. Korin didn’t have time to dwell on it. They marched.

10

North Passage

The departure from the Chamber of Waters was for show. They headed back to the stonehold, first. There, they donned packs and bedrolls and cloaks and the varied kit meant for hard wilderness travel. Their armor was already blued and darkened to prevent it glinting in the light. They would march in their masks and armaments, always ready for attack, but they also needed to carry supplies for a journey of unknown duration. They packed four weeks of rations. Beyond that, twisted line for snares or fishing and their slings must suffice. Korin and Firehelm had talked long, trying to account for all possibilities while keeping the burdens to the minimum. Regardless, the packs were heavy and yet Korin felt they did not take enough.

While they hurried their preparations in the stonehold, still hoping to make good ground that day, a knock came at the door. They had set no guard, equipped as they all were for battle. Korin opened the door and saw a mailed warrior wearing the warmask of the prince’s guard. Korin looked back over his shoulder, confused. No, he had counted them all. They were all there. So who was this? Recognizing the confusion, the warrior lifted his mask. Korin knew the face: it was the dwarf who had met so mysteriously with the prince those days before, the dwarf he had carried letters to and from, except now he wore no unreasonable furred coat but fine mail, helm, greaves, articulated gauntlets of leather and steel. The belt across his waist held handaxe and camp knife, and he bore shield and spear. A cloak wrapped him beneath pack and bedroll. In other words, his kit looked exactly as the rest of the Prince’s Guard, right down to the burning helm emblazoned on his shield in muted grey outline.

A hand touched Korin’s shoulder and the prince stepped beside him.

“This is Rendjaw. He will be joining our expedition.”

“But, I thought we were only allowed twenty-seven?”

“It will be well.” Firehelm smiled at Korin. “Worry not.” He motioned for Rendjaw to enter, but he may as well have waited at the door. They were ready.

“That makes us twenty-nine. Who will be his shield-brother?” Each of the dwarves had a shield brother, except for Firehelm and Korin who in theory would go where needed. They had paired new recruits with veterans.

“Where we go, few trails will allow a doubled march. We must trust our training, but like as not, we will fight on rough ground.”

Korin nodded. He didn’t like a stranger sprung on him, especially not this mysterious contact. But it was obviously planned. Firehelm had ensured a warmask reached Rendjaw, and did so outside of Korin’s knowledge.

A few short words from Firehelm to the company about welcoming Rendjaw made for a smooth enough addition. He assured them all that Rendjaw was a trained warrior, had done him some service in the past, and had made a special request to join them. Though somewhat suspicious simply from having lived together in such close quarters, the guards were not so long-formed as to treat Rendjaw as an utter outsider, and the nerves felt by many at the outset of the expedition made them eager to laugh and talk. Spinner barely stopped chattering, but the overall mood of the group made his talk stand out less.

With the addition of Rendjaw, twenty-nine dwarves stepped into the sun that morning. The adit guards saluted their passing, Korin squinted against the light, and the sound of the bells reached his ears.

“They ring for us!” Firehelm shouted.

The company cheered.

It was one of the proudest moments of Korin’s life, as the great bells of Ice-Cloak filled the valley with ringing bronze as if the great mountain itself hailed them. The glaciers on Ice-Cloak's shoulders sparkled in the sunlight. For such the first of their folk had named it in Brokenspear’s day. It was still spring, but the thaw had come even to the upper slopes and white streams of meltwater raced down the mountainsides. The glaciers would shrink but never entirely melt.

They made the short walk down the shingle road along the cliff, the waves of the lake lapping beside them, and came to the defensive wall that ran from the cliff out into the lake. The gate set into the wall was dug underground, and the wall itself rose to a ridge of sharpened iron spikes. The guards watched from a tunnel in the wall full of looped windows high above the lakeshore and hidden from the sun. Here the domain of the Queen’s Guard ended. Beyond lay the domain of the Ridgewards, until the northern passes. Beyond that, only the courage of the Prince’s Guard could say.

As unknown as the future of the expedition was, Korin felt pleased to be with this group of dwarves who had become his closest companions. Some he knew better than others: Hornhand, Meadsong, Spinner, Oreheart, Tar, Pinechin, Dimforge, Witherweld, and Hefter too, even though he still limped. He had refused to stay behind “in shame and disgrace,” as he said.

Korin had gotten to know the nine newer recruits somewhat, although most still had no names among the company. They would earn them during the expedition, he had no doubt. The entire company were stout dwarves. It was only by their bearing, the color and braids of their beards, the privately carved markings on their weapons and shields, and the uniqueness of their hauberks or brigandines that allowed Korin to identify them each despite the identical grim masks they wore.

The Queen’s West sat squat and strong, past the western arm of Ice-Cloak and atop the next ridge. After that ridge and stronghold, a series of mountains and valleys and gaps spread to the west, but between the Queen’s West and the Valley of the Lake, no ürsi could pass the mountains.

The only sign of the recent battle that remained on the ridge was a mound of ash where the Ridgewards had burned the ürsi bodies. The Queen’s West was made of a star-shaped outer wall with a central stronghouse of block, its flat roof topped by a platform holding aloft a ready-made signal pyre of stacked wood. Jars of oil waited near the pyre. As they approached, guards atop the walls signaled to their companions below and when they reached the gate, Hillwalker strode out, flanked by two of his Ridgewards.

The sight of the old dwarf pleased Korin. Hillwalker was the captain of the Ridgewards and a dependable fighter, stubborn against the ürsi and brave in his sallies. He never looked happy, at least never when Korin had seen him, but neither did he appear hostile. His grim expression, weathered skin, and sun-parched tan all hinted at why Queen Jade appointed him to his post decades ago.

“Hail, Prince Under the Mountain,” he said to Firehelm, raising a fist.

“Hail Hillwalker,” Firehelm returned. “Any sight of ürsi?”

“None, not for three days, and that was just a group of stragglers down the valley. They didn’t come near.”

“I have heard that your work has been easier this spring.”

Hillwalker’s face grew even sterner at that.

“Easy with the ürsi,” he said. “Hard to replace good dwarves.”

Firehelm’s mouth twitched.

“For that, I am sorry.”

Hillwalker nodded. Korin wondered how many of his dwarves he had lost. He had never heard the final count. It had been a vicious fight, and Korin’s thoughts had dwelt more on their part in it than the others who had died, or those who had dealt with the aftermath.

For the past few decades, the ürsi had come every spring in horde, and then broke up into smaller hunting parties as the summer progressed. By fall, it was not uncommon for them to be seen in the outer valleys in twos and threes. It was this tendency that the Prince’s Guard depended on. The twenty-eight, now twenty-nine of them could not face alone the massed ürsi in the spring, but they could handle dispersed bands. Firehelm hoped that by dispersing them even earlier by battle and denying them the hunting of the flocks, the ürsi would have spread even further abroad, looking for easier prey.

Hillwalker gazed past the prince at the line of masked guards. He took a deep breath.

“It would be a great shame to lose more,” he said.

“I know your thoughts on the matter. You know we seek to follow the path north of the mountains, and that the Queen has spoken.” Hillwalker shrugged, glanced once more at the masked guards, and stepped aside. Past the gate of the Queen’s West, a smaller track led down the western slope. Korin remembered it well—they had taken that way before the Battle of the Ridge, and they had fought on the slope. Firehelm nodded and lead on. The Ridgewards on the wall saluted as the Prince’s Guard filed past. Korin glanced back. Hillwalker stood still as stone, watching their descent.

Korin tried not to think about the dead as they passed the ground where they had fought. Blood still stained the stone in places. He smelled the stench of that fight and of the foul foe. Even his leg hurt for a moment as he passed.

The Kara-Indal range of mountains dominated the northern skyline, extending as far west as anyone knew and hundreds of miles east, the foothills reaching to some of the old colonies like Red-Vein, Iron-Deep, and Spired Rock. Prior to the colonization, Ice-Cloak lay beyond the western frontier, unexplored and unnamed. Since those days, the Ridgewards had pushed their knowledge another hundred miles west, but the western reaches remained unsafe for travel or prospecting. The ürsi came south through a series of passes, not always the same one, but the closest was Hooked Gap, so called for how it wended between the two peaks to the west of Ice-Cloak. It was through that pass the ürsi had come that spring.

All the western Kara-Indal country lay high and rugged, steep ridges rising often to sheer cliff faces, glaciers nestling in the upper slopes and sending rushing streams of frigid water to the valleys below. The dwarves hunted out the wolves and bears from the valleys around Ice-Cloak, but beyond those bounds of meager miles, they remained plentiful, along with all the other dangers of the wild.

Korin looked wistfully at the trail that led to the stonehold where they had taken refuge after their first skirmish with the ürsi. He already knew they would not stop there. It was only midday, and Firehelm wanted to make Hooked Gap. They saw ürsi tracks, mostly old, dried into the earth from early spring. Most of the ground dried fast after the early spring thaws, being rocky and high, but some fens lay in between the ridges, fed by springs or collecting runoff in impervious rock. In those green places, the iron-pegged boots of the dwarves still squelched.

As they drew closer, Korin saw that the last of the snow had melted away from the mouth of Hooked Gap and bare rock lay exposed to the sun. There was little wild game on the slopes, although birds of prey wheeled overhead. The upward climb toward the pass was steep and broken by rock scree, but the thick-legged dwarves, burdened though they were, pushed their way upward without slackening their pace. Korin felt the sweat slide down his forehead, dampening the padding beneath his mask, but the training of a long winter had helped turn their muscles and lungs to iron.

That night, they made camp just below the gap, around twenty-five hard miles from the colony adit, and they were tired. Korin wished they could light a fire, brew tea and cook food, but exposed as they were upon the mountain, they did not wish to draw attention. They knew from the Ridgewards that no ürsi lurked below the pass, but within it? No one knew.

They settled among the rocks on the steep slope and ate cold marching rations—jerked mutton and dried fish, mostly. Their portion felt insufficient, but they did not know how long their expedition would take. Meadsong did no singing, and talk was sparse. Shadow from the western peaks bathed the slope long before the sun truly set. Korin arranged the rotation of sentries, and they passed an uncomfortable night, wrapped in their cloaks and trying to keep below the bite of the mountain wind. Firehelm slept at the center of the group, his hood pulled low over his face.

They entered Hooked Gap before the sun rose. It was a bleak place, full of boulders and gravel and haunted by a whistling wind, but even with the crooked approach, it stretched less than two miles before plunging down to the north and opening out into a landscape none of them had yet glimpsed. They paused without command. Before them lay a narrow valley, beyond it more peaks jumbled together as if fighting for space, their heads swathed in cloud. The peaks on the far side of the valley held back a heavy gray sky burdened with distant rain.

They had heard descriptions of this valley, of course, yet the sight of such a vast wild of mountains impressed Korin. This was the heart of the Kara-Indal range, and no Ridgewards had ever crossed over those next mountains and returned. Somewhere out there, the ürsi den awaited discovery.

From what they could tell, the faces of the mountains north of the valley rose sheer and cliff-like without sign of gap or pass. This too they had learned from Ridgewards. They descended into the valley below and turned westward, following the stream that bisected the valley floor. The valley itself hardly deserved the name. It was more an elongated depression between the mountains gouged by meltwater and harboring stunted pines.

That day and the two next, they followed snaking valleys, mostly heading westward, seeking some way north of the mountains. Camp was subdued. They slept with their spears and axes cradled in their arms, shields lying atop them, often in a sitting position and leaning against rock. There was little talk and no fires, and yet no one complained. No one wanted to be the first to complain. Even Spinner stemmed his flow of speech, or the toil of the rough country did it for him. Mostly.

The only notable event from those days was the giving of a name to one of the new recruits. It was the first recruit that Korin had accepted among them, the goatherd who wanted to strike back against the ürsi to revenge his sister. Out of propriety, Korin had not asked further about that story, and he still knew nothing more.

A rock gave way beneath the recruit’s foot, and his head slammed against a sharp crag of schist that pushed his helm and mask apart and opened his forehead down to the bone from eyebrow to eyebrow. Blood from the head wound flowed down his face. Like as not it would scar. He gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw as Pinechin, the steadiest and ablest hand among them at such tasks, took bone needle and rawhide thread and sewed the wound shut. After it was closed, the recruit looked pale and sweaty, but he stood to his feet.

“I’m ready,” he said. Firehelm sat on a nearby stone where he had watched the sewing closely.

“Very well, Cragbrow,” the prince said with a smirk. And from that, the recruit’s name was Cragbrow. It was no insult, and Cragbrow did not take it as one.

Their progress was not great as the crow flew, struggling through those narrow valleys, but as they halted in the evening of the third day, Firehelm and Korin stared to the north. Between two rising peaks, they thought they could make out a high pass, maybe even the hint of a trail, though it could have been more the result of their desire to see a path than anything else. Yet game trails did snake through those valleys, cut by the wild goats that climbed the steep slopes, and they had seen more ürsi tracks. The ürsi had to come from somewhere, but the ground was so rocky that often only disturbed lichen showed any trail, so far as they could find. It would not be as easy to track the ürsi’s path as Korin had hoped.

“In the morning, we climb there,” Firehelm said. Korin didn’t respond. There was nothing to say. No one knew what lay beyond those peaks, except ürsi.

11

Red Ice

“Better to be under the mountain than on it,” Oreheart muttered the next day, shale slipping from beneath his feet and sliding down the mountainside. It was true, there was a path—a narrow one about a foot wide snaking up between boulders and across a fold in the mountain, mostly visible as a trail where the scree had already been kicked away. But Pinechin found old scat. ürsi scat, he was sure. Pinechin had served as a Ridgeward before the Prince’s Guard existed, and he was sure that at least some ürsi passed this way on their way south to hunt and torment , and so they could hope the trail might lead them toward the nest.

It took two days to make the climb to the pass. Feet of snow remained at high elevation, impeding their ascent. They saw no ürsi tracks in the snowpack. Inches would have melted away in the weeks since the battle, freshening the streams below and erasing any sign of passage. Korin would have liked to see the view from that high place, but when they reached the crest, peaks like stone pillars rose to either hand only half a mile apart, and the clouds muddled so thick that they could barely see ten yards ahead. Only dim light filtered through the hanging moisture. Their clothes and armor grew damp and their breath fogged through the mouths of their warmasks.

“As ill a place as this is,” Firehelm said to Korin, “I fear it best to stay here tonight and hope for clearer weather.“ Pinechin, Hornhand, and Oreheart stood by listening. “I would like a view to the north before we descend, or even to see any trail ahead.”

Korin sighed, but he knew the prince was wise in the decision. He didn’t feel like walking up to the edge of a cliff before he even saw it. Or worse, to step onto a melting ledge of snow. With muttering, the guards huddled in a cluster behind a drift of crusted snowpack large enough to give them at least a sense of shelter. The usual third of the guards took first sentry duty. Always they kept nine guards watching at the ready. The sentries chewed on the dry rations as they stared into the grey. Korin thought of hot tea and the warmth of a fire. They could have risked a fire in that dense cloud, but there was nothing to burn. If it weren’t for the labor of the climb, he might not have slept at all. Regardless, Korin woke well before his turn to join the third watch of the night in their bleak vigil.

That morning, they could see a little further. A pale brightness in the southeast implied that the cloud cover had thinned. Not willing to wait any longer for a change in conditions, Firehelm ordered the march. They moved slowly and spread out. Pinechin walked ten yards ahead, a rope tied around his waist and stretched between three dwarves at intervals behind. If a hanging snow shelf collapsed, they hoped to preserve him. Thankfully, Pinechin’s intuition about the slope of the mountain proved correct. In about two hours of painstaking descent, the light increased, and Korin squinted. Then, over the course of a few hundred feet more, they dropped below the clouds entirely.

Before them lay a wide series of rolling ridges and rounded peaks, a few of them high enough to be capped with snow, yet looking more like the southern Kara-Indal foothills, covered in evergreens as they were. Many miles away to the northwest spread a wide expanse of grey, and Korin suspected that a dense fog lay there.

Pinechin untied himself from the safety rope, talking as he did.

“Path is clear as quartz-glass, now.” He nodded below. It was true; the same sort of winding narrow track followed the slope down to the north, visible once again where the snowline ended at a mass of glacial ice. The glacier stretched along the mountainside below them, wrapping eastward into a deep shaded fold.

When they reached the glacier, the path ducked under a ledge of ice that overhung the track like a gaping jaw, its underside bluer than the sky. The air beneath was cold, and a wide ice melt stream flowed out of a narrow gap beneath the glacial shelf. It was midday, and Korin didn’t think they were yet halfway down the slope.

They passed out from beneath the ice after about a hundred yards and stopped along the stream for a brief break. The glacier rose high to the east. A hawk passed overhead, its shadow rippling by. Korin shielded his eyes from the sun and watched it soar away. That bird could probably wing to the adit of Ice-Cloak by end of day. Maybe it had come from there, and the sentries at Queen’s West had watched it overhead as he did now. Yet here they were, beyond the bounds of dwarven knowledge, a week of hard trekking between them and home.

Korin drank from the frigid stream and took a piece of salt mutton from his pack and stuck it in his cheek. He would suck on it as they marched. Spinner wandered off toward the edge of the glacier to take a piss, but he called back.

“Hey, there’s a cave here.”

Pinechin sprang from his kneeling position and headed over, followed by Oreheart and a couple of the new recruits. Any cave was curious, but Korin doubted they would find the ürsi hive within. There was not nearly enough sign here to indicate a horde of creatures. Firehelm was adjusting the straps and padding on his warmask.

“Check it for me,” he said to Korin, nodding after them. Korin obeyed, following them over to the cave.

“Anything?” he asked Pinechin.

“There’s some kind of trail here, by the look of it.” The ground was mostly loose gravel and cobbles, not much to pick a trail out of, but Korin noticed scraped lichen and the compression of the gravel in front of the cave. The opening was about five feet wide, and it was less a cave and more a low tunnel in the glacial ice, probably carved by meltwater. He couldn’t see far within, especially not with the daylight blinding him.

“The place smells foul,” Pinechin said. He was right. To Korin, it smelled like rancid mutton fat. Damp rancid mutton fat. Maybe there was a dead mountain sheep within, thawing out of the ice? It didn’t make the hard, salty mutton tucked into his cheek any more appetizing. Dwarven noses were sensitive, and often outdoors, the sheer strength and variety of smells—loam and plants and animals and water—felt overpowering to noses sensitive to the subtle scents of rock and minerals.

“Ürsi?” asked one of the recruits. Korin glanced at him, realizing that the recruit didn’t know how ürsi smelled yet.

“Doesn’t smell like ürsi,” Oreheart said. The veterans of the Battle of the Ridge would never forget that smell. “Should we explore it?”

Korin didn’t want to go in there. Glaciers were dangerous to begin with, but he didn’t want to refuse out of hand and look fearful. Fortunately, Pinechin answered.

“Dangerous, these ice tunnels. It’s not like rock. One moment you’re standing on ice and the next you’re sliding down into a fifty-foot crevasse.” It was true enough, and Pinechin would know better than any of them.

“I’ll ask the prince.” Korin turned and walked back to the stream.

“Well?” Firehelm asked, watching him approach. Korin looked back toward the tunnel. The handful of dwarves who clustered near the entrance had turned to watch the conversation with the prince.

“It’s an ice tunnel,” Korin said, still looking toward the entrance. “Pinechin thinks—”

A shape charged out of the shadows of the tunnel on all fours. The others were watching Korin and Firehelm, their backs turned to the opening. They didn’t see it before it slammed into them, knocking them to the gravel. Firehelm and Korin gaped in shock as the creature rose on its hind legs, grabbed Pinechin in its hands, and ripped his arm from its socket, his brigandine tearing away at the seam. Blood sprayed in an arc onto the glacier wall. Pinechin’s scream broke the silence. The others at the cave entrance scattered, dropping their spears as they crawled and tripped and fled over the loose rocks. Another creature barreled out of the tunnel behind the first and rose to stand erect, towering over twice the height of a dwarf.

“Guards!” Firehelm roared. The masked guards by the stream stared motionless at the horrific monsters. The creatures had black bulbous eyes. Grey matted fur covered their bodies. Long arms like tree branches hung at their sides, and sharp fangs filled their mouths. The second beast surged forward, spanning yards in a single bound, grabbing the fleeing Oreheart and biting down on his shoulders. Oreheart squirmed and yelled, and the monster recoiled as it bit against steel mail. Angered now, it clawed at Oreheart’s head with its long hooked fingers. The straps of Oreheart’s helmet gave and his mask and helm tore away. Then the creature bit down, opening his skull in a single snap of its jaws.

All of this happened in mere moments. The creatures hesitated then, each clutching a victim, blinking and peering around as the guards sprang from their stupor and rushed to form a shieldwall around Firehelm. Pinechin screamed again and squirmed, and the monster holding him gripped his neck and shook violently, then dropped the dwarf’s limp body on the gravel.

The guards formed into a double shield line on instinct, their most defensive formation. No one had ordered it. Spears bristled forward.

“Brace!” Firehelm said. The sound of his voice seemed to enrage the monsters. They dropped to all fours and bounded forward. The frontline dwarves knelt and braced their spearbutts in the rocks behind them, angling their spearpoints inward as the creatures closed. The beasts slammed into the line side-by-side. Spear hafts shattered into splinters. Next to Korin, a recruit’s shield slammed back into his own chest and he went down. One of the monsters had crushed the line right beside Korin. Now the dwarves shouted. Korin tried to swing his spear over but he was too close, and one of the thick arms slammed into him, throwing him back. He landed in the stream, the icy water rushing over him. It was shallow, but as he rose up he couldn’t seem to breathe.

His spear was gone, but he fumbled at the axe in his belt, willing his lungs to expand. The center of the line was gone, a fumble of bodies, but the guards on the flanks had turned inwards. Spears plunged in and out, tearing at the creatures. Broken hafts stuck out of their shoulders and chests from the clash with the spear-line, dark blood staining their fur. Korin freed his axe, trying to find the prince in all the mess. One of the beasts rushed forward, grabbed a guard’s arm and twisted, but the thrusts of spears came hard and fast. The creatures tried to step back toward the tunnel, the one still dragging the dwarf by the arm, but that put them at enough range for an axe rotation. Korin took a step forward and threw. The axehead buried itself into the ribcage of the beast. It roared, thick fangs turned to the sky, and dropped its prey. The guards pressed forward against them.

The beasts took jab after jab from honed steel. Their fur dripped with dark blood. Spinner rushed forward, slamming his spear into the gut of the nearest, driving in until the two lugs buried themselves in its flesh. He caught the retaliatory blow on his shield. It drove him to his knees, but he held firm.

Korin grabbed a spear from the ground near a body, he didn’t have time to think about whose. He rushed in and slammed it into the second creature’s abdomen. Three other spears joined, and the dwarves lurched the monster backward, spitted, until it fell on its back, breath ragged. The other went down a moment later, ringed by the warriors. With bubbling groans, they died. Dark blood flowed down the rocks and fouled the stream.

Bronzedelver approached the nearest carcasses and started to kick it and curse. Oreheart had been his closest companion. They had joined the prince’s guard together as two friends from the mines of the southern branch caverns. Now, he gasped beneath his warmask. The monster’s corpse barely moved with his blows. Beneath their masks, Korin could not see the faces of his companions—nothing beyond their mouths and their eyes, whiter than usual. The masks his their emotions, except their open jaws, and perhaps that was good. Better dark grim steel faces to look down on during the slaughter than the horrified expressions of dying brothers.

Near the cave entrance, Oreheart and Pinechin lay still. Five others, those from the center of the line, lay where the monsters had slammed against the shieldwall. One of them was moving, rolling back and forth and groaning. It was the recruit the monster had dragged. The others lay still. One still wore a helmet collapsed by powerful jaws. It had crushed the warrior’s head. Another guard lay with his neck at an impossible angle. Korin had a vague memory of seeing the guard shaken. The others lay still, but Korin couldn’t see their wounds. Already, the guards were checking them. Perhaps they weren’t dead. It had all happened so fast, he hadn’t seen so many go down.

Korin went to the recruit who groaned and rolled. They helped him sit up. Meadsong braced his back.

“Can you move your legs?” Korin asked. He realized when he spoke that there was still a chunk of mutton in his cheek. The recruit moved his feet back and forth.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said.

“Your arms, now?”

The recruit moved one arm, but he grunted when he tried to move his shield. They unstrapped it, and then they carefully removed his hauberk and roll up his sleeve. The forearm was obviously broken. The skin had turned a sickly whitish color where a bone pressed against it from within. A bit more, and it would have broken through.

“Who can set a bone?” Korin asked loudly. Most of the dwarves still stared at the dead beasts, especially the new recruits. The smell of blood filled the air.

“I have helped before.” It was Tar. He came and knelt beside the injured dwarf. “And it’s best to get it over with,” he said. “Hold him down.”

It took three agonizing attempts to set the arm. The recruit screamed in agony, but no one thought the worse of him. Broken spearhafts and thin strands of rope served for a splint. The recruit looked pale and sullen as he lay next to the stream. Firehelm motioned for his attention.

“You will be called Stoutarm, for you did not quail at the charge of the trolls.”

“Those are trolls?” Spinner asked. “Like from the tales?”

“What else could they be?” Firehelm asked.

“I always thought trolls were just the stories of old dwarf-wifs to scare us.”

“I’m sorry for every time I rolled my eyes at my grandmother,” Meadsong said. A few chuckled, more from nerves than humor.

Trolls, thought Korin. Ürsi he had prepared for. But these beasts were more massive than even the nightmares of their grandmothers.

It turned out that one of the other dwarves who lay still had his ribs stove in, likely piercing his heart or lungs. It was Minebrow, and he was dead. Korin remembered the conversation he’d had with Firehelm weeks ago about Minebrow, and he felt guilty, somehow, for saying anything negative about him. One more dwarf lay still, and when they removed his helm, his eyes were wide and alive. It was Yellowcoat. He, like Hefter, had been too stubborn to stay behind at Ice-Cloak, though an ürsi spear had pierced between his ribs at the Battle of the Ridge. With the mending of Keyhand, he had lived. Now, his breathing was shallow. He did not speak, and he did not move his eyes, just stared at the sky above. A dark mark on his skull and a dent in the helm showed he’d received a powerful blow to the skull, but there was no blood. They cushioned his head on a cloak taken from the dead, and covered him to keep him warm. No one knew what to do for him. It did not seem right, the strength of such monsters that could kill a dwarf outright within steel.

Firehelm ordered ten dwarves to creep down the ice tunnel with spears to ensure that no other trolls hid within. It only went thirty yards into the ice, and while there were no more trolls, there were bones piled high. Some of them looked to be wild game, though they saw the skulls of ürsi as well.

It took two hours to pile the rocks above the bodies of Oreheart, Pinechin, Minebrow, and two recruits who had earned no name among the guards, one with a crushed skull and another a broken neck. Their loved ones would seek them out when the guard returned to Ice-Cloak. Korin wondered if he would have to share the news. They laid the axes of the dead across their chests beneath the stones, but their rations were redistributed. Yellowcoat they carried in a sling made of the cloaks of the dead. No one suggested camping there. The bodies of the trolls they left as they lay. Carrion belly was too good for them as it was.

They reached the treeline by evening. Still, they risked no fire.

“From now on we stand guard in two watches. Half sleep, half stand sentry,” Firehelm said. No one complained. With their losses, that only meant a handful more on watch than before. Yellowcoat lay bundled in the middle of the ring of first watch sleepers. Korin tried not to think of the dwarf’s ill luck. Wounded twice, his stare empty of soul. Korin would take second watch, but the idea of sleep felt remote to him. He sat next to Firehelm, watching the slow breathing of those resting around him.

In something like a whisper, Firehelm spoke.

“We would have missed many less than we’ll miss Pinechin.”

It was true. The Ridgeward was the best equipped for this kind of endeavor. Korin already missed him. He would have handled the broken bone better, known perhaps how to help Yellowcoat. They had lucked out that Stoutarm had a broken arm and not a broken leg. What would they do with wounded who could not walk? They had yet to discuss what would become of Yellowcoat if he remained unimproved.

“There must be more. If there were two there, then there are more.”

“I do not doubt it, captain.”

“We survived as well as we did because we formed a shieldwall. If they had hit us while we marched, or during sleep—”

“I know it, and they’ll know it.” He nodded toward the sleeping dwarves. “But what can be done? We will not abandon our purpose so easily.”

So easily? Five good dwarves lay dead beneath a cairn on the mountain above them. Korin said nothing, and they sat in the dark.

12

The Waymarker

Yellowcoat died in the night. He was gone when they checked him in the morning. Korin was relieved, though he would not have said it. No ugly decision would have to be made. They piled his cairn high enough to keep away the wild beasts and moved on. Yellowcoat had always kept mostly to himself, but they were all brothers of the Prince’s Guard. Korin hoped they could take the bones of the fallen back to Ice-Cloak some day. They deserved that.

If they found the ürsi den, this expedition was nothing more than a scouting mission. If they returned home with the den’s location, then the folk would call for a full host of dwarves to sally and wipe it out. Queen Jade had sent dwarves into the wilds on scouting missions before, but she stopped when too many failed to return, and all had failed to find the den. But if they found the hive and a host marched against it, the Prince’s Guard would take pride of place, and they could retrieve the bones of their fallen and lay them to rest beneath the mountain, as was proper.

The forest on the lower slopes grew dense, filled with thick pines, spruce, and hemlock, but there was a trail, wider than a game trail, and the loam beneath the pines had preserved the tracks of ürsi in plenty. The tracks pointed south back up the mountain, and they were not fresh—the edges were hard, the ground dry. When the tracks were first made, the loam was damp. There was little doubt they were from the spring when the ürsi massed southward.

The twenty-three dwarves kept a better pace than they had the previous days. The trail curved through the landscape but kept mostly northwest, cutting across the sides of ridges and between low rounded peaks. For the first time since the day they set out, they made over fifteen miles. They saw nothing aside from a few squirrels and birds.

“The thing’s hand was twice the size of my head. I swear, my mother will not believe I killed a troll. They’ll start calling me Trollslayer, do you think?”

Korin heard an audible sigh from Rendjaw. The mysterious newcomer had yet to adjust to Spinner’s verbosity. They were walking side by side right behind Korin and Firehelm. Korin actually grinned, the first time for a while. Say what you will, he thought, but no one could deny Spinner’s courage. He had run his spear so deep into the troll that he’d had to cut it out with his camp knife. The spearhaft was still stained dark below the lugs from the blood. Spinner was probably the only dwarf among them who felt anything but horror at the troll attack. Certainly, he was the only one who wanted to talk about it.

“So the prince said you’d done him a service?” Spinner asked. Korin listened more intently.

“Ay,” Rendjaw answered.

“So, what was it?”

“A private service.”

“You know how to handle yourself in a fight. What did you do before?”

“I was in the Queen’s Guard.”

Spinner whistled appreciatively.

“Quite an honor, the Queen’s Guard. Don’t get me wrong, I like the Prince’s Guard. I wouldn’t trade it. And I see you think like me. That’s good. I’m always happy to find like-minded dwarves. Prince Firehelm is the only one with the spirit to go after the ürsi. That’s why we’re here, trudging through the forest, after all. So the Queen’s Guard, though. That’s something. Is that how you met the prince?”

“Hmm?” Rendjaw asked.

“The prince. Is that how you met him?”

“You mean—”

“The Queen’s Guard. Did you meet the prince because you were in the Queen’s Guard?”

“Of course.”

“Figured as much. Like I said, happy to meet another dwarf who wants to kill ürsi.”

“I reckon there are plenty here you could talk to about that desire. . .”

That night, nestled low and out of sight in a shallow dell among the pines, Firehelm allowed his dwarves to light a fire. They boiled salt fish, cavebread, and pine needles into a stew and even made tea from loose herbs carried at the bottoms of their packs. The hot drink seeped its warmth into Korin’s bones. He held his small drinking mug beneath his chin and let the steam waft into his face. They had eaten first from the same carven mugs that now held their tea. It was the only dish they carried. Firehelm and a few others brought out long-stemmed pipes and lit hill-smoke as twelve other dwarves stood first watch with spear and shield, staring into the darkness. They heard owls that night, and the wind in the trees, but nothing else.

“We need our spirits raised,” Firehelm told Korin. Korin hadn’t complained, though he knew the smoke of fire and pipes was not the safe choice.

The next day, Korin rotated through places in the line until he fell to the rear. On a march like this, there wasn’t much for a so-called captain to do, except to be present, and so he tried to move among the others. Rendjaw fell back in the line to walk next him. Korin suspected Rendjaw wanted to avoid walking near Spinner. During the night, Korin had thought about the conversation he’d heard, but he doubted he’d get much more information out of Rendjaw by asking anything outright. Besides, it was the prince’s business no matter how it nagged at Korin that he didn’t know the details of what he’d been involved with back at the mountain. Rendjaw must know more, and it bothered him that someone else might be more in the prince’s confidences. Korin felt in his gut that he had been involved in Keyhand’s abdication.

Rendjaw marched alongside through midday. The miles passed and the rugged uplands gave way to rolling moraines and kettle lakes. Patches of snow held on in patches of shadow beneath the evergreens. The loam lay only a few inches deep atop the shattered rock scree below. Korin smelled something new in the air, a smell that he had not known before. It was not foul, nor sweet. He could not place it, though if anything it reminded him of the hot spring in the Chamber of Waters.

“I’m glad we were able to work together,” Korin said to Rendjaw as they trudged on in the afternoon. He didn’t look at him. With their hoods and masks on, he would have seen nothing of the dwarf’s expression, anyway.

“It was a nice bit of work that, eh?” Rendjaw sounded pleased, but kept his voice low. “I always figured, get in good with the prince, and it’ll pay. It’ll pay.”

“He is generous. He will make a fine king.”

“And I intend to stay close to him when that happens. You and me, I figure.”

The statement rankled Korin, although he knew he shouldn’t feel that way. Firehelm would need more than one person to assist him.

“It was good that Keyhand acknowledged Firehelm’s fitness for the throne,” Korin said. “Or at least implied it. She is a wonderful maid and a great healer. She will always have an honored place.”

Rendjaw stayed silent for a while. When he spoke again, any sound of good feeling had vanished.

“We will see about honor. Hardly any honor in a goatherd.”

“A goatherd?” Korin didn’t understand what a goatherd had to do with Keyhand. Rendjaw took Korin’s question differently.

“Half the mountain are goatherd stock, it’s true. But gave it up to become true dwarves. My father was a goatherd, but he became a jewel cutter. Those who choose to remain with the goats, what honor is that? The prince sees it right. Quality will rise.”

“Keyhand is no goatherd,” Korin said.

“No, but her child will be if she pairs with that kulkur.”

Korin winced at Rendjaw’s vulgarity, and not just his use of kulkur, but that he would speak of a dwarf-maid in such rude terms—speak of pairing, and the princess no less. Kulkur was a dwarvish word for the worthless dross, the impurities and defilements smelted out of metal and thrown away. It was an insult, at the least. The dwarf Korin spied Keyhand meeting had entered from outside the Chamber of Waters. His face had been sunburned, his clothes worn and stained. A goatherd.

A commotion of voices broke out at the front of the line, and the dwarves bunched up as those in the lead halted. They were not due for a rest. Wanting both to find out what was going on and to get away from Rendjaw, Korin trotted up along the line, dodging off the edge of the path and around tree trunks. When he reached the front, he found Firehelm with the others at the fore staring at a tall stone monument. Two separate trails joined there.

That the stone was a monument was unquestionable. Though worn down by the weather, the granite had three evenly cut and geometrically accurate sides. Both trails arrived here from the south, one from the southwest, and the path they followed from a southeasterly course. They joined and headed north past the monument, larger and more worn by passage. Firehelm stood next to the standing stone, his fingers tracing the deep grooves worn in it, digging moss and lichen away.

Except they weren’t just grooves. They were runes. Korin shouldered his way next to Firehelm.

“What do they say, prince?” Korin asked.

“I do not know. These are no runes that I have seen. Some look familiar—” he moved his hand over one rune “—but I can’t. . .”

He shook his head.

Korin narrowed his eyes. Worn though they were and covered in lichen, whoever had chiseled them ages past had cut them deep, a wide V-cut profiled into the stone. It was fine work for a simple waymarker. He looked down at the rock underfoot. Loose shale and loam. He couldn’t remember seeing any granite in the outcroppings they’d passed, certainly nothing this shade—light grey with flecks and veins of red running through it.

The guards in the rear pushed forward to get a better look, bunching up to circle the monument.

“Ürsi work?” Hornhand asked.

“It can’t be.” Meadsong shook his head. Firehelm shook his head as well.

“What else then?” Hornhand looked around. They were silent for a time. To Korin it felt obvious, but how could it be? This type of waymarker was used in the old colonies of the Grashal-Indal range. A few rough examples had been erected out of lesser stone along the paths to .

“Us,” Korin said. They looked at him. “Dwarves.”

“What dwarves? Dwarves have never been here before,” Meadsong said. “All the songs, all the lineages come from the Grashal-Indal.”

“This stone could last ten thousand years and look little different,” Firehelm said. “A hundred generations and more.” He still traced the lines of the runes with his fingers. The runes and the waystone itself were carved with perfect precision, not a deformity or a waver in its lines, each angle matched.

“What does it mean?” It was Spinner. “Is there a colony nearby?”

“No colony would allow the ürsi to thrive within their domain,” Firehelm answered. “No king would tolerate such an insult.”

“But—”

Firehelm cut him off with a raised hand.

“I wish to think on this. We will camp here tonight. In the trees.”

Spinner shrugged.

“I could use some warm grub, anyway.”

“There will be no fire. And we sleep with our hands on our spears.”

Korin startled from sleep, a hand on his shoulder and voice speaking a strained whisper.

“Wake in silence. Foe. Silence. Awake.”

It was Hornhand, moving through the sleeping dwarves. It took little to rouse them. Korin rolled into a crouch, clutching his spear, looking into the darkness and shadows of the trees. To dwarven eyes, the night was not so dark, even with the moon behind the clouds. Still, he could see no movement, no shapes, and he heard nothing but the stirring of those around him.

“What is it Hornhand?” Firehelm whispered. Even as the prince asked, Korin smelled them: ürsi. Their stench stirred on a faint rustle of breeze. His body tensed even more, and he felt a nauseous tightening in his gut. Firehelm must have smelled them too; he changed his question. “Where?”

“We smelled them when the wind shifted to the south. We’ve seen nothing.”

“Line south, rear stagger.”

They had trained this formation, and even among the trees they fell in with barely the rustle of mail. The shieldwall faced south, interrupted only by a thick pine. The ends of the second line turned to the flanks, while the middle second line staggered their watch, one spear forward and one to the rear down the line. This formation formed a stronger line to face an attack from the south than a circle could, but they could still form a circle with speed if surrounded. There was little use for the second line to unwrap their slings. In the trees, the fight would be spearwork or closer.

The night was silent. Not even the owls hooted in the distance. Korin could hear the breathing of twenty-three dwarves. Then, he saw them, creeping into the trees from the direction of the trail. The dwarves had made camp thirty yards into the forest, but nothing could mask their smell. In the dark night, the ürsi looked like grey shadows flitting among the pines. Korin could barely hear the rustle of their approach. In the dark, it was hard to tell how many moved in the shadows beyond his vision, whether twenty, or two thousand. He heard a low rattle, like a growl. At ten yards, Korin could see light reflected in their eyes. Their thick stench invaded his nostrils. He saw some of them edge around toward the flanks, but that was not his concern, yet. Korin stood in the center near Firehelm, ready to move to whatever part of the line needed him.

Korin expected the howls and screams, but the darts struck first without sound or warning. The scream came from a dwarf, not an ürsi. Korin didn’t see who’d been hit. The guttural cry of pain broke the silence, and then the ürsi howled and charged. As they closed, Korin could see their suppurating skin and the yellow teeth. His arms shook and his spear rattled against the rim of his shield, and then he thrust, thrust again. He felt the puncture of his spearpoint, the slight resistance as it pierced through the animal skins and into the ürsi’s gut. He felt the impact of a flint spear on his shield. He hadn’t even seen it coming. Ürsi swarmed forward. He wanted to look to the sides, to see how badly they were flanked, but he couldn’t stop the thrusts of spear as the ürsi pressed. Firehelm stood at his right, and Hornhand his left. The flint darts landed all around, and he had to keep his head low and trust Hornhand to cover his side as he covered Firehelm’s. Bodies fell at the range of a spearhaft. An ürsi ducked low, getting inside Korin’s guard. He slid up the haft, bringing the spear head back and spitting the ürsi’s chest, but more pushed in behind and he struggled to extend his spear again. He could hear fighting in the back, now.

“Close the file!” Firehelm yelled and stepped back. Korin slid over to fill the gap, as did Rendjaw who had stood on Firehelm’s far side. They heard call: “Circle! Circle! Tight now!” They would fight back to back. The din of the ürsi’s howls and screams filling his ears, their stink sinking into his throat as he breathed hard. He crouched, lowering his center of gravity, sheltering his side behind his shield as he thrust again and again.

An ürsi deflected his spear with a club. The spearhead sliced into the flesh of its upper leg, the lug nicking bone. It limped away, and none replaced it. Korin could see shadows flitting in the trees, and a few flint darts thumped against shields down the line. The ürsi had fallen back.

“Any wounded who can’t hold, get to the center!” Korin shouted. He looked back, searching for Firehelm. He was there, standing with the rear line, his hand on a dwarf’s shoulder as he spoke to him. The guard was nodding. Firehelm patted his shoulder and moved on down the line.

The ürsi stalked the shadows of the pines. There were still plenty more, but Korin took heart. If there had been so many as at the Battle of the Ridge, they would not have stopped swarming the line. He saw the flight of darts this time, and he caught one on his shield. Another hit him just beneath his collarbone, the flint tip breaking against a plate in his brigandine, the force of the blow swinging his shoulder back. Inches higher and it may have slipped into his neck.

From the sound of grunting and groaning nearby, some may not have been so fortunate. There was a second volley. They crouched as low as they could without their knees in the loam. In the third volley, a dart struck Korin square in the back. He grunted, but the dart fell to the ground. He was thankful for his brigandine, but at that moment, he wished he had mail, at least on his arms. The darts came from all sides. He scrunched up his shoulders, trying to protect his neck. A few more scattered darts impacted the line, and then no more. The dwarves stayed low, sheltering behind their shields. Korin was thankful he had received greaves to protect his shins before they left the mountain. Not all of them had. The Prince’s Guard did not have the best armor, and it was not uniform in style or type, but it was of good steel, though plain.

Korin overheard guttering among the ürsi—gurgled, throaty sounds that almost hinted at words. Were they talking? Did they talk? Certainly they were more than mere beasts. They made and used tools and weapons, crafted clothing, as rude as it was. Yet the idea of ürsi talking was new to Korin. The foe growled and flitted amid the trees, dark shapes moving at the edge of clear sight a score of yards away.

“Strikinghand, Tar, Hornhand,” Firehelm said. The three stepped back from the line. The gaps closed as they left, the circle constricting. “We must see to the wounded. They may attack again.”

“They felt us out,” Tar said. “Found we could bite.”

A dwarf lay on the ground in the center, his hands at his throat. His mask was unhooked from his face. It was Brickbane. Korin knelt beside him, and then he realized that the ground beside his head was wet with blood. His chest did not rise. Korin pushed his shoulder, then moved Brickbane’s hands away from his throat. He gave no resistance. His throat was pierced. He was dead. Korin looked over at Tar and Hornhand. They knelt next to Cragbrow. The young dwarf lay panting on his stomach.

“Easy,” Hornhand said. “Easy.” Cragbrow, the stitches still visible on his forehead, had a hauberk that closed down the back but lacked a protective flap of mail to cover the seam, and now a dart stuck from amid the leather laces. A dart hit him from behind like Korin, but he’d not been so fortunate. Tar cut away the laces to open the hauberk. With the wound exposed, Korin could see blood bubbling with every rattling breath. Hornhand and Tar looked at each other but said nothing. Tar braced the narrow shaft and snapped the dart. It was thin, and it had fletchings on the end. An arrow. They had shot arrows. Not many ürsi carried bows, but Korin knew that some did, rude wood-carved things with gut strings.

“Are any others wounded? Step back from the line,” Firehelm said. Four more dwarves stepped back, all of them limping. They had wounds to the legs and one to the foot. Bronzedelver had no greaves. A flint blade had peeled apart the skin down his shin, and the white bone looked bright against the blood. Tar stayed with Cragbrow, whispering “easy, now, easy,” again and again as the dwarf rattled and spat and groaned. Hornhand and Korin wrapped the wounds of the others. They had packed rolls of undyed cloth for the purpose.

As the sky slowly grayed in the east, the ürsi disappeared, slipping back south toward the trail. Firehelm ordered two rests of two hours, with the uninjured dwarves taking shifts to stand guard. It had been a long night. No ürsi showed themselves in the light of day. Korin didn’t like to sleep next to the stench of the dead ürsi piled at spear’s length around their ring, and he could hear the raspy breaths of young Cragbrow. He thought of Cragbrow’s sister, whether she lived to hear the news. It would be another long day, he didn’t doubt, and he slept, at least a bit.

When Korin awoke to take the second watch, he saw Tar laying down to sleep. Tar had stayed up with Cragbrow, but now Cragbrow lay still and quiet, the raspy breathing gone. At least this recruit had a name they could remember in song, though why anyone would sing of such a miserable death, Korin did not know. Such things were best left to Meadsong. He would figure out a way to make it glorious. No doubt he’d find names for the other recruits, too. Something to tell their families they’d earned. As Korin stared into the blue-green spruces and cedars, he realized that of all those who made it back to Ice-Cloak, Meadsong had best be among them.

They burned Cragbrow and Brickbane. They couldn’t stand the thought of the ürsi digging up their cairns to feed on their bodies. They piled rocks high upon the embers and bones, hoping that they would not be disturbed and knowing better. The bodies of nearly sixty ürsi lay on the dirt and pine needles around the cairn, a testament to the greatness of the slain warriors. They left no weapons with the dwarves, not wanting dwarven steel in the hands of the foe. It was noon before they marched away, with the four limping wounded kept in the middle of the line. They marched in double file, the northern trail wide enough to accommodate.

The woods grew thick around the trail, and they knew could come in an instant. The wind had died. For the first time since they’d left , the air hung heavy and still. All Korin smelled was the dust beneath their feet, the sap of the pines, and again and again the smell of ürsi that seemed to come from within his own nose.

When the sky glowed golden in the west, Firehelm chose to camp atop a rocky moraine where hemlock clung to the stone by exposed roots. The moraine rose to a narrow ridge at least fifty feet high on each side. No one felt in the mood for talking. They’d pushed hard, making ten miles by Korin’s reckoning even with the injured. He promised himself that if they survived, none of them would ever go back into the wilds without proper greaves. He chewed on salt fish as dusk turned to night. They should have made sure of that before the expedition, but they’d had so little time. They should have learned from the Battle of the Ridge. Many or most had received some sort of leg wound there. Except Spinner. Lucky, Spinner.

He had only half-chewed his first chunk of salt fish when the howling and gibbering started. Korin felt his muscles stiffen. The wind lay dead still. He couldn’t even smell them beyond the ever present memory, although it sounded like they were at the base of the moraine on all sides. Korin saw Firehelm stand with Rendjaw to gaze down the ridge to the south.

Not willing to be left out, Korin climbed to his feet to join them.

“. . . keep two-thirds on watch at all times,” Rendjaw was saying. Korin felt annoyed. The suggestion was sound, but it came from Rendjaw.

“Let it be so,” Firehelm said, looking at Korin as he arrived. Korin nodded. He would pass the orders.

“Hugh!” Firehelm bent over. An arrow rattled on the stone at his feet.

“Are you hurt?” Korin asked, rushing to stand in front of the prince.

“No.” Firehelm stood back up. The arrow had slammed into his stomach but did not penetrate his mail.

“Kulkur,” muttered Rendjaw, stepping back from the edge of the ridge.

Korin excused the wounded from watch duties that night. Seventeen hale dwarves crouched low, sheltered behind their shields on the ridge. They changed watch every two hours, and each dwarf tried to sleep. Korin couldn’t manage it. The ürsi howled and gibbered, and the occasional arrow whipped up the ridge. No one was injured, but when morning came, bleary red eyes looked out from their masks.

They moved northward again that day, and again they saw no ürsi in the light.

“I don’t think they’ll attack again. We killed too many of them,” Spinner said to Brownfoot. Again, Spinner walked just behind Korin in the line. Brownfoot said nothing in reply.

“Don’t you think, Strikinghand?” Spinner asked, looking for some response and—Korin figured—some reassurance.

“There is no reason to think more won’t join them,” Korin responded. He simply said the truth. Though he didn’t want to deplete their morale, there was no use relaxing vigilance or giving false hope. Better to have low morale and survive than careless optimism.

The breeze revived out of the north that day, and it bore the strange salty, fishy smell. There was no hint of ürsi on the breeze, but Korin figured they tracked from behind, downwind. Through the day, the wind intensified and grew chill. Slate gray clouds rolled over from the northwest. Once again that night, they camped amid pines and rock on a low rise, trading two hour naps while the ürsi tormented them with gibberings and the odd arrow.

The next morning, they came abruptly to the end of the trees, and they saw beyond it a world unlike any they had yet seen. Stretching out to the northwest lay a broad, low plain covered in pale green grass and lichens, strewn with boulders like a giant had thrown a handful of gravel across it. The basin-plain curved in an almost perfect arc away from a long shoreline. Beyond that shore, water stretched to the horizon without end. Great mountains of white ice rose in the grey-blue distance of wind and water, whether floating or perched upon some buried rock, Korin couldn’t tell.

“I did not know that such lakes existed,” Spinner said.

“I have heard of such a thing in a song.” It was Meadsong. Like the rest, he stared at the expanse before them. Korin smelled the heavy scent on the breeze, minerals and salt and ice and fish. He pushed his way forward to reach Firehelm. He saw Rendjaw do the same.

“This is good,” Firehelm said when Korin reached him. “We will see for miles. The ürsi cannot hide from us.”

“Nor we from them,” Korin replied. “Do you think their den is out there somewhere?”

“What is that?” Rendjaw asked, pointing. Far to the north, beyond the basin-plain, rose another ring of low hills bare of trees. From the midst of those hills a peak jutted up, glaciers and snow covering its sides. It climbed the horizon alone, and from its summit cloud rose in a column. But, it was too dark for cloud, too strange a column, and unlike any other cloud in the sky. It looked more like smoke.

“I do not know,” Firehelm said. “But the trail leads into the plain, and I see another join it.” It was true. Down in the basin, another branch of the trail joined from the east. “We will camp on the shore tonight. The water will guard our back.”

Korin estimated the distance at ten or fifteen miles. They would have to push hard to reach it before dark.

No ürsi pursued them from the trees into the open country. Bits of ice clung to the ground amidst the rocks and mosses. The wind blew strong in their faces as the double line of dwarves moved within a wider world than Korin had ever known. He had spent his life in the mountain or the Valley of the Lake. Compared to this expanse, the valley was a mere dell. No doubt, Ice-Cloak was a grand mountain with its glacier-wrapped shoulders, but this was space on another scale. Korin figured the smoking mountain to the north—though he suspected it was a trick of the clouds—lay fifty miles away. In the dense Kara-Indal, such vistas could only be found high among the peaks, not down in the valleys.

The hours and miles of marching passed, the dwarves feeling a modicum of safety in an expanse of miles without enemies. Strange white birds wheeled overhead, their discordant cries whipped along by the wind. By day’s end, the sky flared in hues of orange and red over the expanse of water ahead. The sunset ignited fires, as it seemed, in the hearts of the ice mountains upon the water. One of those mountains Korin had watched that day, and now he was sure it had moved. It floated. Ahead, he heard a roar growing steadily louder, pulsing like a forge bellows.

They reached a rise like a natural berm of gravel, sand, and shells, and saw yards below them the black slate strand, the white waves crashing ashore. All manner of beasts and birds lounged there. Monstrous grey-skinned creatures with white horns sticking down from their mouths wallowed legless on the dark gravel. As the dwarves came into view, the beasts loosed unearthly bellowing wails and fled back into the water. Overawed, the dwarves approached the waves. Korin reached down, dipped his finger in the water and tasted it. He spit.

“It is foul,” he said, looking at Firehelm.

“Drinkable?”

Korin shrugged. He reached down, cupped his hands, and drew some to his mouth. As the frigid liquid flowed over his tongue, he gagged and spit it out.

“Do we have enough water for tonight?”

Korin felt his waterskin, filled that morning at a stream in the forest. He had seen other streams flowing through the basin as well. Presumably they flowed here, to this strange water. The shore ran from the north, curving away far to the southwest.

“We have enough for tonight, but we should search for fresh in the morning.” He practically had to yell over the wind and the crashing waves.

Firehelm nodded. A strong wave sloshed over their feet. It was cold. Korin backed up, away from the wet black sand and gravel.

Instead of camping on the shore, as Firehelm had first planned, they camped on the low rise ten yards from the waves. The wind whipped mercilessly from the icy water, scouring the shingle. The cold grew bitter as night fell. Dwarves were hardy creatures, not prone to feeling the cold or heat. For the first time since the high passes, Korin felt the cold that night. They heard a few ürsi howls, but none near. Still, with the salty wind blowing inland, they could not trust to sound or smell. The wind had too distorting an effect. Korin argued for four-hour watches and a better night’s sleep, but Firehelm resisted.

“I do not trust this land,” he said. His eyes were as red as the others’, but still they took only two hours of slumber at a time. Firehelm feared that within a longer stretch, vigilance would slacken. Firehelm and Korin stood their places in the first watch, staring out across the shadowed plains. It was the first time in some nights that they had shared a watch, as Firehelm preferred that one of them be on each watch. Tonight, he had ordered it differently, and they stood near each other, Korin’s hands shaking violently, worsened by the cold.

Back home, Korin had always kept busy, but all the while he had dreamed of this expedition—imagined how useful he would be, how close he would grow to the prince, how much good he would do. Now he stood next to the prince, and he had nothing to say, nothing to contribute except to stare into the night and try not to let his eyes drift closed.

“Do not despair over the hardships, Strikinghand,” Firehelm said, somehow reading his heart again. “Such things must come. Without suffering there is no glory. Our destiny is greater than these things.”

The words soothed Korin, and he nodded. The prince was right. How Firehelm could keep such things in perspective amid the cold and the sleeplessness, Korin didn’t know. But so it was.

Many years before, when Korin had not yet reached the age of rhundal, his uncle had tried to teach him stone carving. Korin had fought with hammer and chisel, and if tears could have steadied his hands, he would have succeeded. One night, he had thrown down his tools and covered his face with his shaking arms.

“Greatness,” his uncle said in his calm, quiet way, “is determined by our capacity for suffering.” Korin had always felt that his uncle was wrong, at least in his case. His greatness was determined by his hands. But now. He stood next to the prince on a strange shore. Perhaps his uncle was right all along.

When it was his turn to rest, fatigue swallowed his endless thoughts, and he slept his first two hour stretch away.

13

A Stone Figure

“Awake!”

Korin startled from sleep, his body stiff with cold. He’d slept with his shield atop him, still strapped to his arm, his spear in hand. He lurched forward, trying to make sense out of the confusion. An arrow slammed into his warmask, deflecting into the seam where the mask met his helm. The flint snapped on the steel but cut with a razor edge. He felt a sharp pain near his ear, but he ignored it and tore the shaft away. More arrows fell, sounding like a hailstorm as they impacted armor and shield and gravel.

“Rear stagger!” Firehelm yelled. There was a moment’s confusion as the jarred guards tried to determine what direction to face.

“East!” someone yelled. Without further thought, the dwarves closed ranks into double line, with flanks and staggered rear watch. It was a smaller formation than usual. Only twenty-one dwarves stood together, now. Arrows fell fast. The moon had set, but the sky remained clear. Starlight shone down on the barren plain. Korin could see the mass of ürsi seething in something like a crescent. He could even see some of the whizzing arrows. The ürsi crept closer, growing braver as the dwarves stood their line on the rise above the shore. Korin tried to figure how many there were. Plenty more than the dwarves, but would they attack?

Then came the darts. They were shorter than dwarven spears, more like throwing javelins, but when they struck, they struck hard. Korin heard grunts around him at the impact of the volley.

“Can we attack?” Rendjaw called.

They’d never had to attack ürsi before. No one from Ice-Cloak had. The ürsi had always attacked them. The guards could never keep together and catch up with the ürsi if the ürsi fled, and if they left the coast at their back, they would be surrounded. And if they broke formation, they were done. Dead.

Firehelm was silent. Korin tried to grasp the situation.

“Get low,” Korin shouted. And they did, sheltering behind their shields as much as possible. Such a low posture was poor for spear-work, but it gave them better protection against the missiles, and the ürsi had not yet closed in for a fray.

“They’re trying to circle!” The voice was Hornhand’s, somewhere toward the right flank. Korin leaned back and saw the truth. Beyond the dwarves and to each side, ürsi slid down the rise and onto the strand. There was enough space that they could get behind and harass them from below.

Korin realized that the shore had changed. The water was much further away than it had been, and the ürsi would have plenty of space to circle them. How?

“Fall back to the shore,” Firehelm yelled.

It was nearly a disaster. They could not keep formation and slide down the sandy, gravelly berm, and when the dwarves reached the strand, they broke into a run, seeking the shield of the water. The ürsi smelled a route and rushed them.

“Back in line! Form!” Korin yelled. He heard Firehelm’s voice as well:

“Back in file!”

Somehow, a handful of dwarves gathered to Korin’s voice, standing shoulder to shoulder. They turned to face the rise as a shower of missiles landed around them. “In order, stepping back!” Korin yelled. He could see ürsi closing in from north and south along the shore. They had to reach the water.

As his small cadre inched back step by step, he saw a body on the gravel, lying still where he had arrested their flight. Had he caused the guard’s death? Darts stuck up out of the sand all around the body. Korin hated to leave him there for the ürsi. He knew what they would do to him. They had left none of their own behind yet, but this was a fight for survival. More missiles glanced off shields and helms. One of the dwarves cursed and stumbled but kept in line. Korin didn’t halt their withdrawal, body or no. The ürsi that had rushed in for the kill held off, unsure now, unwilling to die against the spears, though they could have overwhelmed the few dwarves Korin had assembled.

And then the knot of dwarves were with the other guards again. Korin felt water rush around his ankles as his feet sunk into soft wet sand. He hated the sensation, but he had greater concerns. He heard Firehelm’s voice barking orders. Still, the ürsi did not close against their spears. The gibbering and howling mixed with the crash of the waves. Water and ürsi hemmed the dwarves in on all sides. Arrows and darts flew at random. Korin slogged through the sand, searching for Firehelm. He saw him at the north end of the line.

“What is the plan?”

Firehelm looked at him. They all wore their masks, so Korin could not read the prince’s expression, but Firehelm turned and looked to the east. There was the faintest glimmer of light. “We need shelter,” Korin said. He wasn’t sure what shelter there could be. What he wouldn’t give for a mountain! Not this soft wet sand.

“Slingers?” Rendjaw asked. He’d kept near the prince.

“North.” Firehelm pointed. “Column of three.”

“Column of three!” Korin shouted. “Those without greaves, to the left!” Those by the water would be safest from darts. “Right line, sidestep.”

The guards formed up. Firehelm took position in front, and Korin in the rear.

“Forward at the walk,” Korin yelled. The column moved northward, the water on their left, the stronger waves rolling over their boots. The ürsi ringed around all other sides. The right side sidestepped facing the foe, the rear walked backward. Forming in three allowed them to switch out for breaks or wounds as needed. The hail of darts slowed, though the ürsi still massed around, following with the dwarves but never closing. They could not have enough darts to last forever.

If they rushed, now, that’d be it, Korin thought, looking at the swarming grey figures. In the dark, they resembled a swirling mist against the black sand, so numerous were they. There had to be hundreds. But none of them wanted to die first—even ürsi had some sense of self, it seemed—and battered as the dwarves were, they would heap bodies before the end.

The column moved up the shoreline. Korin walked backward, watching the ürsi as they followed. Next to him, Meadsong hummed. The dwarf turned to song when he was happy, sad, and also, it seemed, afraid. The slog was grueling. Korin’s feet grew numb from the washing frigid waves that slammed against the strand in never ending succession. Fifty miles, he thought. He had estimated fifty miles to the peak to the north. Perhaps forty to the hills. Forty miles of flat plain and icy shore. It would take days moving at this rate.

They crossed a stream, wading to their knees in the flowing water. Surely, it would turn to ice except it moved, Korin thought. The ürsi followed, proceeded, flanked, stalked. He heard something, a rhythmic guttering, and he thought it sounded like laughter. Did ürsi laugh? Were they laughing at them, their prey? Did they sense their time approaching?

Korin imagined Ice-Cloak. How long would the people wait before they gave up hope? Yet more dwarves lost north of the Kara-Indal without word or tale. Would Keyhand be queen anyway? Would it comfort his uncle at all that he had been right about Korin’s fate? Korin didn’t think his uncle would relish that thought.

But it was worth it, wasn’t it? It was a noble cause to die for, out here on the black sand, wasn’t it?

The sky melded into bleak gray. Dawn came. The ürsi followed. Hundreds of them. The dwarves switched the outer line. Korin felt relieved to have the chance to walk facing forward for a while. But he took the time to count. Nineteen. There were nineteen of them. That meant two had fallen. He knew of the one he had seen on the sand. He tried to figure out who they were. Even with masks on, the dwarves had different armor, different gear, recognizable after so long. But Korin was tired, and the sound of the ürsi distracted him.

He could see their snouty grey faces clearly in the morning light. Slaver dripped from their mouths, and their jaws hung wide, showing sharp teeth. Bulbous dark eyes flicked back and forth across the line of dwarves. They seemed to shiver with excitement, no sign of the fatigue that weighed upon the dwarves. Korin wanted nothing more than to plunge a spear into one of their chests, but he knew that if the battle closed, it would likely end in defeat. They lived, so far as he could tell, because not even ürsi wanted to die first, or cared so little for the piles that would fall in the battle. Besides, they could wait. Wait as they whittled down the dwarven strength of arms. Korin didn’t know the foul beasts had such intelligence.

The side of Korin’s head throbbed with his heartbeat as he walked. He remembered his wound. He had forgotten. They needed to rest. Others had worse wounds than his scratch. He craned his neck, trying to get a glimpse of the shoreline ahead.

There was something there. Not a tall hill or a stand of trees, but a low shelf of rock. Or a series of shelves, stacked atop each other. The shelf was still a mile away, but as they came closer, Korin saw the dark, rough texture of the rock. Basalt, undoubtedly. Layers of basalt. The stone jutted further out than the rest of the low rise of gravel that followed the shore. From bottom to top, the stone formation was only twenty feet high. The water had not eroded it away, and the waves lapped near the base of the stone. Korin realized that the shore had gotten narrower as they traveled north. Or it had shrunk back closer to the size he had seen the day before. Could such a thing be?

What was more, he saw no more ürsi ahead, though they still followed atop the rise to their left and behind. The dwarves pushed on. They could do no more. They would have to wade through the waves near the basalt outcrop, but that was better than trying to climb up the loose berm, breaking formation and exposing themselves to the ürsi darts.

A small stream flowed past the outcrop, the waves washing into it and dispersing the fresh water. Korin splashed through and then turned to gauge the ürsi’s movements. The pursuit had stopped. The ürsi waited nearly three hundred yards back, massed together. Korin scanned the berm. He saw nothing but sparse grasses, dark gravel, and black sand.

“Prince!” Korin yelled. Firehelm, close to the front of the formation, looked over his shoulder and slowed. Korin saw his gaze shift from him to the distance. He nodded.

“Keep moving.”

They skirted the outcropping, splashing through the waves for ten yards, then back up onto the sand. The rock hid the ürsi from view.

“Hold!” Firehelm yelled. Korin heard the wind and the waves, but no ürsi.

“What’s that?” Spinner asked, pointing. Korin pushed through the formation. A stairway was carved into the basalt, running up the outcrop, and at the top stood a salt-stained statue, weathered and smoothed by the elements.

“Climb,” Firehelm said. He led the way up the stairs and stepped aside to examine the statue. Korin followed the guards, bringing up the rear. The top of the basalt outcrop was wide and flat. The basalt looked like it jutted from the edge of the plain out into the water. It probably ran deep, an ancient seam rising through the looser gravel. Atop it, the wind blew even stronger. It whipped over the waves that smacked the basalt and carried foam upwards to spatter their masks.

The ürsi had bunched together, still hundreds strong, but they hadn’t come any closer. They stayed out of slinging distance, too. Their howls had fallen to silence, their hopping and gyrating stilled. It was uncanny. Korin turned his attention to the statue. It was undeniably old and much the worse for the assault of wind and saltwater, but there was no question that in height and in form, it was a dwarf.

“Well, that settles it,” Meadsong said, pointing a thumb at it. Done with the curiosity of the statue, Firehelm stepped to the edge of the outcrop and surveyed the ürsi.

“Over here!” Spinner called.

Spinner stood at the top of what looked like a depression or gap in the rock. He motioned with his head for Korin to go investigate. Spinner waited, but others made it to him before Korin did, going down into the opening. A stone stairway, wide enough for three dwarves to walk abreast, headed down into the darkness of the basalt. Korin laughed aloud. This was beyond hope. This was like an invitation into the rock from salvation herself. Other guards pressed around, watching those already headed down into the darkness and waiting for a command. His eyes adjusted to the daylight, Korin couldn’t see too far down. Firehelm still surveyed the foe at the edge of the basalt, Rendjaw standing with him.

“Prince, there is—”

One of the dwarves on the stairway cried out. Korin looked back. Hornhand was in the lead, and he turned back, his eyes wide and white behind his mask, mouth open but wordless.

And the trolls charged up from the darkness.

“Spears!” Korin yelled as screams rang up the stairwell. He saw Hornhand go down beneath the feet of the first troll as it ran on all fours, two more beasts behind it. Korin lowered his spear and felt welling rage. Red rage, that salvation had been torn from him. His hands shook, and he stood before the stair.

With spear in both hands he thrust as the troll bounded up. The impact lifted Korin and carried him three yards back. His feet snagged on a ledge in the basalt and he fell, still clutching the spear. The troll shook its body, trying to rise, spear lodged in its shoulder. Korin held firm and the haft snapped. The troll loomed up, blood running already from half a dozen wounds and matting its grey fur. It raised both its arms above Korin and snarled, ready to plunge them down with unimaginable strength.

Firehelm rushed in, shield held over his head, and swung his axe at the troll’s hind leg. The bearded blade bit, and the troll collapsed down, its upper body landing atop Korin and driving the air from his lungs. Firehelm swung again, bringing the axe in a high arc down onto the troll’s neck. The blade sunk deep and the troll spasmed, its arms and legs flailing. Korin tried to roll free. Someone grabbed him and pulled him back across the basalt, away from the troll’s death throes. It was Rendjaw.

Korin struggled to his feet. The other trolls were down, too, riddled with spear-thrusts from bursting through the guards huddled around the stair. Meadsong swung an axe again and again, chopping apart one of the troll’s skulls. Other guards were down, some crying out in pain, others silent and still. Even with their blood spattering him, Korin could barely smell the trolls, not in the whipping salt-laden wind. Then he heard the howls and looked over. The ürsi rushed across the sand, heading for the outcrop, already only a hundred yards away.

“Get below!” Korin yelled. “Drag the wounded.”

There was no time to check those who lay still or to be gentle dragging the wounded down the stairs. Korin hoped there were no more trolls, but in moments the outcrop would swarm with ürsi eager to finish them. They passed the bodies of those who’d rushed first down the stairway. Blood dripped from step to step. Korin couldn’t even tell which was Hornhand as he passed. Further down into the darkness, the stench of troll struck him, thick and rancid.

“Here they come!” someone yelled. Korin turned back. The ürsi swarmed near the top of the stairs, howling and gibbering. A few darts clattered down onto the rock steps.

“Keep moving,” Firehelm called from the lead. Korin and Meadsong had their arms under a wounded dwarf’s armpits. It was Hefter, and he grunted as his legs dragged down the stairs behind him. The stairwell led down for close to fifty yards before it opened onto a wide landing. The stench was so strong that Korin’s eyes watered. He could hear dripping, and he blinked as his eyes adjusted to the welcome dim. Foul air or no, it was good to be under stone.

It was a chamber carved from what must have been a natural cavern. Another stairway led further down, swallowed in dark water, but to the left the landing expanded into a kind of wide shelf full of bones and piles of dry grass—or maybe it was that dark smelly weed he had seen all over the shore.

Something snarled.

“Shit,” Meadsong said. Korin saw something small move among the bones, but Spinner made it there first. He still had his spear.

“Kits,” he said, then jabbed forward with his blade. There was a short wail. He stabbed again, and again. “Fucking troll kits.”

Firehelm walked over to Spinner.

“It was a nest,” he said. “There’s a path leading further in.”

Korin looked up the stairs. It was a straight descent through the basalt, and he could still see the ürsi milling around at the top. They did not seem inclined to follow the dwarves down. Meadsong and Rendjaw stood by, watching above for any attack.

Only five dwarves kept to their feet: Meadsong, Korin, Firehelm, Spinner, and Rendjaw. Hefter, Tar, Stoutarm, and Bronzedelver sat or lay on the stone landing, all wounded.

That couldn’t be all. That couldn’t be all. Stoutarm’s left arm was still bound tightly against his chest, but now his leg was flayed open as well. How he had survived through it all while already injured, Korin did not know. The other injuries looked the same, mostly legs and arms lacerated by claws. The strength of the trolls was such that even with armor, crushing blows could incapacitate. Korin looked up the stairs again. How many had they left unconscious or wounded to the devouring ürsi? He couldn’t believe that Hornhelm was gone.

Some of the ürsi started to creep down the stairwell. It was plain that their eyes were adjusted to the daylight above as they peered below into the dark. That at least was an advantage.

“They’re coming,” Rendjaw said.

Firehelm strode to the stairs and looked up. The bravest of the ürsi reached the bodies of the dwarves dead upon the stairs, and then a fight broke out as they squabbled, grasped, and tried to drag the corpses back up into the daylight. A few others sniffed down at the dark, creeping a few steps further.

Three dwarves abreast could fill the stairway. But Korin had no spear. He looked around. Among all nine, there were only three spears. With hand axes, fighting would be brutal, close, and short.

“Further in,” Firehelm said.

Stoutarm struggled to gain his feet, pushing against the stone with his one good arm, muttering curses. Meadsong grabbed him under the shoulder and helped him.

“I’m good,” Stoutarm said. “I’m good.” Meadsong did not let go.

Hefter managed to rise, himself. He didn’t look steady. Blood dripped down his leg and out from the bottom of his mask, but he was up. But Bronzedelver was not up. He lay doubled over on the rock, his arms wrapped around his chest.

Korin slid his arm out of the straps of his shield, letting it hang from his shoulder. Then, he helped Meadsong lift Bronzedelver. The dwarf groaned and gritted his teeth as they raised him. They had to drag his feet behind them down the tunnel beyond the troll’s nest, his feet scattering bones.

The lower portions of the caverns were flooded, if caverns they were; the basalt was scored with tool marks. Much of the rock had been mined. The path led into the stone, the tunnel often connecting with caverns. Many of the chambers were half submerged. At one point, Firehelm had to send Spinner and Rendjaw forward with spears, testing the underwater rock before they waded through up to their waists. Korin felt the ground in front of himself carefully, wary of falling into a hole. He couldn’t swim, and with his armor and pack, he would have gone straight to the bottom.

They heard no pursuit, just the dripping water. The further they went, the fainter the smell of troll. Still, it felt like the stench had climbed up into his nose and latched on. He tried to blow it out. There were pillars carved in the rock, doorways cut into the stone, other stairways disappearing into the water or rising further up through the rock. An old delving like this could be unstable, but Korin just felt thankful to be under stone. He tried not to think of how few of them remained. Rendjaw and Spinner relieved Korin and Meadsong of Bronzedelver’s weight after a time. Somehow, Stoutarm kept to his feet, although he and Hefter left trails of blood behind them. If the ürsi followed, they would not be hard to find.

Then, daylight poured down ahead. They entered a chamber filled with rubble. A great rift opened above, showing blue sky. Korin squinted at the brightness, his eyes aching. At some point, the roof of the cavern had collapsed. They struggled up and over the debris, finding another tunnel on the far side, though it could not have been the same they’d followed there; the exiting tunnel was higher in the rock. They had to slide through a gap to enter and continue on, but it only led a short distance before it, too, opened into daylight.

The rock had caved in there as well, but the rubble sloped enough that they could have climbed the hundred feet to the surface. If tunnels had branched from there, they were buried, now. Firehelm led them back into the shadow of the tunnel. They had passed a narrow arch, and now they entered the old bare chamber beyond. It contained naught but a stone table carved from the basalt, the rock smoothed of all its roughness ages ago. It gleamed in the faint light that entered. There was no way to close the arch, but Firehelm told Rendjaw to stand outside the entrance and watch the tunnel. A narrow door offered a better opportunity for defense if the ürsi came than the wider stairway had.

They laid Bronzedelver on the table. He rolled onto his side and lay quiet, arms wrapped around his chest. Stoutarm collapsed onto the stone, and Hefter sat with his back against the wall.

Korin realized he was panting, his whole torso trembling, and for a moment panic gripped his chest. No. Do something. Do something. Korin looked around. They had to organize. They had to organize. Korin saw Tar kneel and unstrap his helmet. He lifted it off his head and slid his warmask away. Crusted blood covered his face and the side of his forehead had swollen down to his cheekbone, but he’d made it there on his own legs. Korin put a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s not terrible,” Tar said, moving his head from side to side to test his neck. “See to Stoutarm first.”

Korin motioned to Spinner.

“Let me see your pack—” and then he realized Spinner had no pack. Korin looked around the chamber. Rendjaw had a pack. Firehelm did not. Korin had his, as did Meadsong. But none of the wounded had managed to keep theirs. Had they dropped them during the fight with the trolls, or at the landing? Could they go back for them?

Obviously not. The danger of the ürsi was too great. That meant they would not even have enough food to make it back to Ice-Cloak if they could retrace their steps. Not even close. But food would have to wait.

In their deliberations about what supplies to bring, they had agreed upon woven cloth for bandages, bone needles, and gut thread, but these were not in every pack. It had been more efficient to load some things in one pack and different burdens in another. Korin realized the error in that, especially with supplies for wounds.

Meadsong already slid his pack from his shoulders and rummaged within. In moments, he lifted a roll of bandage as well as needle and thread, set them on the table next to Bronzedelver, and continued rummaging. Korin sighed with relief. He picked up the needle and thread and realized he had no hope of using them. His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped the needle. He looked at Meadsong.

“You have to do it,” he said. Meadsong stared from Korin to the bone needle and started to stammer.

“I-I—”

“I’ll do it.” Tar rose to his feet.

“You’re hurt.”

“Not as bad as they are.” He took the needle and thread from Korin.

“Grab the bandages,” he said to Spinner, then approached Stoutarm. Meadsong glanced at Korin and moved to the door to stand watch with Rendjaw.

“You’re going to have to stop needing my help,” Tar told Stoutarm as he knelt beside him. Stoutarm had removed his mask and helm and managed a strained smile.

“Believe me, I don’t want it.”

The dwarf grimaced and grunted as Tar cleansed the wound with water, folded the flap of flesh back over the bone, and sewed it in place. Spinner wrapped and tied the bandage tight around Stoutarm’s leg, explaining every detail of what he did as if it wasn’t plain to see, and yet Korin saw how the talk seemed to calm the wounded dwarf.

Tar moved on to Hefter, who leaned against the stone taking long, shallow breaths. Tar unbuckled Hefter’s helm and slid off his mask. Hefter’s nose had swollen. Congealed clots of blood blocked both nostrils, his upper lip was split wide, his upper front teeth gone. Tar sighed, looking at the mess and shaking his head. Next, he inspected Hefter’s leg. Compared to Stoutarm, the tear was minor. Tar cleaned it, put in a few stitches, and returned to Hefter’s face.

“I can sew your lip together, I think.”

Hefter grimaced but nodded, and he didn’t make a sound as Tar punctured his swollen flesh with the needle, though he squeezed his watering eyes shut.

Once Hefter’s leg was wrapped and tied, they moved to Bronzedelver.

“We have to take off your mail,” Tar said.

“No,” Bronzedelver grunted.

“We have to check your wounds.”

“It’s my ribs. Broken ribs. Leave me alone.”

Tar looked at Spinner and shrugged.

All this time, as Korin watched the care of the wounded, Firehelm stood in the center of the chamber, his eyes cast down to the stone floor.

“My prince,” Korin said. “What do you command?”

Firehelm looked up, as if remembering where he was.

“For now, we rest and hope the ürsi do not come.”

Korin nodded. Rest.

Rest, and think.

And try not to think.

14

Jet

No ürsi struck the rest of that day or night. The dwarves waited under the stone, resting their wounds and listening to Spinner recount the fights of the previous day for the third and fourth time.

“We were all there,” Rendjaw growled at one point. Spinner nodded.

“Ay. And what did you think of it?”

“I wasn’t doing much thinking.”

Spinner waited for a moment, watching Rendjaw, and then continued on with his account of the trolls.

Korin wished he would shut up, but they didn’t need to be at each other’s throats, either. With the comforting weight of cold stone above him, Korin just wanted to rest, to sleep, and not to relive the horrible way their expedition had unraveled in blood and death and stench. The side of his face to his ear throbbed, but he ignored it, letting fatigue carry him on to sleep. He did not remove his brigandine, helmet, or mask. The ürsi would not find him unprepared if they came.

The next day, Bronzedelver permitted Tar and Spinner to remove his hauberk. The right side of Bronzedelver’s abdomen was black and blue from hip to shoulder, and his chest seemed to move in a strange lopsided fashion when he inhaled. There was just enough of the bandage cloth left to wrap around Bronzedelver’s chest twice. Tar tied it in a tight knot. Bronzedelver grunted and winced, but he seemed to breathe easier with the bracing of the wrap. He demanded they lace his hauberk on him, even though he could barely lift his right arm up for the pain. As soon as they finished, he lay back down on the table of stone.

That day, Korin made another ill discovery. Rendjaw’s pack had been slashed open at the bottom during the fighting and the rations had fallen out. All that remained was a coil of heavy rope wedged inside. That left only the remaining rations in Korin’s and Meadsong’s packs. Spread among nine mouths, it would be gone in a few days. If they spread it out much more, they would just starve more slowly.

Firehelm sat with his back against the rear wall of the chamber. He had said little since they arrived in the refuge under stone. Now Korin approached him. Maybe this whole expedition had been wrong, but they were there now, and as captain it was Korin's duty to ensure that they stayed a cohesive group. To show doubt could fracture them all, and then they'd surely die. No one else in his life had befriended him like Firehelm, ignoring his shaking and treating him as valuable.

“My prince.”

Firehelm motioned for Korin to sit.

“What is your need?” the prince asked as Korin settled cross-legged on the stone.

“We have little food. We’ll need to hunt and fish. We have some hooks and line yet, and if we unravel the rope, we can make snares. And we have a few slings. It will be slow going on our way back.” Not to mention, Korin thought, there were still ürsi to contend with. He didn’t think they could survive another open fight, certainly not against the numbers that had pursued them. Sometimes, the Ridgeward scouts covered themselves with swamp mud to hide their scent. They might have to resort to something similar until they crossed the Kara-Indal. How long could they let the wounded recover before they left?

Firehelm glanced around the chamber. Spinner walked back and forth outside the doorway. The others sat or lay in silence within.

“We have not accomplished our goal,” Firehelm said.

Their failure bothered Korin, too. He hated the thought of returning home in defeat. But whether they died there or made it back, defeat had come.

“We have accomplished more than anyone before. If we can return, we will bring knowledge of these lands with us. We can return in greater numbers.” Korin knew it was a shallow consolation.

“The den is nearby, Strikinghand.” Firehelm shook his head. “Somewhere near, I know it.”

“I had a thought that may aid us,” Korin said, trying to change the topic. He did not want the prince brooding on their failure. It was now his primary responsibility to get Firehelm back to Ice-Cloak alive—and as many of the rest of them as he could. Firehelm inclined his head, listening. “From the surface, we can see for miles here. Many miles. We can return to the shore, make sure no ürsi are near. When we first reached the beach, there were all kinds of creatures there. If we can hunt them, kill one of the big ones, it may be enough to see us over the high passes.”

Firehelm waved a hand.

“Let it be so. We will send two for this purpose.”

Spinner leaned his head into the doorway.

“There’s a storm on the surface,” he said. “A mighty storm.” He ducked back out and continued pacing.

“Tomorrow,” Firehelm said with a grim grin. Korin nodded.

“I’m going to scout and hunt the seashore,” Korin said. The others were arrayed in front of him in the chamber. “I require another to join me.”

Tar raised his hand in salute. The side of his face had turned a strange grey-green over the past two days, and the eye was bloodshot. Tar had taken the lead in caring for the other wounded, even after his initial efforts. Spinner raised his hand next. Korin didn’t think hunting would be his strength, seeing how silence was an asset. That left Meadsong and Rendjaw, neither of whom volunteered. Rendjaw was not Korin’s favorite, but he was a fighter, and more than that, he didn’t particularly want to leave him with Firehelm. It was a selfish reason.

“Rendjaw will come with me,” Korin said. Rendjaw tilted his head but said nothing. “Tar, continue to care for the wounded. Spinner and Meadsong, guard the tunnel. We plan to return by nightfall.”

Korin knew it was early morning because he had checked the collapsed chamber for daylight. He felt sick to his stomach that morning. He sucked on a small piece of dried salt fish, hoping the salt would help. It wasn’t much, their meager ration, but he had poor appetite. Strange, considering how little he’d had to eat lately. He felt chill, and he put his belt on outside of his cloak, keeping it close to his body.

It was easy to retrace their steps through the old colony, if such it was. The delvings were too complex, too carefully and geometrically carved for a simple working mine. It had natural features showing there were caverns here to start with. They climbed over the rubble of the caved-in cavern and waded through the submerged chamber. The water was nearly a foot deeper after the storm. As they neared the troll nest, they slowed to a creep, stopping often, smelling the air and listening. The first smell that reached Korin after the smells of water and minerals was the smell of troll. It turned his stomach, but they crept on. There was always the danger that another troll had returned to the nest since the battle, but when they reached it, they only found the bodies of the young trolls, already bloating. Over the thick stench, Korin detected ürsi. Had they come down here? Had they left the dead kits?

There were no shapes on the stairs, none framed against the sky at the top. He and Rendjaw carried shields, hand axes tucked in their belts, and they crept up the stairway shoulder to shoulder, spears forward.

Korin saw the remnants of bloodstains on the stairway walls where the trolls had killed Hornhand and the others. Even the water that rushed down the stairs during the storm had failed to wash all the blood away. He pictured the way Hornhand had turned and cried out, his eyes white through the eye-holes of his warmask. Korin shook his head, trying to drive out the memory. He smelled ürsi and paused there.

“What?” Rendjaw whispered after a moment. Korin sniffed at the air coming down the stairs. It smelled of brine and fish. Was it just in his head, that smell of foe, or residual from the battle? He shrugged and moved on, climbing the rest of the stairs.

They paused near the opening, squinting, the daylight flooding down on them and making Korin’s eyes ache. He waited a while to adjust, then took a breath and stepped forward, raising his head above the level of the basalt shelf. The trolls lay as they had fallen, their fur wet. He took more steps out. Here, no trace of the blood remained, washed away by storm. The dwarves were gone without a sign.

The wind blew strong, but it was not as fierce as it had been when last he stood there. It blew now from the east, not from over the cold water. Still, Korin shivered. It was strange. He normally never felt cold under the stone, but he’d been cold even before they climbed to the surface. Out in the sea, the mountains of ice had drifted further away from shore.

An easterly wind was not good for hunting. It would blow their scent toward the strand. Korin crouched, stalked to the edge of the stone shelf, and knelt. Seabirds wheeled overhead, whole varieties of birds he had never seen. Rendjaw crouched down next to him, and together they scanned all horizons. The basin-plain looked empty. Nothing in it moved as far as they could see, but the shore was different. A few hundred yards to the north, hundreds of creatures clustered, huddled, and wallowed in the black sand. He saw the massive tusked beasts, like lumps of fat with fins, but there were other, smaller animals there too. A pang of nausea rose from Korin’s stomach to his throat. He salivated, but not from hunger.

Surveying the bleakness of the landscape, Korin felt fairly certain there were no ürsi within miles, except if there were more caves hiding them below the surface. That he could not account for. He nodded to Rendjaw.

“We have to hug the rise. Just over the rise. Stay south if we can.”

Rendjaw nodded. His blue eyes stared out of his mask at the beasts on the shore. Korin wanted to hurry, to rush after the animals. He was no hunter, had never trained to it, but he knew that while the beasts looked cumbersome on land, if they slipped into the water there was no hope. What was worse, he was far from sure that a stone thrown from a sling would kill any of the massive, fat creatures. Thankfully, the shore had grown narrow again, the water washing within ten yards of the rocky berm running parallel to it. The creatures huddled in that narrow space, birds wheeling overhead and diving among them.

Korin and Rendjaw crouched and crawled, feet away from the edge of the berm, staying low amid the gravel and waving grasses. Korin felt cold sweat moisten his skin, and he spat saliva onto the ground. They could not see the beasts down the rise, but as they covered the distance, they heard the swarming of the birds and the strange bellows of the creatures below. At length, Korin peeked over the edge. They’d crawled and scrambled to within fifty yards of the near edge of the herd. The closer they approached, the greater the risk that the wind would carry their scent, but so far, the offshore breeze prevailed due east, and there was no helping it. The animals basked in the sun, unaware of danger. Some of the bigger ones seemed territorial, bellowing and flopping after others that came too near their plots of black sandy gravel. They weren’t all the same type of beast, either. Korin identified at least two varieties—the tusked kind, and another smaller sort of creature with a round face, whiskers, and a lighter, sleeker grey skin. If some of those smaller creatures came closer, perhaps a stone from a sling would do for them, but they kept to the north side of the herd. To reach them, Korin and Rendjaw would have to crawl upwind of the bulk of the beasts, risking it all.

Their spears were not meant for throwing. They were too long to be thrown past ten yards, and never with great accuracy. They were hewing spears with lugs, meant for line-of-battle work. The bearded hand-axes at their belts, used as a close-quarters weapon if spears should fail, were the best option. The guards had trained strenuously, both wielding and throwing them, and could hit a target at twenty yards with consistency. Except for Korin. Aim was not his strength. Even now he felt tremors in his arms, his hands pressed into the gravel and sand.

I should have sent someone else, he thought. But it was too late. Nor did he want to appear to put others in danger that he would not risk himself. If they could get within fifteen yards of the beasts, Korin felt confident that at least Rendjaw could strike one. The question was if a single strike of an axe would be enough to down one of the big brutes with the tusks, or if it would just flee wounded into the sea, taking the axe with it. Korin scanned the herd. Near the outer edge of the herd and close to the rise was what looked like a younger brute—its tusks were short and it was smaller than the others. It would be less meat, but something was better than a lost axe. Korin motioned to Rendjaw, pointing out the beast. He followed Korin’s meaning and nodded.

The wind whipped at their cloaks as they crawled closer. Korin expected to hear frightened bellows and rise to see the entire mass fleeing into the sea, but such never came. At last, he peeked over the rise. They’d crawled just alongside the southern edge of the herd. He nodded to Rendjaw.

Rendjaw pushed up slowly, getting his knees under him, then a foot. He slipped his axe from his belt, hefting it into a throwing hold. With deft speed, he rose and threw. The axe cut the air as it spun. Rendjaw was obviously a talented warrior, with more experience than the Prince’s Guard, for the throw was masterful. The axehead bit into the young beast’s neck and blood spurted onto the sand. The beasts nearby wailed and wallowed away, leaving the wounded to flail its fins as it tried to drag itself toward the surf. Rendjaw slid down the rise in a spray of gravel and Korin followed.

The cacophony of bellows and wails spread through the herd as the two dwarves rushed forward. Most creatures rushed into the sea, splitting the waves with their sleek fat bodies, and some moved further north along the shore. Rendjaw caught up to the wounded animal and buried his spear into its abdomen. It wriggled on the haft, the wound sucking, and then it convulsed. Rendjaw reached down, grabbed a front fin, and strained to lift. It barely rolled at all.

“Ufh,” he said. “That’s quite a weight of meat.”

Korin grabbed a fin and pulled at it himself. The thing must have weighed hundreds of pounds. Of course, once it was gutted, butchered, and smoked it would weigh far less.

“Another of these and we’d be set home,” Korin said. He took a few steps up the beach toward the fringe of the beasts that had retreated a hundred yards to the north. There was a movement to his right. A small creature a few feet away made a bolt from behind a pile of rock, trying to get to the sea. Korin dropped his spear, took a step and leapt, snagging its tail fin in his outstretched hand. It was small enough to lift with one arm, and he held it up as it flopped and wriggled. It was one of the small round ones with the whiskers, probably just a pup. Korin smiled and turned to Rendjaw.

“And here’s tonight’s dinner,” he said. Rendjaw grinned, pulling his spear from the carcass of his kill. Korin slid his axe from his belt, preparing to end the pup’s struggle.

“Stop!”

Korin spun on his heels at the strange voice. A figure in clothes of white-tanned hide stood on the berm at the edge of the beach. A deep hood rimmed with grey fur covered the figure’s face in shadow, its back to the eastern morning light.

“Who are you?” Korin gripped his axe.

“Put the lenock down!”

He had never heard the word lenock before, but it must mean the creature squirming in his grasp.

“Why?”

“You may hunt kimgrip, but not lenock.” The figure pointed first at the carcass next to Rendjaw and then at the animal in Korin’s grasp, so Korin understood. He glanced at Rendjaw. It was hard to read his expression beneath the mask, but he had brought his spear down just a tad, ready to go on the defensive. But the figure appeared unarmed.

“Who are you?” Korin asked.

“Drop the lenock.”

Korin knew Rendjaw was watching him, and he did not wish to appear weak. Yet there was no reason to antagonize this stranger. If anything, the stranger was far more important than the single meal this little lenock represented. Korin lowered the animal to the beach and let go. It flopped toward the sea where a wave carried it out into the surf.

“Who are you?” Korin asked again. The figure stared down at them. Korin couldn’t make out much of anything from the shadowed face, but he suspected, by the build and by the timbre of the voice, that he was speaking to a dwarf-maid. That she was dwarven he knew well, not just from her build but from her language—she spoke dwarvish words, even though she had a thick accent and a strange rhythm.

“You shelter in the ruins of Ravensbeak,” she said, and she looked to the south, toward the basalt outcrop.

“We shelter in the ruins,” Korin affirmed.

“Climb the stairs when the dawn comes tomorrow, and you will be met.” At that, she turned and disappeared over the rise with quick steps.

“Should I chase her?” Rendjaw asked. Korin looked at him, unsure. He felt a little light-headed. He was sweating again, and he felt cold. Rendjaw took his silence for assent and scrambled up the rise, but when he reached the top, he stopped.

“She’s gone,” he said.

“Come. We have work to do here.”

Rendjaw returned, and together they used their camp knives and axes to piece out the kimgrip. Neither of them were butchers, but both of them had worked their rotations in Ice-Cloak, chopping wood, watching sheep, and Rendjaw had gone on two hunting expeditions and had participated in the butchering of an elk. Korin estimated Rendjaw was thirty years his elder, give or take. He even had a few premature grey hairs twisted into the warrior’s braids of his beard. Still, he could be considered young by dwarven standards.

The smell of the blood and meat were strong. Sweat stung Korin’s eyes. The padding underneath the steel was damp, and yet his body did not seem to feel the heat of the work. The side of his face throbbed all the way back to his ear when he bent over. They’d emptied their packs before their hunt and now they loaded them to overflowing with meat, and used their shields as platters to carry even more. Even so, they had to leave some behind. The seabirds swirled overhead, and Korin expected they would find little but bone if they returned. Korin struggled up the rise, lagging Rendjaw, his legs feeling weak.

The expanse of the plain was still barren, no sign of movement but birds wheeling. Some of the birds hung motionless in the air, lifted by the breeze. The dwarves followed the berm back to the basalt. Korin held his breath past the stiff troll carcasses. Again he tried to keep the thoughts of Hornhand from his mind as they descended the stairs, and again he failed.

They would need to preserve the meat. Smoking it would be best, but waiting until they reached the forest again would be dangerous. To preserve the meat in a stone smoke-kiln would take at least a day, more if they wanted to do a thorough job. In the forest, the smoke would be a signal to the ürsi. Thankfully, Korin had seen plenty of dried-out wood on the margins of the shore, washed up from the water and bleached in the sun. They could smoke the meat in the caverns and likely remain undetected.

All this Korin had planned, but he was having trouble concentrating as they hauled their heavy, straining packs through the tunnels and held their shield-platters over their heads as they waded through the water. The frigid wet clothes set him shivering, and he couldn’t stop. Try as he might to plan the next steps for the day, he kept seeing the strange figure on the rise in his mind, and Hornhand’s expression in a jumbled series of images. He smelled ürsi, too.

By the time he reached their refuge, he knew he would send Spinner and Meadsong to collect firewood. There was plenty of the day left, but he did not feel he had the strength to go back to the surface. His hands shook with fierce tremors, and he feared dropping his burden of meat. He caught Rendjaw peering at him at one point, and that irritated him. He hated the appearance of weakness in front of that dwarf—any dwarf, in fact, but that one more than others.

Firehelm stood to greet them and ask about their success, though from their bulging packs and shieldfulls there could be no question. Korin slid off his pack, set down his shield, and leaned against the stone table where Bronzedelver lay. He would let Rendjaw do the talking. It was his kill, anyway, as much as he resented him. Rendjaw leaned in and whispered to Firehelm, and Firehelm looked at Korin, his brow furrowing. He nodded.

That afternoon, Korin succumbed to the delirium of fever. He saw the face of Hornhand hovering in front of him, heard the screams of the trolls, saw Pinechin’s arm ripped from its socket again and again. He heard their voices, their last cries, and he thrashed as the others held him down. The stench of ürsi filled the air, and a figure stood on the shore crying out, “Stop! Stop! Stop!” again, and again, and again.

“Get his helm off,” he heard Firehelm say. He fought harder. He did not want it off. What if they were attacked? He smelled them. The ürsi were coming. He shouted and fought, but they held him down. His face seared with pain as the warmask peeled away, breaking crusted blood. He saw Tar’s face above him, an expression of concern, but Korin fought him.

“I don’t know,” Tar was saying. “I don’t know. I didn’t even know he was wounded.”

Ürsi swarmed through the caverns, trolls shrieked, running on all fours, climbing the walls of the chamber which began to crumble and fall. His skin felt alight with fire, and then so cold that his body quaked.

In the morning he was clearer. The visions were gone, but he felt so weak he could barely sit up. The others talked in low tones, and he could not understand them, or maybe he didn’t care. Firehelm, Rendjaw, Spinner, Hefter, and Meadsong left the chamber. Tar remained, sitting near the door and watching over Korin, Bronzedelver, and Stoutarm.

Korin drifted in his mind. Where, he did not know. He heard footsteps and figures in white-tanned skins entered the chamber. They wielded long halberds—vicious looking hybrids of spear and axe. Korin reached for his weapons, but he had none. Even his knife-sheath was empty. Then Firehelm was there, kneeling beside him.

“It is well, it is well, Strikinghand,” he said. “They will take us to shelter.”

Spinner and Meadsong lifted Korin on both sides. Others assisted Bronzedelver and Stoutarm. The strangers led them through different paths in the tunnels, and then up another stair so narrow that only one dwarf could climb at a time. Meadsong braced Korin from the rear as he put one halting foot before another. They reached the surface. The daylight blinded, painful and white.

They walked north, Korin wasn’t sure how far. He felt the chill breeze on his face and realized he still wore no helm or mask. He felt naked before these strangers. His eyes roved, searching the plain for the dark shapes of ürsi. Spinner kept up a string of words into his ear as he helped him along, but Korin listened to none, just tried to keep his feet moving.

A great sinkhole opened up before them, the sea to the west and the plains to the east. Running down the side of the sinkhole was a narrow stair carved in dark stone. They descended. At the bottom lay a pool of clear water, drips falling from the edge of the sinkhole above. The hole was much wider beneath, expanding under the surface all around. Cut flagstones surrounded a pool of water, and all around the edges stone doors were cut into the stone, so low and narrow that even a dwarf would have to duck and turn sideways to enter. One of the stone doors swung open soundlessly, moving on greased stone hinges, and the strangers led them through. Korin stumbled as he ducked, but Meadsong caught him. Inside was warmth, the smell of burning coal, and the welcome flickering of flame.

“Take them to Jet,” a stranger said in a thick accent. He had a long white beard that fell freely down his chest, and his face was wrinkled deep. They carried Korin down a tunnels, into another chamber with a stone table like the one they had seen in the ruins. This one was covered in the pelts of animals. They laid Korin atop the furs. He saw Stoutarm and Bronzedelver brought in as well. They sat down stiffly on piles of pelts along the wall. Meadsong and a stranger began to cover Korin with pelts, but someone else spoke.

“No, no. Strip him first.”

Meadsong turned and looked, and so did Korin. He knew the voice. All the strangers spoke in the same cadence, strange words mixed in, but he remembered this voice. It was the voice of the stranger on the shore. She had entered the room through another stone doorway. The doors within the hold were big enough to require no ducking. She wore no hood, now. Her charcoal hair was braided and wrapped down around her cheeks and chin, and back again in a circle of shining darkness that framed her round face, her quartz skin, her sapphire eyes. Korin had rarely seen true jet stone, but it was a true appellation for the dwarf-maid, and he knew it was her name. His vision was hazy, but she shone amidst the blur, wearing no veil.

“Strip him?” Meadsong asked.

“Yes. All of him.”

“That is not fitting,” Meadsong said. She laughed.

“I’ll decide. You can go if you are no help.”

“Do what she says.”

The voice was Firehelm’s. He stood in the doorway. “She is Flintcoat’s granddaughter, and their healer.” The prince turned and left.

Meadsong looked back and forth, then sighed. He helped the other stranger unlace Korin’s brigandine and peel it off, then his shirt over his head, his greaves and trousers, leaving him bare. Korin was took weak to resist. He laid quiet in a fatigue too deep for shame.

“Not fitting,” Meadsong muttered as he turned and left the chamber.

Korin heard another’s dwarf-maid’s voice.

“They are strange,” she said. She carried a bowl and pieces of soft fabric or leather.

“Hmm?” Jet asked. She stepped next to Korin, and he tried to blink his watery eyes clear. He tensed at the cold rags as they wiped him down, starting with his legs.

“They speak strange words.”

“Yes.”

“And they—”

“Spinel, how is Ridgeheld? I have not seen her these two or three moons.”

“Oh she is well. I saw her not long hence when we visited the stonehold. She says that Coalarm hasn’t—”

“I did not ask about him. I asked about her.”

Korin grunted as they rolled him on his side and scrubbed down his back.

“Well, she seemed healthy. Not yet with child, I’d say.”

Jet sighed. They rolled Korin onto his back again. She pressed against Korin’s face with her fingers and he winced.

“We’ll have to drain it.”

“What?”

“The wound. It has gone foul. It must be drained.”

“And packed with kring leaf?”

“No, no. You got that from Ridgeheld, yes? I should say that wif is more than usually confused about the use of kring leaf. What are you staring at?”

“Them,” she said.

“Them?”

“Are you not interested in them?”

“In strangers who wear women’s braids in their beards and hunt lenock?”

“In dwarves from elsewhere.”

“I am not convinced that elsewhere is otherwise. Except maybe more ignorant. Give me the lancet. Now, hold his head.”

Korin felt hands grasp both sides of his head above his ears.

Then he saw white searing pain. He saw it.

15

Round-Hold

Korin woke covered in sweat. The pelts above and below him were soaked. He heard an uproar of voices from another chamber and someone began to sing. It was Meadsong, singing the Ballad of Brokenspear the First King Under the Mountain. The other voices hushed as Meadsong’s deep, rumbling tones echoed along the stone. Korin paid little attention, but he lay there as the verses followed one after another. He was tired, but he felt better than he had for—for how long? He wasn’t sure. The ballad lasted nearly half an hour when sung, but it didn’t feel that long.

And with his queen he loved so well
He sleeps beneath the stone
In the mighty caves of Ice-Cloak
Where heroes carved a home.

Meadsong’s voice trailed away on the last word, “home,” and the note faded and died. A breath passed, followed by a thunder of cheers and shouts. Korin listened as the cheering died down, replaced by the lively hubbub of many conversations.

Korin realized his face no longer throbbed, and he slowly untucked his arm from the pelts and reached to explore the wound he had never seen.

“Don’t touch it.”

The voice startled him. Jet stepped into the chamber carrying a large carven mug of obsidian.

“I brought you some heather-ale,” she said.

“Thank you,” Korin answered, realizing he was parched. “I thirst.”

She laughed.

“Not for your gut, for your face,” she said. “You’ll drink clean water from the spring for now. You’re all worse when you’re drunk.”

He wasn’t sure who “you’re all,” meant, but he did not have the energy to argue. She brought him a drink of water, though, helping him up onto his elbows to swallow the cold draught. Then, she returned to the workbench where she’d left the mug of ale. She crushed something into it, stirred with a long spoon, dipped a cloth, and came around to Korin’s side and began to press and dab at his wound. The liquid dripped down into his beard.

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re not beautiful. It would have done you no favors. As it is, it probably won’t be noticed.”

Korin couldn’t help but grin. He pushed himself further up, wanting to sit, but then he realized he was naked.

“You can sit if you want,” she said. “Your fever is broken, too.”

Korin was too busy blushing to heed her. He was naked, covered by animal pelts, alone in the presence of a beautiful dwarf-maid.

“My clothes?” he stammered.

“The ragged, fetid, stinking bits of cloth clinging to your body when you arrived? I may have burned them.”

Korin stared at her, his mouth partially open. She smirked.

“Worry not. My hospitality is not so poor as to make you walk around naked. No one wants that.” She pointed to a folded pile of clothing on a chair. “For you,” she said. The clothes were made of the same pale skins that she wore. Despite being hide, they were well fashioned, soft and pliant and sewed with fine seams. Jet’s dress was worked with geometric patterns of stone beads that glinted in the lamplight. That made him notice the lamp. It gave a yellow glow, so different from the luminescence of miner’s eye. The lamp burned some kind of oil. It had a strange smell.

“Go ahead and get dressed.”

Korin looked at the clothes, then at her, raising his eyes. She turned her back on him and stepped over to the workbench.

“Believe me, I will not look. Again.” She laughed. “I am a healer. I know what you have.” She busied herself among her pots and containers. Korin slipped from the pelts, still feeling weak. His arms trembled as he pulled on the hide trousers and the long hide shirt. They were soft and warm. A leather belt held up the pants and cinched the shirt at the same time.

“Thank you,” Korin said.

“You are our guests,” she said, turning back. “Now, let me put this on.” She nodded to his wound. He sat back down on the edge of the stone table as she smeared some kind of unguent on his face and ear. It stung a little, but nothing like the white pain he’d felt before.

“Why do you not hunt the. . . the lenock?” Korin asked. In part, he was trying to make conversation. She was leaning in so close as she covered his wound that he could smell her skin. It smelled like firelight and smoke and something warmer still.

“It was the lenock that first helped us when we crawled from beneath the stone. They are a strange and mysterious folk.”

“The lenock. . . taught you?”

“They taught all dwarves when we climbed through the great rift to the surface. They are shape-shifters, you know.”

“Shapeshifters.”

She nodded, whether to him or to the wound, then took her little bowl of unguent back to her worktable. Korin frowned, watching her and thinking about what she’d said. If that fat little creature could shapeshift, one would think that it would have done as Korin held it up by its tail, preparing to slaughter it. But besides that oddity, he struggled with how Jet spoke. She pronounced the words differently, and some words were foreign altogether, though mostly Korin understood by context. It delayed some of his comprehension of her meaning as he tried to work it out.

“Now tell me something,” she said. “Is the story of this Brokenspear true? From the song?”

“Oh yes. He was a great hero.”

“The part where he took the slaves and made them free, and brought the slaves to be his folk?”

“Indentureds, yes. And yes.”

She turned and folded her arms, leaning back against the workbench.

“That is a dwarf worthy of a name,” she said. “Worthy of many things. But we do not have slaves here.”

“Indentured servants,” Korin said again. She ignored him.

“And who is king now under your mountain?”

“There is no king. There is Queen Jade.”

“A queen?” She nodded. “We have chiefs of stoneholds, but no wifs among them, not since years of old. What is she like?”

“She is a great . . . she was a great warrior. And a great queen. But she is grown old. A sickness gnaws at her bones.”

Jet’s face grew more serious. She pressed her lips together for a moment.

“I have seen such diseases.” She motioned out of the chamber. “And this one that calls himself prince, he is a descendant of this Brokenspear?”

“No, no. Brokenspear had no children. Prince Firehelm is the son of Queen Jade.”

“And you serve him. You are his captain?”

Much talk had obviously occurred in Korin absence. It was understandable, but frustrating.

“Ay.”

“It seems strange that nine dwarves would need two leaders.”

“We. . . were more.”

“Twenty nine, I know.” She watched him with appraising eyes, the blue looking nearly black beneath the dark stone. It made Korin uncomfortable. His hands shook all the more, and he saw her eyes fall to them and return.

“Your hands always shake?” she asked. Korin nodded. “Your whole life?” He nodded again. She seemed to leave the topic behind.

“As I said,” she went on. “We have chiefs, but no one is born a chief. Brokenspear, if the story be true, was born of greatness. This Firehelm, born of Jade, what makes him worthy to be served?”

“He is a great prince. He will bring glory to Ice-Cloak.”

“Is he strong?”

“Yes.”

“And brave above reproach?”

“Yes.”

“Kind?”

“Yes.”

“And is he true in all things?”

Korin hesitated. “He is wise,” he offered. Jet smiled.

“And he is so much of all these things that you would still serve him and your brothers would still have come over the mountains and fed their flesh to ürsi if he had been born of the same mother as you?”

Korin stared at her.

“I—”

“Is he that great, that you would still be here, right now, if he had been born of one of these goatherds who Brokenspear rescued?”

“Well, if that were true, I might not have even met him.”

“That’s part of what I mean,” she replied.

“Why are you asking these things?”

“Winters are long. You will give me much to think about in the dark days. Tell me something else.”

Korin raised his eyebrows. Jet smiled again, this time with more genuine warmth.

“Is it true that in the south there are such beings as walk like us, and speak different languages, but are tall and fair and do not delve?” she asked.

“This is true, too. Though I have not seen them. Some of the old colonies trade with men and elves.”

Jet laughed.

“I always thought it just a story.”

They heard footsteps approach the chamber. Firehelm entered, holding two mugs. His face was flushed.

“Strikinghand!” he said, his voice so loud that Korin winced. “I am pleased to see you up! Here, drink!”

Korin accepted the mug and drank. It was a bitter brew. He glanced at Jet and saw her roll her eyes.

“We are feasting on the kimgrip you hunted.”

“It was Rendjaw who made the kill.”

“And Rendjaw is fatter than he was yesterday, I assure you. Are you hungry?”

Korin wasn’t sure.

“I will choose food for him for tonight,” Jet cut in. “If his fever does not return, you may have him back in the morning.”

Firehelm grinned, his teeth bright amid his auburn beard.

“Good. Take care of this one. He is my right arm.”

“Are Stoutarm and Bronzedelver well?”

“Yes, yes,” Firehelm said, waving a hand. “And drunk on this brew. They say it’s made of the heather. They have yet to tell me the secret, but I’ll get it out of them.”

“Unlikely,” muttered Jet, but Firehelm didn’t seem to hear her. He slapped Korin on the shoulder.

“We will talk more in the morning.” He laughed and wiggled his nose, glancing at Jet, then turned and lurched back out of the chamber.

“He is in good spirits,” Korin said. He had mixed feelings about that. Their expedition had been in such ruins that it seemed odd to hear celebration. Mourning felt more appropriate.

“Yes, and I suppose they will keep drinking themselves into such good spirits that they will either murder each other or get married and make ugly babies.” Once again, Korin didn’t know what to say. Thankfully, Jet carried on.

“Your friend Stoutarm is mending well enough. Bronzedelver—” she motioned to her ribs “—will be sore a long time. He was cracked, but nothing was out of place. I told him to take it slow.”

Korin nodded. He knew Hefter’s injuries were not serious. He’d been dazed during the fight with the trolls. Perhaps they would keep their number at nine.

“I wish I was out there,” Korin said. “I should be in the planning. In the talk.”

Jet returned with a bowl of. . . something and gave it to him. It was mashed and watery, with a spoon sticking out of it.

“No, you’re missing little besides a morning headache. Tonight, they drink and sing, and speak emptiness. Tomorrow night, they will talk.”

Korin tasted the mash. It did not taste as badly as it looked, but it did not taste particularly good, either.

“Eat it all, then try to sleep, if you want your freedom tomorrow.”

With that, Jet walked out of the door and into the tunnel beyond.

Korin ate the food. Then he drank the bitter ale Firehelm had left, partly to be contrary.

When Jet returned, Korin stood next to the stone table, stretching his stiff muscles. He knew it was morning by the strangely accurate perception of time that dwarves maintained even under stone. They didn’t always care about day and night above the surface, but even after long stretches, they could often guess the time of day above with fair accuracy.

“Good waking,” Korin offered.

“Good waking,” Jet said. She walked straight up to Korin in a manner that would have been brash in Ice-Cloak. She turned his face to the side, her hand at his chin, and examining the wound.

“Who are you?” she asked. Korin raised an eyebrow.

“Who am I?”

“Yes.”

“I am called Strikinghand.”

“And where are you?”

“Um. Somewhere in your stonehold.”

Jet smirked.

“And why are you here.”

“Your folk brought me here.”

“And why are you here in this chamber?”

“I was wounded?”

“Are you not sure?”

“I was wounded.”

“Yes. Fine. You have as much wit as can be expected. I see no sign of fever or worsening of the wound. I suppose I release you from my care. Try not to damage your face any worse. You don’t have much to work with.”

“Uh. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She stood at arm’s length, staring into his face. It made him uncomfortable.

“Do you know where I can find my companions?”

“They sleep nearby, but I suspect they will not wake for some hours. Nor will most of the dwarves in this stonehold. And they will be surly for a few hours more, I suspect.”

Korin remembered the celebrations of the night before. He needed to find something to do until his companions stirred. He couldn’t just sit around.

“Do you know where my armor is?”

“It was cleaned and oiled for you. It is with your people.”

There went that task. He could have happily sat and looked after it for the morning. Maybe he could re-do it.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Eating was at least a task.

“Follow me.”

She turned and walked out of the chamber and Korin followed. She wore no hood or veil, and Korin could see the thick, intricate black braids looped around her head and face, smell the scent of the spiced oil that made them gleam. The tunnel she led down had a rounded ceiling. It was strange; most of the chambers and tunnels there seemed to have rounded ceilings and no true corners. The tunnels were widest at the floor and curved as the walls rose. There was nothing wrong with that, and in some rock with some sized halls, it would be better, more stable. Still, he was not used to it. He loved the arches and buttresses of Ice-Cloak.

She followed the domed tunnel and came to a stone door, swung it open on its greased hinges, and entered. Korin hesitated in the archway. Seven dwarf-maids or dwarf-wifs sat cross-legged at a long low table, eating in the lamplight. Not a single one wore a veil. They looked past Jet at Korin.

“Friends,” Jet said. “Our guest Strikinghand comes from a colony where they have a queen who rules over them—“ smiles and glances passed between the women ”—and so I did not think he would scruple eating with us.” Jet turned to Korin. “Well, come on,” She pointed to a place at the table. He decided he did not feel hungry, but he saw no way to flee without offering insult or making the situation worse. So, he stepped inside, his heart beating hard, and sat down at the table. Sweat broke out on his forehead. Jet sat down next to him.

“You’re looking flushed again. Are you feeling well?”

“Yes, thank you.“

One of the other dwarf-maids passed him a platter, then a bowl full of some kind of long dark crispy flakes. It was the first of a number of bowls. Some dishes he recognized as animal, though he could not tell what, and some didn’t even appear cooked. He took some of the flakes, put them on his platter, and likewise a little of everything else they passed to him until his platter was covered in the odd assortment of foods. He tried one of the flakes, biting off the end. It had a salty, strange flavor. He was far from sure he liked it, but he was determined to be polite. He chewed and swallowed.

“Seaweed,” Jet said, chewing her own food and watching him. She pointed at a small cube that looked like fat. “Try that.”

Korin knew he was being watched, even though the women acted absorbed in their own conversations and food. He caught their casual glances. He took the cube from his platter and popped it into his mouth. It was cold, and he suspected uncooked. But after the initial shock of the texture, he found it had a robust, gristly flavor that was not unpleasant. He swallowed.

“What is it?”

“The kimgrip you hunted.”

Korin ate another piece of the kimgrip, aware of his chewing as if he hadn’t practiced his whole life. If he was to get any enjoyment from the food, he would need to distract the maids from his eating of it.

“You said it was the lenock who first taught us after the cataclysm?”

“I do not know this word, cataclysm.”

“When the fissure opened and the dwarves climbed up from beneath the world.”

“Ah, we call that the rifting.”

“What did the lenock teach?”

“They taught us to eat seawood, how to harvest salt from the sea, how to fish through the ice to survive the winter. If it weren’t for them, the first dwarves might have died.”

“So you believe the fissure opened up near the sea?”

“Of course. Maybe twelve miles or so. ”

“Wait. Do you know where it is?”

“Yes, at Tukith-i-Ëgla.”

He knew the words; the name meant “the Mouth of Fire.” The word tukith was a strange word in dwarvish, usually meaning mouth but also spirit. Only context determined the sense of its use.

“The what?”

“You must have seen it. It is the mountain to the north that smokes.”

Korin remembered the mountain that looked like it smoked, but he had convinced himself that it was some kind of unusual cloud formation.

“Have you been there?”

“No one goes there. Not for hundreds of years.”

“Why?”

Another voice broke in from behind them:

“Strikinghand.”

Korin turned. Prince Firehelm stood in the doorway. He looked normal, his face bright, not hungover or out of sorts. He wore no helm or mask and his curly red hair fell down to his shoulders. His beard was bound tight in fresh warrior’s braids. Korin rose to his feet.

“Sire,” he said.

“If you’re done eating, I would talk with you.”

Korin nodded, then turned and made a short bow to Jet.

“Thank you,” he said. She waved away his thanks.

Firehelm led him down the rounded tunnel, out through a wide chamber with benches lined up on the sides and pelts piled atop them, then down yet another tunnel. Korin felt relieved to be away from the dwarf-maids, at the same time regretting the loss of Jet’s company. Firehelm came to a stone door, narrow and low, and pushed it open. The round pool of water below the sinkhole lay beyond it, across a roofed courtyard of flagstone. Daylight shone down the sinkhole, bright to Korin’s eyes though the day was heavy with grey clouds. Korin had suspected that Firehelm was leading him back to their companions. Instead, they ducked through the door and walked over to the pool. A series of stone benches sat next to the water. Firehelm settled upon one and motioned for Korin to join him. They sat, as if they were just friends passing time in a familiar place. The pool was dark and deep, with the dim shapes of fish lurking in shadow within.

Firehelm waved at someone. A guard stood near the top of the stairway that led out of the sinkhole, not quite high enough to be visible from the surface. He held one of the long halberds. The haft was twice as thick as the spearhafts of the Prince’s Guard, and the spear-blade was wide, topping an axehead. Korin was sure the thick haft would hold even against a troll. As he so often did, Firehelm seemed to read his mind.

“We will make ourselves such weapons when we return home,” he said.

“That would be wise.”

“And we will bring slingers in plenty when we return here.”

Korin didn’t respond, considering the implications. Firehelm continued:

“They call this place Round-Hold. It is one of a handful of stoneholds beneath the plain.”

“How do they survive the ürsi?”

“They are always on guard, and they keep no herds. They hunt the shore and eat the wild plants and herbs, and fish on the ice in the winter. They are not great in number. I do not know for sure, but I suspect there are not more than two hundred here at Round-Haven.”

Korin nodded. Perhaps that many could survive from hunting alone.

“Will they aid us in our return?”

“I do not yet know. Their leader is called Flintcoat. The healer who tended you is his granddaughter. They welcomed us heartily last night, but nothing would he say of tomorrow.”

“I think they mean to settle such things tonight,” Korin said.

“I suspected that might be the case. Do you remember when I said that you have eyes in your head?”

“Yes.”

“Then tell me what you have learned from the dwarf-maids about this folk and this land.”

“In truth, their ways are different and strange. They have no kings by birth. They have many leaders called chiefs. They do not have miner’s eye, but use an oil to burn lamps.”

“This much I ascertained as well. What have you learned that I have not?”

“They believe that the fissure of the first dwarves lies in the smoking mountain to the north.” This statement drew Firehelm’s gaze away from the pool.

“Intriguing. Do they go there?”

“Jet said they have not in hundreds of years.”

“Well, that is something to ask more about, though most stories are just stories.”

“There is something else,” Korin said. The thought had occurred to him, though somehow it felt wrong and disloyal to say it. Still, his allegiance, his friendship, was to the prince. Firehelm arched an eyebrow.

“The dwarves here may not favor a maid or wif as ruler,” he said. “It seems it is not their custom.” Firehelm smiled ever so slightly.

“Ah, there is the cunning I asked you for.” Firehelm scratched his chest through his beard. “That may be of use.”

16

The Prince's Name

The other Ice-Cloak dwarves did not rise so gracefully or early as Firehelm did. Meadsong looked pale, and Spinner was quiet. Rendjaw just looked angry, though he said not a word. They spent their day honing, cleaning, and re-honing weapons. None of them wore their armor, as it was apparently not the custom to walk armed in the stonehold. Few wore their mail or coats-of-plates in Ice-Cloak, either, but Korin still did not feel safe without it, knowing what prowled in the lands above. He refrained from putting his brigandine back on, though, and Jet was right—it was as clean and greased as he could have hoped. Spinner had kept Korin’s axe and camp knife ready for him, and Korin honed and stropped them three times over that afternoon, his mind emptying with the repeated motions, the texture of stone and steel and leather, the rasping sounds. As for spears, they still had but three.

Though they did not go armed, the dwarves of Round-Hold still wore knives at their belts, so Korin wore his. In the late afternoon, a pair of Round-Hold dwarves came to the door of the guest chamber where the Prince’s Guards worked in silence.

“Greetings, Dimforge and friend,” Firehelm said. Apparently, he had met Dimforge before and remembered his name. Dimforge nodded and spoke:

“Your dwarves are invited to feast in the hall again, tonight.”

“We thank you,” Firehelm said.

“And you are invited to eat privately with Flintcoat,” Dimforge added.

“My captain and I would be pleased to accept that invitation,” Firehelm said. Dimforge hesitated, glanced at Korin, and then nodded.

“If you will come with me, and your dwarves with Coalhand.”

Korin felt ashamed at how pleased he was that Rendjaw was not included, and he had to work not to look over for Rendjaw’s reaction. He certainly did not want to antagonize the dwarf. Something told Korin that Rendjaw would be a foul enemy, and so far they had not come into conflict. With only nine of their number left, they needed to rely on each other more than ever.

Korin followed Dimforge and Firehelm deeper into the tunnels of Round-Hold. The rock was the same dark basalt, and the lack of any miner’s eye made the caves dim, the darkness only broken by the occasional glimmer of an oil lamp. After a time, Dimforge knocked once and swung open a door, letting lamplight pour out into the tunnel. He led Firehelm and Korin inside.

The chamber was obviously a private hold. A low table like the others he’d seen before dominated the center, pelts piled around it. A dwarf with a white beard and wrinkled skin sat on the far side of the table. Korin recognized him from their arrival to Round-Hold, despite the feverish state he’d been in. Leaning over as she set a platter of food onto the table was Jet. Her eyes met Korin’s, and she gave the slightest smile before turning and walking through another door.

The old dwarf did not rise from table but motioned for his guests to sit. Dimforge crossed to the other side and sat near the old one while Korin and Firehelm sat across from them, their backs to the door.

“Thank you, Flintcoat, for the welcome to your hold,” Firehelm said.

“You are welcome here,” Flintcoat answered. “I thought perhaps tonight we could speak more privately. After all, it was not in the memory of my grandfather that strangers arrived in our land.”

“In truth, we did not know this land was inhabited,” Firehelm said.

Jet returned, this time carrying a stone pitcher. She poured into a mug in front of each of the dwarves, steam rising. Korin smelled a bitter tea. There was no heather ale at this table.

“Thank you,” Korin murmured to Jet as she poured his mug. No one else said a word. When she was done, Flintcoat took a platter of cut fatty cubes like those Korin had seen earlier, but a slightly darker color.

“Here,” he said. “Take and eat.” Firehelm reached out first, and then Korin. They each bit into the cubes. This flavor was distinct. The meat was still uncooked, but the sensation was unique, fatty and robust.

“Whale fat,” Flintcoat said. “Beached on the shore last year and kept in the frost. I butchered this myself.”

“Delicious,” Firehelm said. Korin had no idea what a whale was. Flintcoat popped a whole cube into his mouth, his cheek pouching as he spoke.

“It is only once every two or three years we beat the ürsi or trolls to a beaching. We watch the shore for its gifts, and return with them to our haven of stone if we can.”

Korin was thirsty, and he lifted his mug, letting the steam into his beard and nostrils. He sipped, tasting the bitter herb, letting the heat soothe his throat.

“Your hospitality has been most dignified and we thank you for it,” Firehelm said.

“It is our pleasure to repay you for the killing of the trolls at Ravensbeak. They are foul creatures, and to kill them is brave. We honor you for that bravery, and we console you for your losses.”

“Do you not kill trolls?” Firehelm asked. Flintcoat smirked.

“We do—with traps and not with spears.”

That would make much more sense, Korin thought.

Flintcoat leaned forward. He had blue eyes like his granddaughter. They were more watery in his age, but still piercing.

“Now, Firehelm, yours has been an ill trip, and many of your warriors are dead. How many were you, again?”

“Twenty-nine.”

He shook his head. “Never so few. For all your bravery, you should not have come.”

Korin saw the muscles of Firehelm’s jaw flex. He did not respond. Flintcoat studied his face for a moment.

So, the true business had arrived, and the pleasantries past, Korin thought. This was not so different in style from a trade negotiation in Ice-Cloak.

“What I want to know is why have you come?” Flintcoat asked.

“Our mountain was settled by Brokenspear, a great warrior. My mother was a great warrior, too, in her youth, and she became queen after him. She reigns still under the mountain.”

Flintcoat and Dimforge exchanged a glance.

“But my mother is dying,” Firehelm went on. “My sister was to take her place by my mother’s wish, but she is a healer and no warrior—” Korin couldn’t help but catch Jet’s eye as she re-entered the room with a steaming bowl. She gave no hint of a reaction. “—and our valleys are raided every year by a horde of ürsi. This has gone on for decades. I came to spy out their den, so that I may return with an army, put an end to their depredations, and give my folk a warrior to follow.”

“It is fitting for a dwarf-maid to be a healer,” Flintcoat said. “And for a warrior to lead his folk.” Korin saw Jet’s jaw flex beneath her braids as she left the chamber, and then he realized he should not stare at her every move. Flintcoat waved a hand vaguely. “And sometimes an old dwarf who knows the ways of the folk.” He grinned. “Such is what often becomes of young warriors who live over long.” Firehelm inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“As for your search for the ürsi den, that is easily answered. The ürsi live in the Tukith-i-Ëgla—” the Mouth of Fire “—where they keep warm through the winters and eat the rancid meat they hunt during the warm moons. And when that runs out, each other. But for every one dwarf-child there are a score of ürsi spawned.”

Korin turned his head to Firehelm.

“That is the mountain where they believe the fissure lies,” he said.

“This is true,” Flintcoat said. “The fissure lies within the mountain.”

“And the ürsi are why you have not returned there in so long?”

Flintcoat popped another cube of whale fat into his mouth.

“Not since even before the ürsi came.”

“The ürsi have not always tormented these lands?” Firehelm asked.

“Oh, no. They were not unheard of, but they came swarming here in the days of my father nigh unto four hundred years ago. They used to dwell more in the mountains to the south and east.”

Korin and Firehelm exchanged glances. That was the time of the Ürsi Wars, when the colonies joined together and drove the creatures out of their mountains, destroying the dens. Ürsi had been unknown since then in the Grashal-Indal and even in the Kara-Indal east of Ice-Cloak.

“And yet you survive. You are a strong folk.”

“It has grown harder. The herds of caribou the ürsi scatter, and the great mammoths come to the plain no more. But a thousand years ago we had already dwelt here long. The plain is undercut by tunnels and shafts. We can travel secret ways the ürsi know not.”

“Tell me, can these secret ways aid us?” Firehelm asked.

“Your cause seems worthy. We can lead you ways beneath the stone to the forest. From there, you must climb the mountains on your own.” He sighed. “But the ürsi still hunt the south, and they will until the snows fall. You will not easily cross the mountains in the snows.”

“We will do what we must, but I am loath to wait until the snowfall. I must see to the welfare of my folk beneath the mountain.”

“Then I fear you may not return to your mountain at all.”

“Now that I know of this Mouth of Fire, our goal is met. We have but to return to our folk. My destiny is strong enough. I will make it through.”

Flintcoat narrowed his eyes to slits of blue.

“Yes. I do believe there is a destiny on you. That much is true.”

“In the meantime,” Firehelm said, looking cheerful again. “I would like to know more of this mountain that smokes and where the ürsi make their den.”

“I am surprised your folk have forgotten, for all dwarven kind climbed to the surface from the rift in the Mouth of Fire.”

Firehelm smiled. Korin took another long sip from his mug of tea.

“It is an old story,” Firehelm said. “Nor have I ever thought it much more than that.”

Flintcoat frowned, his brow wrinkling even more.

“It is no falsehood, young one. We are folk of long memory. The rifting is there. Granddaughter!”

Jet appeared from the other chamber.

“Bring me the ore.”

Now Jet frowned, but she passed through yet another arched door and returned moments later carrying a small leather bag. She did not leave, standing to watch from behind her grandfather’s shoulder.

“It was Harlong, my grandfather’s grandfather, who entered the Mouth of Fire and brought back this piece of living ore. The story is true.” Flintcoat opened the pouch and dropped a nugget onto the stone table. It fell and did not bounce, resting there amid the platters of food.

It was a small nugget that could fit easily in the palm of the hand, but it was a metal ore unlike anything Korin had seen. On the surface, it had an almost oily blue sheen, but as Korin looked, he could have sworn that the metal changed, moved maybe. Perhaps it was just the play of its unsmelted multitude of facets. Within the ore, he started to detect a faint orange glow, like an ember. He couldn’t take his gaze away. No one spoke. Firehelm reached toward the nugget, but Flintcoat darted his hand and snatched it up, slipping it back into the bag and tucking it into his shirt.

“Is there more such?” Firehelm asked, staring at Flintcoat’s bosom.

“When my grandfather passed this down to me, he told me that there are wonders beneath the mountain beyond anything imagining. He said the dîrthna lies within.”

“The dîrthna?”

“Do you not know any of the history?” He seemed annoyed, now. Korin didn’t recognize the word at all. Flintcoat’s accent and pronunciations were just as difficult as Jet’s or any of the others’ to understand.

“I have never heard of a dîrthna.”

“The dwarves lived beneath the world, among the pillars made of living ore. There, the power of the ore filled them, and they needed neither food nor drink, but smelted and fashioned the living ore to their hearts’ desires, and the treasures they made we cannot now fathom.”

“All this I know. Then the cataclysm, and the rift, and we climbed to the surface.”

“Ay, yes,” Flintcoat waved his hand. “But there, in the Mouth of Fire, they wrought wonders of the living metal still. They brought with them the secrets of its smelting and crafting and engraved the knowledge with living runes upon the great dîrthna.”

“Is there some secret to smelting it, then?” Firehelm asked. “Could you not smelt this now?”

“Three times in my life I have tried to smelt this ore.” He patted his chest. “In the hottest fires I tried, and never did it soften. No, no. Only the lore of the deep can forge the living metal. The skill-magic brought forth from the fissure by the first dwarves.

“Magic?” Korin asked, speaking for only the second time. He couldn’t suppress a smirk. “They say elves believe in such things. We believe in fire and tongs.” He looked over at Firehelm, expecting to share his mirth with the prince, but he saw a different light in those emerald eyes. Flintcoat ignored Korin, scowling.

“Then why did no one return to the Mouth of Fire? Why did no one take this dîrthna?” Firehelm asked.

Jet laughed like the ringing of silver.

“Grandfather, if we’re going to tell all these fables, don’t leave out the dragon. I’m sure the brave warriors will hurry off to slay it and claim the dîrthna for themselves.” She laughed again. In that moment, Korin was more impressed with her than the ore tucked away in Flintcoat’s bosom.

Flintcoat frowned, his mustache and beard dipping at the edges, and his eyes narrowed. He did not turn to look at Jet.

“My granddaughter is a willful maid,” he said. She snorted. This whole discussion seemed absurd to Korin. The mountain was full of ürsi anyway, or it would be in the winter. They would have ransacked any relics long ago, and certainly they wouldn’t cozy up to a dragon.

“Dragons aren’t real,” Korin said. “They make for good songs. Meadsong sings one. But they’re not true.”

“The Mouth of Fire is a deadly place. Why do you think it smokes? Once in a generation, it spews fire and ash. Then winter swallows summer. It did so last just over a hundred years ago. Still, not all the ürsi died. They hunted far south that spring, but they returned.”

“And you think a dragon did it?”

“Many things that aren’t real may be true enough,” Flintcoat said. Korin raised an eyebrow. Magic and dragons. Living runes. Fissures leading beneath the world. Actually, he wasn’t sure about that last one. He’d always just accepted the cataclysm. But there was no reason to believe the rift lay in a mountain a handful of miles away.

Flintcoat saw Korin’s incredulous expression.

“Magic makes myth grow bones, lad. What was only felt forms flesh. Spirits don’t die, though they be patient. My grandfather’s grandfather stared into the heart of it. He told us of it, and forbade any of his kin to return.”

“Good host, the night is long,” said Firehelm. “If it pleases you, do us the honor of telling us about this dragon.”

Korin felt ashamed in that moment. He had antagonized their host while Firehelm carried himself with dignity.

Flintcoat looked back to Firehelm.

“There is not much to tell. The dragon guards the fissure still. That is why the dwarves never returned to the great deep and the living ores, but have roamed the surface, digging in the shallows where the ore is dead.”

“And why does the dragon not devour the ürsi?” Jet interjected again. “Or do they taste too foul?” Korin was glad that she said it and not him. At least she showed a healthy skepticism.

“Maid!” Flintcoat shouted. “Is there no work to do? Or must you insult your grandfather before his guests?” She laughed again and left the chamber. Flintcoat folded his arms over his beard. “Never would I have spoken so to my grandfather.”

Korin was surprised at Jet’s libertine behavior. He was blushing, in fact, but he also had a feeling Flintcoat had never done much about his granddaughter’s tongue besides complain.

“And you are sure there is more of this living ore beneath the mountain?” Firehelm asked.

“There is no question.”

When Firehelm and Korin at length departed from Flintcoat’s stonehold, they returned to the door of the guest chamber, needing no guide now that they had walked the tunnels. The noise of the raucous feast echoed down the drifts. The rest of the Prince’s Guard and the dwarves of Round-Hold drank, ate, sang and talked in the feast hall for a second night.

“Should we join them?” Korin asked.

“I’d rather not. Let them enjoy themselves. You can if you want, but I’d prefer a quieter evening than the last.”

Korin nodded. The thought of drinking himself to stupor had its appeal, but then, he would rather stay with the prince. They entered the guest chamber. Nine pallets of furs lay within for them, and each dwarf’s kit was set out at the foot of a pallet in good order. With so little to do during the day, the dwarves had organized, reorganized, honed, and cleaned to redundancy. They’d have labored for their hosts out of boredom, given the opportunity.

From a small pouch at his belt, Firehelm removed his curved pipe and packed it with hill-smoke. He lit it from the flickering oil lamp, then pulled off his boots and sat down on his pallet. Sighing, he leaned his back against the stone wall and took a deep pull of smoke. A cloud poured out of his mouth and nostrils. Korin chuckled.

“What?” Firehelm asked.

“I didn’t know you’d saved it.” Out of all that had been lost and destroyed, Firehelm still had his pipe.

“It is my last hill-smoke. I may as well enjoy it now. From here on out, it will be truly rugged living.” He grinned, cradling the pipe bowl in his hand.

“Hopefully there will be more to be had in Ice-Cloak when we return,” Korin said. The prince nodded.

“Do you look forward to returning? Do you miss your uncle?”

Korin thought about that. He had thought little about being back at Ice-Cloak, although he wouldn’t mind some honey mead and a soak in the hot spring. Mostly, he wanted them all to get there alive. He wasn’t sure he could handle any more lost shield-brothers, but any fight likely to kill one was likely to kill all of them. As for his uncle?

“I do want to return,” Korin said.

“Do not worry, we will get you home to your uncle. This I know in my heart.”

“My uncle did not wish me to join your guard.”

Firehelm smirked.

“A loss for him, but a gain for me. My right arm! Many who love us wish us to live safe lives, never stirring from our hold and never accomplishing glory. We cannot hate them for it, but we cannot be held down by bonds of love anymore than by bonds of fear. It is our duty and our destiny to make Ice-Cloak the greatest mountain of all. You and I will not die at the hands of ürsi or trolls.”

Korin cocked his head to the side. Firehelm spoke as if he knew, beyond doubt, that this was true, and his expression was one of utmost confidence, even complaisance. Up to then, Korin had thought all the prince’s talk of destiny was some kind of figurative speech. Who could know their destiny? But now he wondered if the prince truly believed he could not fail, could not die in some gully trying to cross the mountains again.

“Is there such a thing as a destiny so strong?”

“What is stronger?” Firehelm asked. He leaned forward, his green eyes—so much like his mother’s—glimmering in the oil light. “Some are born and never taste destiny. Theirs are weak hearts, lives lived groping in the dead ground. Others taste only their destiny, and for them the rock lives. I have known this from childhood, and I have tasted of my destiny, and it is strong. If you don’t believe in your own destiny, fear not, for I have chosen you as my captain and friend, and I will drag you along with me in the shelter of my own.” He watched Korin’s face. The seriousness of his expression parted in a smile.

“Do not fear, Strikinghand. I do not speak this way to just anyone. But I believe that you are ready to hear it. And there’s something else I want to tell you.”

Korin waited.

“My name is Ëglaszledum.”

Korin was stunned. The prince had just told him his hidden name. Few dwarves ever shared their name apart from husband and wives. Parents knew their children’s names, of course, and sometimes closest siblings shared such. Only Korin’s uncle knew his true name. But now, the prince had told him his. It was a sign of deepest intimacy and truest trust. Korin felt the heat of a blush on his face.

“I. . . I—” he stammered. In the ancient fashion of dwarven naming, the prince’s name meant “the flame at the heart of the mountain.”

“Yes, my brother. You are my brother, now. My brother. My father and mother gave me this name. They must have known in their hearts of my destiny even then, when my bones knit together in the womb.”

The prince had told him his name. No one just did that. Korin wasn’t sure he wanted to share his own, but what choice did he have? Could he so disrespect the prince?

“I am Korin,” he said. Firehelm smiled.

“Protector. See, we were meant to be brothers, and you my captain. You protect the fire at the heart of our folk.”

Korin stared. Could such things be? Did destiny move with such force on the lives of those beneath the stone? In that moment, Korin glimpsed a reality he had never conceived of before. Something bigger than himself, bigger than any dwarf. Something grand. And the prince was at the heart of it.

17

Fool's Errand

Their companions staggered in late, waking Korin with thunderous drunken whispers. He had fallen quickly, still tired from his recovery, and he awoke disoriented. Meadsong hummed as he tried to find his pallet, his voice deep and throaty. Korin rolled over and pulled a pelt over his head.

The next morning, he again roused before the revelers, but Firehelm had already left the chamber. Korin found the prince sitting in the large feasting hall with Dimforge and Flintcoat. They were deep in discussion.

“I have nothing to pay you with now, but I will return to this land, and when I do we will burn away the plague of ürsi like dross.”

“It would take hundreds, maybe a thousand warriors.”

“I have them,” Firehelm said.

“Is your mountain truly so great?” Dimforge asked.

“Yes. Soon, I will be king under the mountain. I shall return and in payment for these few halberds, you shall see your foes slaughtered.”

“You are brave, that I will admit. You shall have halberds for your warriors. I hope they see you safely to your home,” Flintcoat said. He raised his palm. “I give them with an open hand. I ask nothing in return. They are a gift. May they serve you well.”

“Your generosity will not be forgotten.”

“We are dwarves. We can make more halberds. We must support our own in this wide and cruel world. Though you speak strangely, you are our kin, however far removed.”

Flintcoat looked up at Korin, and Firehelm turned to follow his gaze.

“Strikinghand,” he said. “We must prepare our guards to depart. We leave this afternoon. We will journey under stone as far as may be.”

Korin nodded. He did not relish the idea of facing ürsi again, but they could not linger for no reason on the hospitality of Round-Hold. Firehelm turned back to Flintcoat.

“Now, there is one other thing. This heather ale. I want to know the secret of its making.”

Flintcoat leaned back and crossed his arm.

“That you will not learn,” he said.

And despite Firehelm’s prodding and wheedling, promising and flattering, he did not learn that secret.

They let the others sleep off their ale for a while longer. There was truly not much to do. Their arms and armor were as cared for as could be. Korin’s new clothes of supple hide were warmer and more durable than the cloth he had worn from Ice-Cloak. The others had patched and mended their garments and re-plaited and oiled their braids with care. They grumbled as they awoke at midday. Rendjaw looked angry again. Meadsong held his head. Spinner alone spoke in full voice and Hefter threw a boot at him, telling him to hold his clarion tongue. But it was the work of moments to don mail and brigandines. In the armament, they looked warriors again, only waiting the donning of mask and helm.

Four Round-Hold dwarves entered the chamber, carrying long hide-wrapped bundles in pairs. They laid them on the stone and unwrapped halberds greased for storage. Their hafts were stout, the hewing spears long and grim, fashioned of blued steel. Their axeheads curved into three waved teeth and a tapered hooking beard. They were heavier weapons than their former spears by far, but in a fight with a troll, Korin knew which he would prefer. The axeheads gave more modes of attack as well.

All the guards picked up a halberd to test the weight and balance.

“Just make sure no one stabs their fellow,” Firehelm said as eight dwarves tried to get a feel for the weapons in the chamber. “Any wounded here get left behind.”

“I wouldn’t mind so much to stay in the care of that healer,” Bronzedelver said with a smirk. Korin blushed in irritation, though such a comment was not unusual for a group of unwed young dwarves. He did not respond, just lifted his halberd, feeling its weight distribution. It would be nearly impossible to use one-handed. They would have to wear their shields strapped to their arms.

The shields were fashioned with two straps and a handle, and the straps could suffice if the hand was needed. It meant less control of the shield, less safety, but then, nine were too few to form an effective shieldwall against hundreds of ürsi. If a pack found them above ground, especially in the woods or plain, then it would be brutal, vicious, and short. But give them rock to the sides, to their back, and they could give such an account of themselves as would be worth one of Meadsong’s ballads.

The Round-Hold dwarves who delivered the halberds departed, and Firehelm casually walked to the entrance and swung the stone door closed. He turned to his dwarves.

“My brave guards. Today we leave.”

Instinctively, the guards set their halberds butt-down on the ground, listening attentively to their prince. “You have shown your mettle. You have proven your courage beyond any doubt. Most of you have bled for me, for each other, and for our mountain home. I am proud.”

The dwarves took deep breaths, their chests swelling. Even Korin felt pride.

“You deserve to go home to be welcomed as heroes. We have learned what we came to learn. We know the location of the ürsi den.”

“Where?” Spinner asked. “How?”

Firehelm held up a hand.

“Last night, Flintcoat shared with us the location. The ürsi winter in the smoking mountain north of the plain that these folk call the Mouth of Fire.”

“We did it,” Meadsong muttered, a smile on his face and a shake of his head. The others were smiling, too, even the ones who looked the most affected by the night’s toasts. Their journey had not been in vain. Now, all they had to do was bear home the knowledge they’d won. The blood of the fallen would be avenged a thousand fold.

“But my guards, my friends, we do not go home yet.”

Korin frowned. What? The other guards shifted their weight. A few looked around.

“We go north. To the Mouth of Fire.”

It was Spinner again who spoke:

“What? To the ürsi den? Why?”

The smiles faded, replaced by furrowed brows and glances of confusion.

“Flintcoat showed me living ore. Living ore, like our ancestors wrought beneath the world, but the secreting of its working is hidden within the mountain. I have seen the ore with my own eyes, and so has Strikinghand.”

All eyes turned to Korin.

“Is it true?” Meadsong asked.

“Do not doubt the prince,” Korin answered. “I have seen it.”

Firehelm nodded to Korin, a twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Korin still had no idea why they would go to the mountain.

“Why now?” It was Rendjaw this time. He still looked annoyed from his hangover, and his tone had an edge. “We can return with an army. With the ürsi gone we can mine all we want. We could build a road from home.”

A few of the others murmured agreement.

“There may be no army,” Firehelm said. “But you few have joined in my destiny, and all of you will sit in seats of authority in days to come. Your courage and loyalty will not be forgotten. Even the families of our dead will be honored for their sacrifice.”

“Why would there be no army?” Spinner asked.

“Because not all have your faith. We will return home and speak of what we have seen. But not all have hearts that burn with forge-fire like you who stand before me. There are cravens aplenty beneath the mountain who would ask why I should rule, why they should bow the knee. They will ask why they should march north. Build strongholds in the gaps, they will say. Let the ürsi have the northern slopes. Will they believe our tale of living ore?”

“Such are cowards, and they won’t speak for the rest,” Bronzedelver said.

“Yes, they are cowards. But cowards can be loud. Never has a king been born to rule in Ice-Cloak. My mother was not born queen, nor Brokenspear king. It was earned. If you have not heard the talk that the folk should decide, then you have not been listening. Many loved my sister and would still see her rule.”

“Keyhand relinquished her claim,” Spinner said. “In front of the council. She said she will heal the mountain like Bonesetter, not rule like Queen Jade.”

“Your courage is unquestionable,” Korin said. He found the idea hard to fathom. “Maybe we cannot return next year. But in time, when your reign is settled, no one will gainsay you. You have already accomplished a feat no one has before. We’ve found the den!”

Firehelm frowned, turning his face away, and Korin felt the rebuke.

“If we go north, now, we may never return,” Rendjaw said. “And then you will never be king.”

“My destiny will carry me through. Of this I have no doubt.”

“What about the rest of us?” Meadsong asked. Firehelm’s eyes narrowed.

“You have sworn an oath,” he said, edge creeping into his tone. “You must learn now that there are times when you obey, even if you don’t agree. Destiny has made me prince.”

Meadsong shifted. He glanced at Tar, but the other dwarf didn’t return the glance. Meadsong lowered his gaze to the ground.

“We found the den. We’ve accomplished our purpose. Why die now? Return triumphant with an army.” It was Rendjaw again, and Korin felt he was right. By the expressions of the others, they likely did too. It didn’t seem to mean anything to Firehelm.

“And what of those who will doubt the tales of strange dwarves far away? But if we return with ore. The living ore that I have seen with my own eyes, the ore of legend worked by our ancestors, and with the knowledge of how to smelt it. Then I will have accomplished something unparalleled, and the people will see a prince indeed, beyond any birthright, who brings legends home. The tale will travel on the wing from colony to colony and mine to mine.” Firehelm’s voice burned with passion, and he held his hand out in a fist, as if grasping the future by sheer will. To Korin, it seemed crazy. But how could the prince’s captain, his friend, contradict him before his warriors? Korin wanted to go home. But he couldn’t go home by betrayal. It was unthinkable. His hands trembled all the way to his shoulders.

“It’s certain death,” Rendjaw said, shaking his head.

“But don’t you see? With just nine, we can move faster, quieter.”

“But, but—” Spinner looked around, searching for a way out. Korin couldn’t stand to look at the confusion and despair on his face. So he chose another face to look at—Rendjaw’s, with his narrowed eyes and defiant set of jaw.

“I will go with the prince,” Korin said. He raised his hands as they shook in front of him, showing them. “Look at me. I will go with the prince to the Mouth of Fire. I of all dwarves.”

At that, only Rendjaw continued to stare forward, his face red, his jaw clenched. Firehelm looked at Korin, his lips pressed tight together. It seemed to Korin that he blinked away water from the corners of his eyes. Even if it was a fool’s errand, this was his prince and his friend, something grander than Korin had ever expected from life. Perhaps destiny could be known.

“I am not a merciful dwarf,” Firehelm said. “I do what I believe is right, and I do not turn to right or left. But this I will allow. If you do not have the will for this hero’s task, then beg these Round-Hold dwarves that you may stay here. Perhaps their maids will feed you. Or flee south to the mountains. I go north.”

Even Rendjaw looked down, now. The guards stood still, their faces set, halberd butts firm on the stone at their feet. Firehelm waited for a few moments, and when he spoke again, his tone had changed. It glowed again with fire, like a kiln lay deep in his gut.

“Fear not my brave ones. If I return with living ore and the knowledge of its working, then the colonies will flock to us. The old families who held our forebeards under their ironshod heels will bow to us. Ice-Cloak will reign for ten thousand years. When my helm is alight with living ore, the dwarves will know one king. This is the destiny for which I was born. It is your destiny, my true guards, to aid me. I will need help to govern the world of dwarves.”

Firehelm paused again, waiting for his words to take root. Korin could see it. The old colonies of Iron-Deep, Red-Vein, Spired Rock and the rest, coming to marvel in supplication beneath Ice-Cloak. Such songs would be sung of them.

“Do any abandon me, now? After all we have suffered together?”

It was a deft maneuver, Korin knew. Instead of making the dwarves say they would go on this deadly errand, Firehelm would make them say that they abandoned him. And none did. None spoke.

“I had no fear, my friends. We are warriors of Ice-Cloak. The hammer of destiny has forged our souls together and has given us this chance to claim glory. This I vow. I will return home. Remain at my side.”

In their grim warmasks and helms, the guards filed into the feasting hall of Round-Hold. Flintcoat and Dimforge waited there, and Korin was pleased to see Jet, her braided plaits falling to her shoulders, now, but just as intricate and lustrous. On a trestle table lay nine small packs.

“My granddaughter has prepared food for your trip,” Flintcoat said. “And Dimforge will lead you by old ways to the southern edge of the plain. From there, you can seek the mountain passes.”

“Your surpassing generosity is received gratefully. But a change of plans is necessary. We need Dimforge to take us north instead. As close to the Mouth of Fire as can be.”

The guards’ faces were hidden behind warmasks, but the Round-Hold dwarves had no means to disguise their surprise.

“What do you mean, north?” Flintcoat asked. “Why would you go there?”

“To prove to our folk that your word is true,” Firehelm replied. “To show them the ore that you showed me.”

“You cannot go to the north,” Dimforge said. In all the counsels, he had remained quiet, but this had broken his reticence. “You cannot go to the mountain. Even now, many ürsi remain there. Stay and live, or go south and risk the mountains. Maybe one of you will return to tell the tale. But you cannot go north.”

“I am the prince of my folk,” Firehelm said. “And I have made my own mind.”

“You aren’t a prince, here,” Jet answered, her jaw set firm and an edge in her tone.

“Be hospitable!” her grandfather said.

“He is fed.” She turned to Flintcoat. “They are healed. They have been twice drunk. See my hospitality? Is being deceived hospitable?” She turned back to Firehelm, making a short mock bow.

“It was wise to come into this land with a paltry band of warriors seeking vainglory. Your so-called prince-hood in a far mountain means your word bears more weight than any other under the stone. There. Do you like my lies? Do you feel welcomed?” Her face was flushed like the reflection of fire in marble.

“Maid, leave! Now!” her grandfather shouted, slamming a fist on the table.

Korin watched her leave. She should not have treated the prince so, but he could not desire her gone. When he glanced at Firehelm, he too had flushed with anger.

“I wish I could say that her mother and her grandmother were much different.” Flintcoat held up placating hands. “That, too, would be a lie. Tactless as she may be, she isn’t wrong. This land cares not for title or dignity, but for fat and heat and stone and blood. Our folk have lived here for a hundred generations. Our knees are stiff and do not bend. It is not wise to go north.”

“Your knees may not bend, but neither does our will. We go. Will you take us as far as you can beneath the stone? Out of your noble generosity?”

Flintcoat sighed and waved a hand in assent. Dimforge looked from the elder dwarf to Firehelm.

“I will not set foot above the stone for you,” he said. “Not on a fool’s errand.”

“Take us as far as you will.”

Korin wished he could have thanked Jet properly for her care and healing. The swelling in his face had dissipated. He barely noticed the wound, now. She did not reemerge as they slung their packs of food across their backs and followed Dimforge deeper into the tunnels of Round-Hold. Up to that point, all of Round-Hold had been on a single plane, level with the bottom of the sinkhole and close enough to the surface that plentiful vents accommodated the smoke from the oil lamps and fires. Now, Dimforge led them down a drift that ended at a massive stone door. He swung it open, aided by chains.

The door was at least two feet thick and solid basalt. Beyond it, a stair descended deeper into the stone. At the bottom of that stair, the tunnels were not like Round-Hold. They were old rough-cut mining shafts with evidence of cave-ins and ancient bracing. They’d been kept clear enough for dwarves to pass single file. Dimforge led them confidently enough, but he did not hurry, and their only light was from a hanging lamp he carried. Korin saw evidence of old workshops and even some abandoned habitations. They passed a small flow of water and a rotted waterwheel.

The stonework was strange to him, more similar to the work of Round-Hold than Ice-Cloak. The dwarves back home favored vaults and linear geometric patterns for their delvings, but they strove to keep natural cavern walls and ceilings unmarred by chisel as much as possible. Sure, they polished mineral deposits in the cavern walls and propagated the luminescent miner’s eye fungi, but here Korin saw the use of extensive masonry to line chambers and tunnels that favored curved shapes—round columns, curved backs. Compared to some workings he saw as they moved north through the tunnels, the ruins of Ravensbeak were simple. There the polished basalt walls had been left mostly natural. In the tunnels where Dimforge led them, they witnessed imposing examples of masonry encasement.

Once, there must have been many more dwarves than now dwelt in the plain. He wondered what had happened to them all. Had they just kept changing locations within the plain, or migrated away, or had disaster befallen? He had time to wonder about all these things. They passed stairs and shafts and drifts in other directions. Dimforge led them ever northward—even underground, a dwarf rarely lost his sense of cardinal direction, and it seemed Dimforge had come this way before. They made some turnings, some changes of drift, connecting to other tunnels. At times, they traversed long stretches between any other sign of workings. Flintcoat could not have lied about how long the dwarves had dwelled beneath the basin-plain.

Their progress was steady, if not rapid. Korin estimated they had come nearly ten miles. He wasn’t sure how close Round-Hold had been to the northern hills. It must have been late evening when they reached what looked like the remains of a small colony or mine, with connecting drifts and chamber doors and even a pillared hall. Dimforge led them through until they reached an archway and beyond it a staircase leading up. Korin smelled fresh air.

Without a word, Dimforge climbed. The stairway drove at a steep angle through the rock. Beneath his mask, Korin sweated. He still felt weak, but he refused to show it. He wondered how far the stair could climb, though. They should have reached the surface already, if his sense of the stone was true, but they kept climbing.

They reached a narrow landing where three dwarves might stand abreast. Dimforge grasped a long iron lever in the rock, pulled, and a thick stone slab slid outward with a low grind. Cool night air rushed into the cavern.

Dimforge motioned them out of the door. Firehelm led the way, then Korin and the other seven. They had walked out the side of an outcrop of basalt, and to the south, he could see the shadowy basin-plain below. He realized why they had climbed so high on the stairs; they had passed under the ridge to the north of the basin and climbed up through it, far higher than the surface of the plain.

“I have brought you this far,” Dimforge said. “If any of you survive to return, do not try this path. The door does not open from the outside.” With that, Dimforge ducked back into the basalt and Korin heard the same grinding noise. The slab swung shut in the rock, leaving barely a seam. Hefter ran a finger across the joint and grunted. Even by sight Korin could see it was an unusually close fit.

18

The Nest

“Should we camp here for the night?” Korin asked.

“No.” Firehelm shook his head. “We cover as much ground as we can until we are under stone.”

“The ürsi den is under stone,” Tar said.

“But what ürsi? Their best hunters and fighters went south. There will be females and young.”

Korin wondered if the ürsi had females.

“He could have left it cracked,” Hefter said, still looking at the closed door in the outcrop.

“One day,” Firehelm answered, “I’ll have it left open for you, Hefter.”

“I doubt these snow dwarves would like it,” Meadsong muttered. It was the first time Korin had heard them called that, but he guessed it fit.

“These people may say what they will, but when we march and destroy the ürsi, Ice-Cloak will rule these holds and all the rock from the Chamber of Waters to the Mouth of Fire.”

“I don’t think they would agree to being ruled,” Meadsong said.

“Kings do not make requests.”

Korin couldn’t see Firehelm’s face, not in the dark of night beneath his mask and helm. But the prince’s voice sounded low and stern. Korin was eager to kill ürsi, and if he had to, he would defend Ice-Cloak from other dwarves as Brokenspear had done. Yet he couldn’t imagine forcing Flintcoat to kneel. But that was a future he did not have the luxury to contemplate.

The night was starry, with plenty enough light to move by. A narrow cloud rose dark from the mountain and a strange light glowed near the peak. He thought of the story of the dragon. It was nonsense, surely. But he knew his eyes did not deceive him. There was a glow, and the faintest hint of sulfur on the air. Rendjaw was looking north, too.

“It’s a big mountain,” he said. “Do we know where the adit is?”

“We will find all in time,” Firehelm replied. Rendjaw glanced at the other guards but said nothing. “We move now in silence,” Firehelm continued. “And quickly.”

They marched in single file. The terrain was far more rugged than the basalt basin. Whereas lichen, moss, and sparse grasses had covered the plain, these ridges were sharp and bare, obsidian gleaming dull in the starlight. The dark rock made walking more difficult, but Firehelm pressed on as fast as he could.

They were quite near—perhaps ten miles by the wing of a crow to the snub-peak of the mountain. But if Korin had to guess, the adit, or adits, would be even nearer, before the long slope of the mountain itself. Then again, the adit could be on the north side, and that meant they would not reach it that night. The longer they remained above ground, the greater their danger. If they did not reach an adit by daylight, they would have to find somewhere to lie low and out of sight, hoping any passing ürsi did not catch their scent. The wind blew from the west again, from the sea, chill and strong.

A mile passed, and then another, the rock rising all the while. Behind them and far below, the basin lay deep in shadow. The rocks here looked as if neither wind nor water had done much to smooth them. Korin wondered at it, but he had no time to examine as they scrabbled over the rough ridges. The mountain loomed high before them, the smell of sulfur grew stronger, and a gleam as of fire reflected on the pillar of smoke rising from the snub-topped peak. Despite Firehelm’s command for silence, Korin heard a few mumbling conversations among the dwarves behind him, as well as low curses as they climbed the rough stone.

Korin glanced to the eastern sky. Was it getting lighter? Yes. It must be. Morning was coming, and still they pressed northward, slower now as the ridges and folds of rock grew tall toward the base of the long mountain slope. At the top of one such fold, a foul smell smacked Korin in the face.

“Ugh,” he grunted. The first thing he noticed was simply the foulness, and then he smelled ürsi. He crouched, trying to make a low profile on the rise. The others did the same.

“What is that?” Meadsong asked. There was a low depression in front of them, but he meant the smell.

“There are ürsi there,” Korin whispered.

“Smells like shit,” Rendjaw said, too loudly.

The others, including Firehelm, stayed crouched on the hill, but it was a bad spot, framed against the sky behind them. Fine, Korin thought. He slunk forward, then slid down into the depression beyond. His boots landed in something soft, and the smell erupted around him even stronger. Oh no. . .

“I think its a latrine.” He turned to climb back up. He felt the smell enveloping him, and he struggled for footing in the slick muck.

“A latrine?” Firehelm asked. “There’s probably an adit here somewhere, then.”

“Who knew ürsi cared?” Meadsong muttered.

“An adit is likely to take us right into the midst of them,” Korin said, kicking and shaking muck from his boots. Firehelm nodded and paused.

“We need to get underground.”

“Do we even know if the ürsi nest is in the same part of the mountain as the fissure?” Korin asked.

“If it’s anything like the basin, this whole area should be undercut with delvings. Odds are, the ürsi moved into what was already here.”

“They’ll smell us the moment we enter their caves.”

“Better roll in the shit,” Spinner said, and chuckled at his own joke. But Firehelm and Korin turned to look at him, then at each other.

“The Ridgewards cover themselves in mud.” Korin knew the ürsi would need prodigious noses to detect them under the reek of that latrine.

“I am not rolling in ürsi shit,” Rendjaw said. “I’d rather die clean.”

“Ay,” Bronzedelver and Hefter chimed in unison.

“I’m going to be sick.” Tar pressed his shield down into the old piss and shit of the latrine. It was the compromise. Shields and boots covered in ürsi filth may give them some cover at least. Tar was the last to comply. Stoutarm still cursed under his breath.

“This is not the glorious warrior’s life I wanted,” Spinner said.

“The songs always said the warriors were covered in the blood of their enemies,” Meadsong said. “Not . . . this.”

“You’ll just have to compose a new song,” Tar said. “Maybe, ‘down into the ürsi pit, bold warriors covered in ürsi shit—”

“Keep it down or I’ll stuff your mouths with it,” Firehelm cut him off. “We’ve got to find the tunnel now without letting them hear us either.” More quietly so only Korin could hear, he muttered: “I hope this makes a difference.”

Korin wasn’t sure it would, but then, he didn’t want to die, either, and so he’d take any advantage. The sky lightened in the east more swiftly, now. It would be dawn in another half an hour.

“How do we search for the adit?” he asked, and then stopped still. Nearby, he heard garbled voices. The others did, too. On instinct, Korin moved toward the sound. As he did, he saw a narrow shadow in the ground ten yards away. The voices came from within, drawing closer. There was no question—they were ürsi. Grey hands reached upward, grasped the edges of the rock by the hole, and a torso slid out. The creature gibbered as it scrabbled the rest of its body out of the hole, followed immediately by a second. The other ürsi was half-out when the first saw Korin, but the halberd was already swinging. It tried to duck, but the upper half of its head parted at the blow. A quick return and thrust, and the torso of the second fell back into the hole. Korin waited to hear shrieks beneath, but there was no other noise beside the growing wind. The other dwarves gathered around.

“Throw this one in the latrine,” Korin said. Then, he handed Firehelm his halberd, unstrapped his filthy shield, and drew his knife. The edges of the hole were rough-hewn obsidian scored with crude tool marks. The ürsi had made this hole, undoubtedly.

He grabbed the edges of the rock and lowered his body down, feeling for the ground beneath. He found grooves cut into the edge for climbing, but they were too narrow for his hands and boots. He peered down, caught a glimpse of the rock below, and let himself drop. It was only six inches further. As soon as his feet touched, he turned with knife at the ready, but there was nothing but the other ürsi body there. Ahead was a stairway, well-carved though worn. The stairway was not the work of ürsi. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that an intrusion of hardened obsidian had blocked the stair’s path up to the surface. The obsidian looked like it had flowed and cooled atop the stairs, blocking it off. The ürsi had hacked an exit through the intrusion after it had formed. Korin had always believed that the cataclysm had made such rock formations, but that could not be the case here. The stair had come first. Past the remains of the obsidian intrusion, it was wide enough for three dwarves to descend abreast. The whole place stank.

He grabbed the ürsi’s body and pushed it upward toward the hole. Dwarven hands grabbed it and pulled it out.

“Is all well?” Firehelm whispered down.

“It’s clear. Come the rest of you.”

Looking up from the deeper dark of the hole, the sky looked dangerously light. Firehelm lowered Korin’s shield and halberd. Korin felt the stench sting his nose as he slid his arms through the straps of his shield. He could use the halberd for nothing more than to thrust in this confined space, but a thrusting weapon was perfect for narrow tunnels.

He moved further down the stair as the others dropped into the hole behind him. The roof of the stairway was curved, not vaulted or square-braced, and that made it similar to the workings in the basin-plain. It was old work, and Korin could see cracks and gaps where chunks of wall and roof had fractured or fallen. Yet the stairs had been kept clear.

As filthy as they felt with the reek of ürsi in the air and on themselves, Korin preferred a tunnel to the surface. With their halberds, the nine of them could hold this stair against a thousand ürsi—at least for a time. There were ways to dislodge a group of determined dwarves in a tunnel. Burning away the air with fire, pouring boiling water or oil, causing a cave-in, flooding, and a whole variety of other awful methods dwarves had developed in their own warfare. The colonies used such tactics to oust ürsi from their dens back in the Ürsi Wars, but Korin did not know if the ürsi had learned.

“Remember,” Firehelm said. “We are dwarves, lords of rock and stone every one. These are the workings of our forebeards long ago, befouled by these shit-eating kulkur. Let the vengeance of our folk lend you strength.”

With that, he led them into the deep.

“Wish our folk would lend me a clean shield,” Stoutarm muttered. Korin couldn’t help but grin. The stairway had a gentle slope, so they still traveled northward. They were not yet underneath the mountain proper, though the stair ran beneath the lower slopes. They traveled for perhaps ten minutes when Korin realized something strange. The air was moving into his face, which meant it was venting out through the hole they’d entered. The other thing he noticed was that the air was warm. Air in caves was not usually warm. Caves tended to be cool and moist, but that didn’t bother dwarves much at all, who used lime and flame and fungi to absorb moisture and felt comfortable in the cool. Work and forges, furnaces and kilns kept them warm enough. But a naturally warm cave? Even above the stench of ürsi, he still noticed the hint of sulfur.

For a time, they descended by feel, by smell and by the sense of the rock possessed by dwarves raised beneath stone. At length, the stone gleamed ahead with a faint light. A flickering glow of flame outlined a curved opening at the landing of the stairs. They reached the bottom. Warm air poured through the arch. The remains of a great iron gate lay crumpled to the side of the archway, corroded and fallen from hinges long rusted to dust. Beyond the arch, Korin saw a colonnaded hall bigger even than the Chamber of Waters, though not so tall. Three wide galleries supported by round pillars lined the great cavern’s sides. They stood on a wide arched landing at the bottom level. Uniform masonry lined the walls. The warm air stank of ürsi.

In the middle of the cavern-hall burned a low fire, though what exactly fueled it Korin could not make out. It guttered dark smoke up into the shadows above. The descent down the stairs had provided ample time for Korin’s eyes to fully adjust. Now, the fire was more than enough light to make out the wide space. The floor was covered in so much rubbish and dark matter that Korin couldn’t see the stone beneath. The hunched forms of ürsi ranged around the fire, lying and reclining and sitting hunched. He could hear their low grumbling and guttering. There were ürsi scattered in the rest of the hall, too, alone or in small groups. Smaller creatures crawled and scrabbled around them. Are those their young? Korin tried to get an idea of how many ürsi there were, but it was difficult to guess. The hall with its galleries could have accommodated thousands, but it was likely it only contained scores or hundreds.

The dwarves huddled in the shadows behind the arch.

“There,” Firehelm pointed. The hall was longer north-south than it was east-west. On the northern side curved a massive opening thirty feet wide and just as tall. Laying fallen on each side were the decapitated and mangled forms of massive statues, and behind them the slag of what Korin suspected were once doors. “That will lead further in. This must be the entrance hall.”

Korin saw the sense in that assumption. He could see stairways up to the galleries, but there did not appear to be any other doorways or entrances there. That was odd. The north arch was the only other way in or out that he could see. It was strange that a stairway had descended straight into such a wide hall. Gate or no, the dwarves who delved this place were not fearful. Korin thought of the outer walls, the strongholds, the narrow adits, the murder holes, the portcullises and the dammed reservoir that defended Ice-Cloak. That mountain was a place meant for defense. This was something else.

“How do we get there?” Korin asked. There were narrow walkways behind the rows of columns that edged the hall beneath the galleries. The fire burning in the center of the hall meant that the outer edges would be in shadow, but the ürsi were spread out in clusters. The dwarves would have to skirt the edge of the southern end of the hall, and then travel the entirety of either the east or west walls. Worse, the grand arch on the north side was too wide to hold defensively, and they didn’t know what lay beyond. There could be even more ürsi on the other side. There was no way. Firehelm leaned out of the stairway arch, looking right and left.

“We walk.”

“What?”

Firehelm looked back toward the others

“Follow me. Stay together and make no sound.”

With that, he stepped out of the shadowed archway. There was nothing for Korin to do but follow. He glanced back, wondering if the others would join. They did. To follow meant death now more than ever, and yet they came. Firehelm made for the left, heading behind the row of pillars to the western wall. Korin’s nose was useless to him now. The whole place stank. Every particle in the air was filth, scalding his nostrils. What were they burning in that fire? He glanced and saw a shadow throw something dark and lumpy into the flames. It wasn’t a coal fire, that was clear from the embers, the color, the foul smoke. Were they burning dung?

They reached the corner of the hall. There were no howls. Nothing reacted. They turned the corner. About twenty yards ahead, not halfway down the hall, a cluster of figures hunched near the wall, right in their path. Firehelm didn’t hesitate but kept walking.

Did he know no fear? The distance closed. Korin saw the huddled ürsi look up at ten yards, staring with slack jaws. They looked strange, somehow bulkier, their faces narrow, their bodies hunched. They huffed through snout-like noses, raising their chins. At five yards, Firehelm sprinted forward. Korin kept only a heartbeat behind. One of the ürsi lurched to its feet, rising to stare down at them. Korin looked up at its hideous face, two heads higher than his own. Firehelm’s halberd rammed into its chest. Korin brought his blade down into another. Rendjaw and Tar were there, halberds working in short quick strokes. There had been five ürsi in total. One gave a shriek, cut off by a blow, a couple others groaned on the stone. Repeated thrusts silenced them. Firehelm barely delayed, hurrying down the western wall.

Korin followed, looking out in between the pillars. He saw ürsi looking toward them. He heard the huffing sounds of dozens tasting the thick, warm air. A few rose from their crouched positions to stand tall. A sound like a flock of birds cackling spread in a wave to fill the whole cavern. The ürsi voices were shriller than usual, more clacking. A couple of them lurched toward the spot where the dwarves had slaughtered the others. Firehelm kept moving. A howl rose behind them, a long high wail. More of the ürsi leapt to their feet, the cackling noise rising to a cacophony. Firehelm cut the corner of the northern wall, dodging away from a cluster of ürsi. The northern archway was only fifteen yards away. They broke into a run.

The whole cavern erupted in shrieks as the dwarves rushed through the archway, warm air flowing out against them. It was the mouth of a tunnel running deeper into the mountain. Even standing side-by-side the nine dwarves could not block its width. The tall shapes of more ürsi moved in the tunnel ahead, but they were not massed. Without hesitation, Firehelm ran down the middle of the tunnel, laying about to right and left with his halberd at any of the figures that came in reach. Korin sprinted after him, their heavy footfalls thumping, screeches following them. Ahead, he saw two more fallen doors, red light glowing beyond. They burst through, and Korin gasped.

The massive chamber was a perfect circle rising into a perfect dome, looking like the upper half of a sphere hundreds of feet in diameter and nearly as high. Seven massive stone giants in the shape and form of bearded dwarves rose three on each side and one in the middle. The statue in the center held the ceiling with its hands. Those to the sides supported the ceiling with their necks or shoulders, their bodies hunched over, intricately carved stone beards flowing down. Across all the upper stone of the chamber grew glowing miner’s eye in shades of reds and yellows. The red and yellow varieties of miner’s eye fungi were the most scarce and difficult to propagate. Most of Ice-Cloak glowed a faint blue-green. But here, the brilliance of the fiery glow made Korin squint, the fungi colonies thick and old. It was a magnificent chamber. The air within the dome felt as warm as a summer’s day, though it stank. He saw relief carvings along the walls, partially buried by the ancient growths of miner’s eye, but he had no time to see what they depicted. Firehelm led them on.

More of the tall ürsi clumped throughout the chamber. When the dwarves entered, they leapt to their feet and shrieked. Korin saw them clearly now in the bright glow of the miner’s eye. Twice the height of a normal ürsi, they were covered in dark matted hair except for two rows of teats running down their abdomens from chest to gut. About their feet swarmed litters of fledgling ürsi. The female’s teeth and claws looked wicked, long and sharp, but they had no weapons, no armor, and at first they only hurried their young away from the path of the rushing dwarves. The racket of shrieks and howls felt deafening.

Firehelm did not break his run. Korin was sweating, already gasping for breath. He wasn’t sure what kind of pursuit the ürsi made, if any, but he was right behind Firehelm and the others were behind him. He risked a glance back. Seven behind. All there.

As the female ürsi scattered with their young, Korin saw another arch ahead with a relief carving above it. It looked to be the only other tunnel into the domed hall, yet again due north. He couldn’t make out the carving at a glance; the miner’s eye had overgrown it. His chest was heaving when they passed through the arch, running down another tunnel beyond. Before them, a stone bridge spanned a chasm. The bridge was not masonry work—it had been cut from solid rock, and the chasm opened above and below.

Firehelm sprinted forward with renewed speed, dashing across the arching bridge and to the wide landing on the other side. Korin followed. Hot air rushed up from the chasm, so strong that it fluttered his braids. And then they were across. Korin spun on his heels, ready to lower his halberd as soon as the last dwarf was past, gasping the hot dry air.

Stoutarm brought up the rear, limping again but somehow keeping pace with his running lurches. Just yards behind him the she-ürsi flooded after. As they approached the chasm and bridge, those in the front halted and pushed back from the edge, those behind jostling them forward. Their shrieks, howls, and cacklings hurt Korin’s ears as they pushed against each other.

“The females are bigger?” Spinner said, breathing hard.

“Someone watch the stairs!” Firehelm shouted. Another arch, this one narrower, opened up onto a stairway. Anything could be down there. The chasm was only about fifteen feet wide, ending at the sides of the chamber. Korin was sure it wasn’t natural. Its walls were smooth and level as far down as he could see, but the miner’s eye didn’t grow deep down the shaft, and the bottom was lost in darkness. The chasm continued above for another fifty feet. Whoever had carved this place had meant it to be impressive.

Hefter and Stoutarm moved to the new stairway, looking down its dim slope.

“Nothing yet,” Hefter called back. Korin was counting. He counted again. Eight. Had he counted himself? Yes. Eight. Who was gone? Firehelm, Meadsong, Spinner, Rendjaw, Hefter, Stoutarm, Tar. . . It was Bronzedelver.

“Did anyone see Bronzedelver?” Korin asked. “Where’s Bronzedelver?”

The others looked around. No one said anything for a moment.

“He was behind me,” Stoutarm said. That meant he’d been in the rear, but Stoutarm came across the bridge last. Korin had just counted and they’d all been there. I should have taken the rear, Korin thought. I might have helped him. Then again, Korin might have died, too. So far as he could see, the she-ürsi did not have weapons—no darts, no arrows, nothing to throw. But their claws and fangs were wicked and long, and they screeched so that Korin felt his ears would bleed. There were so many.

Bronzedelver’s ribs had been badly cracked. Jet had told him to take it slow, and yet they had run. Why had they not rested and healed? Why had they come so soon? He looked at Stoutarm's leg. He could not see the wound beneath the patched pantleg, but he knew what it had looked like just a few days ago. This was a fool’s errand. Maybe the prince had sealed their deaths. But Korin was a prince's dwarf. A mistake did not change duty and honor, did it?

“Well, we could hold them here till their blood runs out,” Firehelm said. Korin looked at him. He actually sounded cheerful. Did he not care?

Yes, it was true that they could hold the bridge. It had no walls, just a death fall to each side. Only two or three of the ürsi could cross at once, and they’d meet the points of waiting halberds.

“Should we sling some stones?” Tar asked. “Thin ‘em out?”

The she-ürsi still massed and clamored beyond the bridge, watching and jostling but not advancing.

“Not unless they come. It might trigger an attack, and we need to breathe.”

“Do you think they have fighters here?” Korin asked. “Or just these . . .”

Firehelm shrugged.

“The ones we killed at the adit weren’t like these,” Rendjaw said.

The she-ürsi leered and screamed at the dwarves, and one threw something that fell short—it might have been offal. Might this crevasse be the fissure of legend? He looked at the stone again. Nothing about it seemed. . . cataclysmic. There must be a vent there at the bottom. The air blowing up was hot. Sweat soaked the hide beneath Korin’s hauberk. He didn’t understand what could heat the air so.

“We need to drink and rest,” he said, feeling his thirst. Firehelm looked around.

“There’s no telling if we’ll find better than this.”

By Korin’s reckoning, it was morning. They had been on the move since the day before, and they had covered many miles. “Meadsong and I will watch the bridge,” Firehelm continued. “Hefter and Tar, the stair. The rest, drink and eat. We will switch, then.”

“I’m not sure I can get much rest in this stinking pit with all those she-beasts screeching,” Rendjaw muttered, but he went and propped his halberd against the stone wall, put his back to it, and slid down. He unstoppered his waterskin, took a drink, and pulled his bag of rations around to his belly. Spinner sat next to him, and Stoutarm grimaced as he slid down beside Spinner. Korin too drank from his waterskin, but he did not sit.

“Ration the water,” Firehelm said. “This feels like a dry place.”

Korin nodded and looked around. There was another relief carved above the archway to the stairs. It was covered in miner’s eye, but he could make out the main contours. It showed dwarves standing around what looked like a great anvil or forge. Lines that might have depicted light streamed from it, and the dwarves’ hands were raised.

“Well I sure as fire hope there’s another way out. Should never have come.” It was Rendjaw, and his voice was low.

“Sure as shit,” Stoutarm muttered. “Shit outside. Shit inside.”

Korin glanced at Firehelm. The prince stood at the bridge with Meadsong, watching the she-ürsi. There was so much noise, he didn’t seem to have heard the comments.

Whether or not they should have come—and Korin agreed with Rendjaw—they were here, now, and they had to stick together. Firehelm had made Korin believe, at least for a moment. Shame likely had more influence than faith in the others.

“Bet you’re wishing you were back with the Queen’s Guard now, eh?” Spinner said, chewing on some dried kimgrip. “Standing guard over Brokenspear’s plinth in the Chamber of Waters all day, or standing in the throne hall, or at the adit. Lot of standing, eh?” Spinner chuckled.

“Wouldn’t mind some standing around,” Stoutarm said, his hand on his leg as he stared across the chasm at the she-ürsi. “Beats running.”

“I didn’t stand around. I followed.”

“Followed?” Stoutarm asked.

“I spent twenty-three years assigned to Keyhand’s personal detachment.”

This Korin had not known. He knew that Queen Jade ensured that her daughter was always protected. Everyone knew that. But he had not realized that Rendjaw was one of those guards. Spinner took another bite of dried kimgrip, but Stoutarm looked at Rendjaw with new interest.

“Her personal detachment? What’s she like?”

“Everyone knows what she’s like,” Rendjaw muttered.

“She has clear eyes,” Spinner said. “And a voice like bells.”

“And a fine form,” Stoutarm added.

Rendjaw’s eyes narrowed.

“Watch yourself,” he snapped. Then he took a breath. “Keyhand is a healer. A dutiful maid. She would make a fine wife. . . For a worthy dwarf. But a queen? I think not.”

“And that’s why you joined us, then?” Spinner asked, ignoring Rendjaw’s mood. “After she refused the throne?”

“For all the good it’s done me,” Rendjaw muttered, ripping off a bite of meat.

19

Living Steel

Firehelm gave each watch one hour of rest. Korin did not attempt to sleep, but he did eat some and drank another mouthful of water. He stood his guard at the bridge, watching the she-ürsi wander away back down the tunnel. Only a handful remained across the chasm, staring at them with luminous black eyes.

When his hour of watch had almost gone, Korin saw two ürsi rushing down the tunnel toward the bridge. He straightened and grasped his halberd tight. The two ürsi were males, and fighters. They bore spears and obsidian axes, wore stiff hides reinforced with bits of bone and rock. The she-ürsi and the two males appeared to bicker for a while, gesticulating and snarling and guttering. One of the males hunched and ran back down the tunnel. The other stood at the edge of the bridge, its eyes narrowed. Korin locked eyes with it.

“Prince,” Korin said. Firehelm sat back against the stone with his arms folded across his chest. His eyes snapped open at the call. Korin pointed at the ürsi male. Firehelm rose and walked to the bridge.

“There was another, but he fled back down the tunnel. I fear—”

“That he is going to bring more,” Firehelm said. Korin nodded.

“Well, then it’s time we made our move.”

“What move is that?”

“We attack.”

“What?”

“Just across the bridge. There’s only half a dozen.”

Korin could see past the tunnel into the great domed chamber beyond, but it was at least a hundred yards away. In the bright glow, he could make out the forms of others. “We kill them and flee,” Firehelm said. “Dwarves, to me.”

In moments, all the dwarves huddled around. The ürsi across the chasm saw them move, watching with renewed interest, releasing a few barking cries. But none fled.

“Now.” Firehelm turned looked at his guards. “I want this done well. Strikinghand and I will cross the bridge. The rest of you, sling a volley on my word. Act unconcerned as you prepare.”

“I’ve no sling,” Stoutarm said. “Lost at Ravensbeak.”

“Ay. Same,” said Hefter.

“Axes, then. There are six of you and six of them. Stand in line and pick one in order. Understood?”

There were murmurs of assent. The dwarves feigned disinterest as they leaned their halberds against their shoulders and unwrapped slings from their waists, fitted smooth stones kept in small bags at their belts. Hefter and Stoutarm slid their handaxes free.

“All together.” Firehelm and Korin stepped to the bridge. “Now!”

In the space of a breath, slings spun in wide arcs, stones and axes flew. Firehelm and Korin rushed across the bridge. Stones struck. The ürsi cried out. The male deflected away a thrown axe with his spear, but Firehelm’s halberd rammed into his chest a moment later, carrying him backward. Korin saw a stone strike a she-ürsi in the skull. It dropped. Firehelm speared another, and Korin slashed down at a she-ürsi crawling away on all fours

“Halberds,” Firehelm commanded. Korin looked down the south tunnel as the other dwarves re-wrapped slings and grabbed their halberds. He could see some ürsi in the domed chamber, but none approached them or seemed to notice. Hefter’s axe had fallen down the chasm, deflected by the male ürsi, but Firehelm gave him an obsidian axe from the ürsi’s own rawhide belt. Hefter frowned and tested its weight. It was a crude weapon, but a crude weapon was better than none. The edge gleamed black and sharp. It would do. They retreated over the bridge and down the north stairway.

This stairway was of much finer decoration than the others. The entire curved ceiling was carved in reliefs, showing dwarves working at various occupations. Any parts of the walls low enough to be within reach of the ürsi were marred and filthy, but at the top of the tunnel, even colonized with miner’s eye, Korin could see depictions of smiths with hammers, smelting kilns, and even a line of warriors with spears.

The stairway took them another hundred feet down into the stone. An archway, this time with no sign of doors, opened onto a domed landing. This dome was much smaller, needing no columns. It spanned barely twenty feet, and relief carvings dominated the stone.

There was a problem though. So far, all the passages they had seen led them north. Korin had seen no other doors or chambers, just halls and tunnels connected on a north-south axis. That was odd.

But, this chamber had six tunnels. South, where they emerged, and north ahead. But four other tunnels left the chamber at oblique angles—northwest, northeast, southwest, southeast. Korin followed Firehelm into the center of the chamber.

“Which way?” Korin asked. It was obvious Firehelm wanted to continue north. Maybe it was instinct. He spared barely a glance at the southerly passages. Still, he hesitated. Korin noticed that the air here seemed thicker, warmer. The stench of ürsi was fainter, or at least his nose didn’t sting so much, but he smelled more of the sulfur.

“I am not sure,” Firehelm replied.

“What is this place? There are no drifts. No stoneholds. No workshops.”

“Maybe this is just the entrance.” Firehelm stared at the northern tunnels. Korin wondered at that. It looked more like the halls had been designed to impress but lacked any function he could determine.

While Firehelm looked at the tunnels, Korin glanced up. The walls sloped perfectly into the center above, cut smooth from the natural rock and covered with relief carvings. One scene of dwarven life flowed right into another, interconnecting into a pictorial web. Sometimes, figures seemed to belong in more than one scene, such as a dwarf with a hammer in one hand and a chisel in another, his beard long and forked, standing between a smithy and what looked like a fresh mine delving. He was smith and miner both. This intermingling was true around the whole chamber, except just over the north tunnel. There, deep grooves cut the rock forming a heptagon, a seven-sided shape. Where the other carvings seemed to flow into each other, this one was set apart. It would have been fairly easy to miss. Fungi grew thick in the grooves. Within the heptagon he saw seven more thick lines. At least, they looked like lines at first. Then he saw marks at top and bottom of the lines, and he suspected the lines were plinths. These were surrounded by fungi-obscured markings that looked like runes, but he couldn’t have read them even if they were.

“Look,” Korin said, pointing at the marking above the passage.

Firehelm examined the pictogram for a moment.

“The seven pillars of creation?” he asked. It hadn’t occurred to Korin.

“Maybe.”

“It is strange that these halls have grown smaller. We dig from narrow to wide. Our grandest places are at the heart of the mountain.”

“But the working is finer here,” Korin said.

“Still, it is natural to delve to the center of the mountain, and that is north. And the seven pillars mark the way.”

Korin noticed Hefter emerge from a side tunnel. He hadn’t noticed him go in.

“Looks like some kind of barracks,” Hefter said. “Small, though, with stone beds. About twenty set into the walls.”

Firehelm glanced back at the stairwell. There didn’t appear to be any pursuit yet. “See if the other tunnels are similar,” said. The dwarves split up, going in twos for safety, but it was only the work of a few minutes. The southeast, southwest, northeast, and northwest passages each ended after about twenty feet, opening into modest, unadorned chambers. There was little left to suggest their function, and old ürsi offal layered the floor. One of the other chambers had tables and seats cut into the rock in fashion similar to the beds.

“What is this place?” Meadsong asked, staring up at the carvings on the dome. “It’s not a colony.”

“Not a mine, either,” Tar said. That was becoming ever more apparent. There was nothing in this place to suggest function, besides a few beds and tables. That bothered Korin. It seemed to bother the others as well. It also presented a danger. In any colony or mine, there should have been redundant tunnels, extra paths through the mountain, even more than one exit. Here, unless they found another adit, they would have to fight their way through the ürsi behind them to escape.

“We will learn when we reach the heart of this delving,” Firehelm answered. “Let’s move.”

He led them down the north tunnel, beneath the pictogram of the seven pillars. A hundred yards along, a pile of ancient slag and grooves for hinges bespoke a doorway. The tunnel itself was a perfectly curved running arch, the rock smooth. The makers must have ground and polished the walls with great labor to have removed all the tool markings. As the dwarves stepped over the remains of the fallen doors, Korin waited, letting the others pass. He had noticed that Spinner was walking in the rear. Korin fell in behind him.

“Slow down,” he said in a low tone. Spinner looked back, his eyes narrowed behind his mask, but he slowed, opening up a gap with the rest of the dwarves. Korin knew Spinner talked to many. From his reports back at Ice-Cloak, Korin knew he had made friends among the Queen’s Guards. There were only around seventy-five Queen’s Guards. The rest of Ice-Cloak's fighters were Ridgewards.

“Did you know of Rendjaw before he came to us?” Korin asked, keeping his voice low. He didn’t know why he hadn’t asked this sooner.

“I knew of him. Knew him by sight. I talked to him when he stood guard at Brokenspear’s plinth once. Didn’t seem a friendly sort.”

“But I thought he was part of Keyhand’s detachment? Do they stand guard at the plinth?”

“Oh, I heard about that. I was drinking with Warmhide once, and his brother—he has a brother called Shatterhelm—well, I was drinking with Warmhide because he was mining in the southern caverns, a good bit of silver-bearing galena, actually. That was Brokenfoot’s claim. Warmhide had been working with him for a few years, and when you asked me to look for news, I went there, because if anyone knows what’s happening in the southern claims, it’s Brokenfoot, but he was on his colony duty that week, so I was talking to Warmhide, and we were drinking mead. Pretty strong mead, really—”

“Spinner. What about Rendjaw?”

“Oh yeah. Warmhide’s brother—”

“Keep it down.”

Spinner lowered his voice, but Korin was sure that at least Tar could have heard him. “Shatterhelm had just gotten appointed to Keyhand’s detachment because someone else had gotten removed.”

“And you think it was Rendjaw?”

“Maybe. He didn’t say a name.”

“Why’d the other dwarf get removed?”

“Oh, that was the good part. Keyhand asked that he be sent away because he scared her.”

“Scared her?”

“Always looking.”

“Aren’t guards supposed to watch?”

“I think he meant, looking at her.”

Korin was silent. Spinner took it for confusion. “You know, like when there’s a maid you fancy, and—”

“Ay, yes, I get it,” Korin said. “Thank you, Spinner.”

“I reckon it was a bit like the way you looked at that snow-dwarf Jet at Round-Hold.”

“Thank you, Spinner,” Korin said, again.

“Sure.”

Korin could hear the grin in that word. He might have blushed, except his face was already flushed and sweaty from the warm air. Here in what might be their final moments, Spinner was kidding around.

The tunnel ended at a new chamber. Distracted, Korin hadn’t noticed the change in the rock. No longer were they walking through basalt. This chamber—and looking back, Korin saw that the tunnel had changed as well—was morphic rock. Gneiss, he thought, though he had only heard it described. Wavering, glimmering lines of light and dark, polished by the ancient dwarves to a magnificent smoothness, made up the rock. It looked as if ten-thousand layers of stone had been beaten down like a smith forging layered steel. The force and heat required to create such a density of rock could only be accounted for by the cataclysm.

All the dwarves stopped and took in the sight, though the chamber was dim with barely any miner’s eye. There were no spanning relief carvings. Instead, the glory of the true stone was on display. Dirt and debris covered the floor as in the rest of the delving. Korin suspected it was years of old ürsi filth, now rotted into a kind of dirt layer.

“We are deep,” Firehelm said. It was true, they all felt it. And it was also hot. No wonder the ürsi wintered in these caves. They would never feel the bite of the cold.

“It’s a dead end,” said Rendjaw. He was inspecting the northern wall. The others gathered around.

“There’s no door. Not even a seam in the rock.” Firehelm ran his hand along the stone. “Spread out. It may be hidden.” It was an unnecessary command. They were already looking.

“What’s this?” Korin asked. The only miner’s eye colony in the chamber grew just above head height on the north wall, and there he saw grooves in the stone. There were no other carvings in the chamber, and the miner’s eye grew in and around the grooves. Firehelm came to examine the spot.

“I can’t make it out.”

“Lift me up.” It was Spinner, tapping on Korin’s shoulder. Korin sighed, but he set down his weapons and shield and let Spinner scramble up on his shoulders. Spinner dug at the miner’s eye with his fingers, and then gasped. He dug even faster, using his fingernails to scrape out the grooves.

“What is that?” Meadsong said.

“The living ore,” Firehelm answered. Korin could see it now. The grooves were carvings of some kind of runes, but they had been filled with the living ore.

No, not ore. It was the same metal, but it had been smelted and purified. At first glance, the metal had a luminous pale blue sheen, but somehow within it fire burned. It looked almost as if that inner light moved, but Korin could not tell if it was a trick of the eye. One thing was certain, he hadn’t ever seen any metal so beautiful, and it was finer even than the unsmelted ore had suggested.

“It’s true,” Rendjaw said. “Living steel.”

“I did not lie.” Firehelm’s voice sounded aglow like the steel itself. “We seek our inheritance as dwarves.”

“That’s the last.” Spinner shook the fungus from his fingers. Arms trembling, Korin crouched down to let him scramble off his shoulders.

“Can you read the runes?” Korin grunted.

“Some are familiar,” Firehelm said, stretching his hand upward, though the runes were out of reach.

“I see a kor, and an elteph,” Rendjaw said, pointing. “Maybe a gar?”

“Maybe,” Firehelm answered.

“And the meaning?” Korin asked.

“With time, perhaps. And help. But I cannot make it out now.”

“Can we get the metal out?” Hefter asked.

They all considered it, but a sound shook them alert. Ürsi howls echoed down the tunnel behind them.

20

Blood in the Deep

Now that Korin had heard the grating screams of the she-ürsi, he knew that these were males.

Firehelm spun back to the tunnel. “Tar! Rendjaw! Spinner! Guard the tunnel.” The three dwarves moved to the entrance, shields raised and halberds lowered. The tunnel itself was only wide enough for two dwarves abreast, but by standing just back from the entrance, they could angle their halberds to triple-guard the chokepoint.

“I see no sign of a door,” Korin whispered to Firehelm. The prince looked around the room.

“This place, it makes no sense.”

More shrieks and howls echoed down the tunnel.

“There they are,” said Tar. Korin glanced back. He saw the distant forms of ürsi swarming beneath the far opening of the pictogram tunnel. He doubted they could see him in return. The chamber they were in was much darker, so the ürsi were backlit. It wasn’t until the creatures had rushed a further fifty yards that they saw the dwarves and hesitated, clumping together to gibber and howl. They were fighters, armed, and so massed together that Korin couldn’t count them.

Stoutarm, Hefter, and Meadsong still scoured the chamber, tapping on the stone with the backs of their halberds to listen for changes.

“If there is a door here,” Stoutarm said. “It’s better hidden than anything I’ve seen.”

“But there should be something here. A gap in the stone. Something.” It was Firehelm.

“Maybe we aren’t even in the right delving,” Hefter suggested. No one replied. Korin didn’t even want to think of that possibility.

Something struck the rock wall with a crack just to his right, clattering onto the stone. It was an arrow.

“I hate these ürsi shits,” Rendjaw said. More arrows struck their shields as they stood at the arch. Ürsi with bows had crept within twenty yards.

“They’ll try to bring us down with arrows,” Korin said, grabbing Firehelm’s arm and moving him to the side, past the archway of the tunnel. Arrows slammed into shields at the tunnel entrance, and a few flew high and cracked against the back wall. Stoutarm and Hefter moved to the sides out of sight, while Rendjaw, Tar, and Spinner crouched low, getting as much of their bodies behind shields as possible. Still, the arrows came fast.

“Step to the side,” Firehelm ordered. “Get behind cover.” Even with their armor, arrows could find a gap. The three defenders split to the sides. Firehelm peaked around the corner, then ducked back. Arrows hit the stones all around in a clatter. Splinters of wood deflected against Korin’s warmask—shards of a broken arrow. To each side of the arch, the dwarves waited. “We just need to know if they rush. Rendjaw, keep an eye.”

The arrows stopped.

Rendjaw pressed his body close to the stone and peaked around. A few more arrows sped past, but Rendjaw ducked back. Most of his face was protected by mask and helm, but an unlucky arrow could still find an eye.

“They’re creeping forward, step at a time.”

“Be prepared.”

Korin figured that the danger was the sheer weight of the mass of ürsi. If they could overcome their fear, their crushing numbers could push forward despite any effort of the dwarves. The dead would hang on the halberds until the dwarves were brought down.

“Here they come!” Rendjaw shouted. Spinner and Tar sidestepped into the gap with him barely before the ürsi impacted. The other dwarves couldn’t assist—there simply wasn’t room, but they stood ready. Each of the three active defenders clutched their halberds in both hands, using them like spears, punching again and again and again at the ürsi and trying to keep their blades free. Their shields were strapped to their arms, providing partial cover at least. Now that the ürsi massed forward to attack in the low tunnel, they couldn’t effectively use javelins or arrows, but Korin watched as Spinner, Tar, and Rendjaw fought to keep from being driven back.

The ürsi pushed hard. At one point, the dead hung on the halberds as he feared. The ürsi behind leaned on the bodies, trying to push the dwarves back from the opening by sheer force. The dwarves gritted their teeth and dug their feet into the grime.

“Help!” Spinner gasped. Korin moved behind him, leaning his shoulder against Spinner’s back. The others helped Tar and Rendjaw. They must not be pushed beyond the entrance. For a few agonizing minutes, there was no stabbing and dying, just pushing and bracing and heaving. Then Rendjaw managed to free the tip of his halberd and plunged it low, between the legs of the hanging dead, wounding the shins of those behind. The roar of the ürsi rolled out of the tunnel in a never ending cacophony. Wounded and tripping on the fallen bodies, the ürsi in the fore struggled back against those behind. The pressure against the dwarves lessened. Spinner and Tar freed their halberds from the dead in the brief reprieve.

“We’ve pissed them off, this time,” Hefter muttered. Korin was thinking the same. The ürsi did not seem so hesitant to die, now. But then, they were defending their nest, their females, and their young.

“Strikinghand, Hefter,” Firehelm commanded. “We switch.” Firehelm tapped Rendjaw on the shoulder and they deftly traded places. Korin and Hefter did the same for Tar and Spinner. They breathed heavily as they stepped away from the entrance.

A few more arrows sped past, going high. And then the ürsi pressed forward again. Korin felt the familiar resistance as his first thrust punched through rawhide and flesh. He lanced out again. It was like striking a living wall over and over and over. Back in Ice-Cloak, they had drilled by choosing ever smaller targets, then moving the targets until they could strike with consistent accuracy and force. Now, Korin just struck at abdomen after abdomen, forward and back. The space was too narrow and low to use the axe blades, and already he felt the heavier weight of the halberd wear on his arms. An arrow deflected from Korin’s shield, glancing up against his helm. Some of the ürsi with bows had pushed near the front, trying to shoot at the dwarves between their own. Korin saw one of their arrows hit an ürsi in the back instead of Firehelm beyond. Firehelm spitted the wounded beast, and it fell onto the growing heap.

Again the press simply became too great to free the halberds without stepping back or choking up on the hafts. The ürsi tried to push forward against the hanging dead. Spinner braced Korin’s back as he tried to work loose the two bodies driven onto the long spearhead. This time, it was Hefter who freed his blade and struck at the faces and shins of the living. The pressure lessened. Sweat saturated the padding beneath Korin’s mask and stung his eyes. He blinked and stabbed and blinked. His halberd was longer than the ürsi weapons, but already his sweaty, shaking hands had slipped up the haft. He tried to slip his grip back down. They could not lose distance or ground.

“Shit!” Hefter wheeled back. His curse was high pitched, and Korin knew he was hurt, but he couldn’t look over to check. Stoutarm pressed into Hefter’s place, driving home his spearpoint with fresh energy.

“Switch!” Firehelm gasped. Someone tapped Korin’s shoulder, and he stepped back as Meadsong stepped into his place. Korin bent over, breathing hard. His arms burned. Ürsi blood soaked the haft of his halberd. From what he could tell, the ürsi filled the entire length of the tunnel and spilled out into the chamber beyond. There were hundreds upon hundreds.

Hefter. He looked for Hefter. The dwarf sat with his back against the stone to the side of the tunnel arch. His shield lay near his feet, and his hand held the broken shaft of an arrow protruding from his gut. An archer must have found an opening near the fore of the ürsi crush. Hefter breathed hard. Korin knelt down in front of him.

“I should’ve had mail,” he grunted. “Should’ve had mail.”

Korin placed his hand on the armor around the arrow shaft. Hefter wore a brigandine, two layers of leather riveted together and lined inside with narrow steel plates. The plates usually overlapped, but by the angle of the arrow, it looked as if it had deflected downward, piercing behind two plates. Korin saw the rest of the arrow shaft broken off and lying near Hefter’s leg. There were only a few inches left before the fletchings. The dart had gone deep.

Korin glanced back to the arch. The fight continued unabated. Dark ürsi blood spread into the chamber beneath the defenders’ feet. At first, the dirt and grime of the floor had soaked it up, but there was too much, now. Korin breathed hard as he watched the blood seep through the entrance in a spreading, viscous puddle.

Hefter grabbed Korin’s arm, saying nothing, just staring into his face.

Korin heard another cry, saw Stoutarm stagger back. Spinner jumped into his place. Hefter tried to hold onto Korin.

“I’m sorry,” Korin muttered, and stood. Stoutarm hopped back into the chamber, cursing.

“Same shit leg,” he said as Korin rushed to his side. He saw the red blood spilling out over boot. Stoutarm set his foot down and tried to put weight on it, but his leg buckled. He dropped to his knee, then rolled onto his back. Stoutarm’s split pantleg opened and revealed the wound. Korin grimaced. The whole muscle and tendon alongside his shin had been severed down to the bones. Blood ran freely from the wound. No greaves.

“I need a switch!” Meadsong yelled.

“Strikinghand! Tar!” Firehelm called. Korin stepped back to the arch, gripping his halberd in both hands.

“Now!”

Korin stepped into Meadsong’s place, and next to him, Tar stepped forward to replace Rendjaw. But even as he did, a javelin struck Tar in the mouth, snapping his head back. He fell without making a single sound, glancing off of Rendjaw’s shoulder and collapsing into the pool of ürsi blood. Rendjaw pushed right back into place, kicking Tar’s body out of the way even as he thrust forward with his halberd.

The stone underfoot had become a slick mire of mud, blood, and grime. Korin struggled to keep from sliding. He lowered his body and spread his stance, feeling the burn in his thighs. He gripped the halberd so tight he didn’t know whether his arms shook or not.

See Uncle? This is easier for shaking hands than carving stone. How such a thought came to him in that moment, he didn’t know or have time to consider. Those dwarves hunched over the treadle wheel at that moment back in Ice-Cloak, polishing a gem to perfection—they were the lucky ones. Or the smiths aiming their precision strokes onto glowing metal. Korin had always known it. But such things were not possible for him. Blood and death were Korin’s lot.

Whether he fought for one minute or ten, time was unknowable. Rendjaw refused to budge, so Firehelm switched in to give Spinner a rest. Korin fought on. With only five of them left standing, they could not all switch, anyway. The press of ürsi slackened, but the barrage of arrows increased.

“They’re moving the bodies out of the way,” Firehelm said through heaving breaths. It was true, though they did it out of no apparent respect for the dead. The pile of bodies had grown higher and higher, and now the ürsi had to crawl over top of them, making it hard to assail the dwarves. Keeping up their din of screeches and gutterings, crouching ürsi dragged and pushed and heaved at the bodies of dead and wounded to make way. Some came nearly within striking distance, but for the moment, there was relief but for the glancing arrows.

Korin looked back. The blood had flowed further into the chamber, stopping near the middle. Beyond that, the ground was dry. Stoutarm sat with his leg splayed out in front of him. He had cut his pantleg off and twisted it tight around his leg to slow the bleeding.

Huh, the chamber must be a basin, Korin thought. The blood seemed to flow to the center. He hadn’t noticed a slope to the floor. Even though plenty of dark blood still flowed into the chamber, the pool of mud and blood hadn’t grown deeper.

“Take my place,” he said to Meadsong. The dwarf looked grim, but he obeyed without question.

“What is it?” Firehelm asked, glancing back. Korin walked to the center of the chamber, right to the spot where the blood flowed. He knelt on the ground and clawed away the muck and mud. He felt it right away and dug faster, cupping his palms to scrape away the muck. A burst of hot air blew up into his face, stinking of sulfur. There was a grating, a meshwork so fine the dirt had built up atop it. He saw red light below, caught a glimpse of living metal, untouched by time or corrosion. The blood dripped through the grating, down to whatever lay below.

“Here!” Korin called. “Help!”

Spinner was there in an instant. Korin slid off his shield, using the edge to dig. Together, they scraped away the muck, revealing the edges of a narrow grate. Hinges were fashioned into the rock at the north end. Korin grabbed the bottom of the grating. There were indentations for handholds.

“On three,” he said. Spinner grabbed the grating next to him. “One, two—” They heaved. To their surprise, the grating parted easily and without a sound, greased by blood. It swung upward onto its hinges just past center and stayed there. Below, a crevasse led into the rock. It looked natural, with no mark of a tool on its walls, so narrow that a dwarf would need to stand sideways to squeeze through. The only sign that it was more than natural were the smooth steps leading downward.

“We need to go!” Korin yelled. He hadn’t noticed the ürsi attack again. The defenders couldn’t spare a glance back under the fury of the renewed assault. Hefter still leaned against the wall, breathing hard. Stoutarm crawled over on hands and knees to look down the crevasse, dragging his wounded leg.

“We need to get Hefter and Stoutarm down there.” Korin said to Spinner. They had to shout to be heard. He moved to help Stoutarm up, but the dwarf pulled his arm away. He looked toward the defenders, then rose to his knees.

“My halberd,” he said. Korin picked it up and handed it to him. Stoutarm braced against it like a crutch and rose.

“Hefter,” Stoutarm called. Hefter looked up without a word. “They need to go.”

Hefter didn’t respond for a moment, but then he reached out for his halberd. With a groan, he slid himself up against the stone wall, one hand covering the broken end of the arrow.

“We need to get you two down,” Korin said. Stoutarm shook his head.

“If they leave that arch, no one makes it down.” His shins trailing behind and his wound fouling in the filth, Stoutarm walked on his knees to the arch. Hefter moved into place behind Firehelm, hand still gripping his stomach.

In the tunnel, the ürsi had begun to stack up again, tripping the advance for a few moments. Firehelm risked a hurried glance back at the grate.

“Strikinghand?”

“You need to go, now,” Stoutarm said. “Hefter and I will hold.” Firehelm slammed his halberd into a throat.

“Get down there,” Korin said to Spinner. “If it widens, get ready to hold the choke.”

Spinner slid down sideways into the crevasse.

“Go!” Stoutarm shouted. “Go!”

Firehelm leapt back as Stoutarm lurched forward on his knees, jabbing his halberd at the ürsi. Hefter stepped in for Rendjaw with a grunt, letting go of his wound and gripping his halberd with both hands.

Firehelm slid sideways down the crevasse, and Rendjaw followed.

“Now?” Meadsong called back.

“Go!“ Stoutarm growled, pushing against the foe. Meadsong turned to flee. He looked disoriented. He shouldn’t have turned his back. Korin saw the ürsi who lunged forward with a spear. Meadsong yelled and staggered, nearly falling. He tripped into the crevasse, slamming into the rock as he fell. Korin slid down after him, the stairs wet with blood-mire. The passage was narrow enough that Meadsong wedged against the stone. Korin put a hand on shoulder to steady and guide him through, but he saw the dwarf’s blood. The spear had cut through the buckles in the back of his hauberk. There was no overlap of mail to protect the straps. He couldn’t tell the depth of the wound. The shrieks of the ürsi redoubled.

“Go, go!” Korin yelled, keeping a hand forward on Meadsong’s shoulder. It was the freedom of movement of his hand that made Korin realize he had forgotten his shield above. No time to worry. They slid sideways down the steps through the natural polished gneiss for what must have been fifteen yards, and then the crevasse opened wide. It was a great gulf within the mountain, a huge cavernous expanse. They stepped onto a landing of carved stone in the shape of a heptagon that hung from the cavern wall out over an abyss. It was the grandest cavern Korin had ever seen, and he would have gawked if not for Meadsong.

As they came out onto the landing, Spinner stepped past them, bracing himself at the bottom of the crevasse with his halberd poised. Meadsong stumbled and fell to his hands and knees, groaned, and rolled onto his side. He coughed, a wet hack.

Korin knelt next to him.

“Too many,” Meadsong gasped.

“Too many ürsi,” Korin agreed.

“No.” He breathed in, his chest rattling. “Too many. . . dwarves.”

Korin heard shrieks and turned. There were ürsi moving down the crevasse. He looked back to Meadsong. The dwarf’s eyes were closed, and his breaths were rapid and shallow. There was blood on the stone beneath him.

Rendjaw and Firehelm stood with their backs to the others, staring out into the abyssal cavern. It was magnificent. The miner’s eye was not thick here, but its red glow illuminated enough.

Korin had no idea such a cavern could exist. Its walls were formed of flowing black obsidian. It looked like the rock had been poured down the sides like molten iron and froze as it fell. And here and there, he saw it. The living ore. Unmined, uncut, unsmelted, in the natural rock.

From side to side, the cavern was nearly a hundred yards wide, and it drove through the mountain northward, descending as it went. A stairway wide enough for two dwarves to walk side by side extended through the center—down and down into the deep. Korin leaned over the side of the landing. The stairway was a marvel of curving arches braced against the cavern walls at intervals. All this Korin grasped in moments. What he didn’t grasp was what function the place served. It would have made so much more sense to dig a stair in the rock on the side of the cavern, not engineer a massive working through the center.

Firehelm turned, glancing at the form of Meadsong, then at Korin and Spinner. The ürsi had not yet attacked. They hung back in the crevasse yards above the landing. If they could get archers and javelins to the fore, perhaps they could use their height, but to press the assault through the narrow crevasse by brute force? It would be murder. All a dwarf would have to do was stand at a slight angle from the opening and even darts would be of little use.

“Spinner!” Firehelm said. His emerald eyes glinted in the red glow of miner’s eye. Spinner glanced back at Firehelm’s call. “Hold this place at all costs,” the prince commanded. “We cannot fight them on this stairway. We will push forward and come back for you when we find a better place to hold. Our lives are in your hands.”

“I doubt there’ll be a better place,” Spinner said, looking from Firehelm to Korin and back, his eyes wide. “Will no one stay with me?”

“Hold this place,” Firehelm said, “and we will return for you.”

The prince didn’t wait for any further answer or discussion but plunged down the stairs as fast as he could manage. Rendjaw kept right behind him, not even glancing back. Korin looked at Spinner.

“It’s alright,” Spinner said. “It’s alright.”

Korin didn’t know what under the stone was alright. Nor did he know what to say. Korin felt hot and lightheaded, not just from exertion but because the air was beyond warm. But Rendjaw and Firehelm were well on their way. It felt wrong in his gut to leave Spinner, but then again, it was the prince’s decision. He turned to go.

“Stay safe, shield brother,” Spinner said. Korin hesitated. He didn’t feel there was safe, anymore. Maybe just longer.

“Hold till we come.”

He followed Firehelm down the stair, hurrying to catch up, but he was afraid of tripping, too. He was exhausted, and there was nothing on either side to stop a fall. The stairs seemed to go on and on forever down into the gloom.

“Sire!” Korin said, finally catching up. Firehelm paused and turned. “Can we not bring him with us?” Even as he spoke, he heard the shrieks of ürsi far behind, and a sound like steel on stone.

“We have to move.” Firehelm turned away.

21

The Mouth of Fire

The stair ended at a level walkway that continued on, suspended through the center of the cavern. Korin peered over the side again, trying to see how deep the cavern went. There was no bottom in the sense of a cavern floor. The sides gradually closed until they met about fifty feet below the walkway. Anything that fell would lodge into that joint. Buttressed arches of dressed stone arched out from the obsidian walls. The engineering would have taken a thousand dwarves a hundred years, or a hundred dwarves a thousand.

With Firehelm and Rendjaw ahead, Korin didn’t notice the gap in the walkway until they halted. Looking between them, Korin saw the walkway had fractured, creating a gap about five feet wide. It looked like something had fallen from above, smashing the path apart. Korin could see the rubble below when he looked down. The gap was far too far to jump.

“Is there nothing we can use to bridge it?” Rendjaw asked. “The halberds are long enough?”

Korin didn’t like the idea of balancing on a halberd, or even three halberds, to cross that gap. Firehelm didn’t wait to debate. He stepped back, grabbed his halberd near the axe head, and made a rush forward. Firehelm planted the butt end of his haft and vaulted over the gap, landing with a foot to spare. He turned around and motioned for them to follow.

Korin didn’t like it, but it wasn’t the dumbest thing they’d done. And if they could all cross, they could hold the ürsi till the end of time—or more like the end of food and water. With the stairs far behind, the ürsi would have no advantage of elevation.

“Rendjaw and I will go back for Spinner,” Korin said.

“No.” Firehelm shook his head.

“Why not? He could still be holding.”

“And how will you retreat in the face of the ürsi? None of you would survive. I need you here.”

Korin looked back. They had come too far to see the top of the stairway. It ascended into the distant gloom. He could hear no sound from there.

“But we promised. We promised him,” Korin said.

“Spinner is a brave dwarf, and a hero. He has sacrificed as so many of our brothers have.”

And from the flat sound of Firehelm’s voice, Korin knew that he never intended to go back for Spinner.

“Let Rendjaw stay, then. I can go. He may still be holding.”

“The life of one or the lives of two.”

“But—”

“It is the duty of a prince to make such decisions, though it gives me no pleasure.” Firehelm sighed. “His sacrifice is by my hand, not yours.” Firehelm looked at Rendjaw. “Wait for Strikinghand to leap, then come yourself.”

Korin hesitated, looking back.

“Do you defy your prince?” Rendjaw muttered. Korin gritted his teeth. Who was Rendjaw to criticize him? Korin had been the prince’s dwarf since before the Battle of the Ridge. He gripped his halberd and rushed forward, landing the vault with room to spare. If he had not been angry, it would have been harder to steel himself for such a wild maneuver. Rendjaw followed, staggering as he landed, but he righted himself. He met Korin’s eyes with a smirk.

“At least now we don’t have to listen to him prattle. We can die in peace.”

Korin looked at Firehelm, hoping to see a rebuke, but the prince grinned, and as if catching himself, turned and walked a few yards further before stopping to stare into the red glow ahead. Rendjaw lowered himself to the stone and sat cross-legged. Korin imagined tipping him over the edge, but he turned and looked back toward the stairs instead. Rendjaw unstoppered his waterskin and took a drink, letting out a long “ahh.” Korin realized he was parched, his mouth uncomfortably dry. He took a drink from his own skin. The water reminded him of hunger. What was he doing? What was he doing? Why leave Spinner when it wouldn’t make a difference? Yet even here, so close to what he knew would be a bitter end, should he defy the prince? Go back alone? What could he do alone?

He settled himself on the stone, his face toward the stairway. Rendjaw shot glances at him as they both opened their bags and chewed on dry kimgrip. There was no pleasure in it for Korin. He’d abandoned Spinner.

“At least we can kill more ürsi,” Rendjaw offered.

Korin didn’t respond. He was trying not to think about Spinner, so he thought about the cavern. How deep were they? Korin couldn’t figure it. He’d lost track. Maybe if he slept, he could think clearly enough to make a reckoning. He was tired and exhausted. He could have laid down on the stone right there.

Rendjaw usually wasn’t much for conversation, but he tried again. Maybe he was nervous. “Figure I’ll jump when it comes. Don’t care to be eaten.” He leaned to peer over the edge. “They won’t follow me down there. At least my bones won’t bleach. I’d rather not be shit out in that latrine.”

“Why did you leave Keyhand’s detachment?” Korin asked. If Rendjaw was in a talking mood, he may as well talk. “If she became Queen, you would have been one of her closest royal guards.”

“Shit on you,” Rendjaw said. “You’re so flaming naïve.”

“Then enlighten me. She’ll be queen, now, you know.”

Rendjaw sighed and shook his head.

“It’s a shame I didn’t get to slit that goatherd’s throat,” he said. “I know he was a better tool alive, but I would have liked it, the little shit. Can you imagine being ruled by that girl and her goatherd kulkur?”

“Do you hate her so much?”

“She got rid of me!” It was practically a snarl. “I watched over her for twenty-three years, since before her rhundal, and she got rid of me. And all I ever did was—” Rendjaw snapped his mouth shut and narrowed his eyes. “Shit on you, Strikinghand,” he said. Again, Korin thought about kicking him over the edge and saving the ürsi the trouble. But he had never raised a hand in anger against another dwarf.

Firehelm still stood some yards away, staring down the walkway. He had not drunk or eaten, or even sat to rest. Korin didn’t care to stay seated with Rendjaw, so he stood and walked over to the prince.

“Ready?” Firehelm asked. Korin grunted. Firehelm started walking, as if he had only stopped for their sake. Rendjaw muttered as he rose to his feet, and Korin waited for him to pass ahead. He didn’t want Rendjaw behind him.

Enough miner’s eye grew in the cavern—mostly clustered around pockets of the living ore—that they could see nearby, but past fifty yards and the shadows deepened. Slowly, shapes emerged from the gloom ahead. The cavern walls drew away to either side. A little further, and the scene resolved. Seven massive pillars rose from the bottom to the top of the cavern, three along each side, and one where the cavern abruptly ended to the north. Each pillar looked about twenty feet in diameter, made of smooth masonry of gneiss, intricate patterns of living steel worked all along their length. Korin could make out the massive motifs of dwarves climbing up stairways that curled around the pillars. The luminous red-orange miner’s eye seemed to amplify the luster of the living steel. It glowed in the dim light.

“The pillars of creation,” Firehelm muttered, taking in the spectacle. At first, the expanse of the cavern above drew Korin’s eyes upward. Then ahead of them, he saw that the walkway ended at a stone platform made of gneiss masonry, but before that, the walkway passed between two massive stone blocks. Firehelm nearly broke into a jog. In only a minute or more, they arrived at the blocks.

Inset into the stone before them was a deep pool, its water white and hazy, the pungent smell of sulfur rising from it. On either side, squared blocks of gneiss framed the pool. The blocks ended at the water on both sides, leaving no way to walk around them. Smooth steps ran down into the water, then emerged again on the other side ten feet away. The water was so cloudy that Korin couldn’t see beyond a couple feet down. A tiny stream of water droplets fell from the darkness above, landing in the center of the pool. Firehelm plunged down the steps. The water rose to his waist, then shoulders. In the middle, he flailed a bit, his armor weighing him down. The water rose above his head for a moment before he emerged again on the ascending stairs. A trail of dark ürsi blood dissipated in the pool behind him, washed away. The water dripped from his clothes and armor, splattering onto the stone beyond. He had not even paused to remove his bag of rations.

At first glance, Korin suspected the pool had formed accidentally in a low spot, but he realized the pool was cased in living steel, the metal stopping perfectly at the level of the water. This was intentional. A bath in the middle of the way forward. Odd.

“I’m not about to go in there,” Rendjaw said. “It stinks, and I’d rather stay dry.” He approached the stone block to the left. It was true, the water reeked of sulfur, but compared to the smell of ürsi, it was sweet to Korin’s nose. Besides, he wouldn’t mind getting some of the filth of the ürsi off his body.

Rendjaw used his halberd to struggle up onto the stone block. It was only four feet high. Once he’d scrambled atop, he stood and took a step forward. The stone beneath his feet sunk a few inches, and there was a loud click. A blade of living steel sprang up at an angle from the block, slamming into Rendjaw’s belly. His mail folded and then gave around the blade. He staggered back, sliding off the blade and falling from the block. He landed hard on the stone, then gasped for air.

“Shit. Fuck. Shit.” He wrapped his arms around his gut, drawing his knees up toward the wound. Korin knelt beside him. Blood trickled onto the fine gneiss. “I wanted to live,” he said. “We made her abdicate. We would’ve ruled the colony. I would have had her in the end. I would have had her.” He looked up at Korin, bared teeth clenched, eyes white behind his warmask. He vomited bile.

“Better dwarves have died,” Korin said, and left him.

He plunged into the pool. It was warm. He pushed through it, and his armor bearing him down in the middle. The water closed over his head, but the steps rose just beyond, and he emerged dripping on the other side. Firehelm was far ahead on the great platform built between the bases of the seven pillars. The stonework here was masterful, the stones themselves massive. Korin hurried after the prince.

A wide heptagon dais rose above the rest of the platform near the center, and at the heart of that something gleamed a silvery blue. Firehelm stood in front of it, paying no heed to what had happened behind.

Korin felt rage. He’d never felt such a sensation before.

He saw it all plainly. He’d known there were secrets, but he never knew. . . he should have suspected. And he should have never left Spinner. Spinner was a good dwarf, a friend. He could annoy, but he would never leave someone behind like that, and Korin had. Korin was not mocked like Spinner. But Spinner let himself be left to save others while Korin had gone trailing after Firehelm. He’d been like a lamb bleating after its mother. His arms trembled up to his shoulders. He barely noticed where he was as he approached from behind.

“Firehelm!”

The prince didn’t turn. “Firehelm!” Still, the prince stared ahead, motionless. “You threatened her.” Korin stopped a few feet behind him, trembling.

“She was in love,” Firehelm said, not turning. “It’s a womanly flaw. More reason not to have Ice-Cloak ruled by a queen.” He chuckled, finally turning to face Korin. “And in love with a goatherd! He even refused to leave his filthy flocks and live under the mountain. She would have brought shame on us all, the mockery of the other colonies, and I told her so. I told her if she persisted in her folly, I would slay him. It was my duty and my destiny.”

“And so she forsook the throne.”

“I told you. Womanly folly.” He grinned.

“But the queen—”

“Is dying. She is the past. I am the future.”

“These are foul deeds, and you used me to work them.”

“You live to serve. You took that oath. To become a king is like becoming a master smith. One’s hands grow hard and stained.” Firehelm flexed his hands. “I could not deny my destiny.”

“What about Spinner’s destiny?”

“His destiny was to die in service to his prince. Didn’t I tell you before? We are not all meant for greatness. Few are. The rest are stepping stones. They live and they die in the light of our fires.”

But it felt like treason—no, it was treason. Even though the succession of rule was far from settled, it was treason against Queen Jade’s will, against the princess, against the will of the folk. And Korin had been a part of it. He was a fool, a stupid tool who trusted blindly, another hammer in Firehelm’s hand. Even if Korin lived, the shame would follow him.

“You are not like the others, Strikinghand. See how only we remain? You have a destiny, too. Stay at my side.”

“You didn’t choose me because I had eyes in my head.”

Firehelm smiled.

“Korin,” he said, emphasizing the true name. Korin hated the sound of it in his mouth. “You had eyes in your head. Eyes searching for your place, and to see what your reflection looked like in the faces of others. Especially mine. You have been useful and loyal. I did not lie that I would reward you. I will. I keep my word, whether words of death or words of life.”

Did he still think that they would make it out of there? How deluded was he? Korin didn’t even know what to say. Firehelm saw the hesitation.

“See for yourself.” The prince stepped aside.

In his anger Korin hadn’t noticed, but beyond Firehelm stood a natural outcrop of living ore. It rose through the floor of the heptagonal dais, an intrusion of natural rock. Behind it, the seventh pillar towered, but instead of symbols of climbing dwarves, the pillar depicted a twisting serpent breathing flames down at them. Its eyes were great fiery gems. The outcrop of ore seemed to glow with an inner luster, as if fire moved within it. Korin still couldn’t tell if it really was moving.

But more awesome than the intrusion of ore was what sat atop it—a great wide plate of smelted living steel, lustrous as on the day of forging, with a fine seam running down the middle. It couldn’t be much shy of three feet wide, and rows of fine runes covered its surface, small and dense and gleaming.

“What is it?”

“Victory,” Firehelm said. “Birthright. When I return with this, I bring back our inheritance. All the colonies of dwarves will flock to Ice-Cloak. All will kneel for what I’ve done.”

“No,” Korin said. “Twenty-seven others did it.”

“My worthy guard.”

“Worthy of better.”

“Worthy of the songs that will be sung.”

“We’re never getting back,” Korin said.

“You still understand nothing? Still, you have no faith? Is this not evidence of my destiny? We stand within the myths of our folk.”

“You’re not leaving,” Korin said. He gripped the haft of his halberd. Maybe the prince was right. Maybe this was destiny. But if it was, it was not good. And if Korin wanted the world to be anything, he wanted it to be good. He wanted it to be full of warm holds, song, drink, food, and most of all, brothers working together. He remembered Jet’s words: “Is he true?”

No, he wasn’t. And Korin would not follow a prince just because he was born.

Firehelm still had his halberd and shield. Korin had lost his own shield. That put him at a decided disadvantage. Once again, Firehelm seemed to read Korin’s mind.

“Korin, you are my Korin”—my protector.

“I am Korin of Ice-Cloak. I will protect our folk.” He was a prince’s dwarf no longer. Korin was a dwarf of Ice-Cloak.

“I am Ëglaszledum. I am the heart-fire of our folk.”

“Shut up!” Korin rushed, feinting high and then going for the knee. There was a gap above the prince’s grieves but below his hauberk. Firehelm wore fine mail, small links and double riveted, a coif beneath his helm and warmask. In the past, Korin had considered its quality with approval. Firehelm didn’t even bother to parry the upper feint, taking a step back out of danger and bringing his halberd blade across at Korin’s face with ease. Korin barely managed a step back. The blade nicked across his warmask.

“I see my gift has worth,” Firehelm said.

Lower thigh, wrist, hand, feet. These were his only chances to cut, and only the strongest thrust could break that mail. He couldn’t risk distance. Without a shield, a fight of spearheads would end him. He had to force blades. The hafts of their halberds cracked together in another exchange. A good blow could still break bone or crush head, the impact passing through steel. But to get such a blow, he had to overcome Firehelm’s defense, and the Queen’s Guard had raised him.

The prince cut downward and would have taken off Korin’s foot, but he high-stepped and brought down an overhand blow that cracked the edge of Firehelm’s shield. Firehelm grunted at the impact but moved into a fluid counter. Using middle guard, he jabbed the hewing blade toward Korin’s neck. Korin stepped back again. He couldn’t close the distance. In that moment, he had a strong feeling he was going to lose, but he knew nothing he’d ever done mattered so much for his folk, as awful as it was.

A few more passes and Korin took a strong blow to his flank. It didn’t cut, but it drove the air from his lungs. He would lose this battle of halberds. He swung from high guard, bringing the blade down even as he gasped for air. As Firehelm raised his haft to deflect, Korin let go of his weapon and rushed low, drawing his handaxe. Firehelm saw the trap and tried to step back, but Korin made it inside his guard.

Firehelm released his halberd and grabbed Korin’s arm, trying to keep the handaxe away. Korin held it just below the blade. They grappled. Korin pressed forward with his weight, slamming Firehelm into the outcrop of ore. The prince butted with his helm, slamming into Korin’s mask. Korin felt the shock but didn’t heed it, trying to wrest his axe free. Firehelm hooked Korin’s leg and threw him down hard, tearing the axe away.

Korin gasped for air and raised his arms, expecting a blow, but it didn’t come. A shaft of light pierced upward from the outcrop. In their struggle, they had struck and shifted the strange runic plate on the ore intrusion, and now light streamed from beneath its edge. Firehelm saw it and slid the wide artifact of living metal out of the way. Light poured forth and hot air blew against Firehelm’s beard as he leaned over a gaping hole in the stone.

“Do you see! Do you see the fire at the heart of the mountain?” Firehelm's tone was high pitched, as in a frenzy. “That is me! Ëglaszledum!”

Korin slid his camp knife from its sheath. His hands shook, but he held the knife firm.

Firehelm ignored him.

“What is this? Is it the fissure?” He looked up at the pillar above them, laughing. “Are you the dragon that Flintcoat so feared?” The red light and the shimmering heat framed him.

“You are the dragon,” Korin muttered. “You are Tukith-i-Ëgla.” The Mouth of Fire. The Spirit of fire.

He lunged, thinking the prince distracted. Firehelm twisted deftly to the side. He punched Korin with a gauntleted shield-hand, once, twice, three times in the center of his warmask. Korin felt the bridge of his nose snap as blood spurted down. Firehelm slammed the butt of the handaxe onto Korin’s wrist. The knife clattered to the stone. The prince brought his knee up hard into Korin’s stomach. Korin crumpled to his knees. Firehelm reached beneath Korin’s helm and pulled, snapping the straps and bringing helm and mask away together. He lifted the axeblade. His eyes gleamed with fevered distraction, as if the fight was barely worth notice.

The back of a halberd slammed down on Firehelm’s arm. The axe fell from his grasp, and his expression changed to shock. It was Spinner, dripping with water, eyes wide. He brought his halberd back but didn’t strike, looking from one to the other.

Korin lurched forward, grabbing Firehelm around the knees with shaking arms. His strength surged as he lifted, toppling the prince back into the hole in the ore outcrop. The prince grasped Korin’s braids as his upper body slid into the shaft, legs kicking wildly. Korin grabbed for the prince’s belt knife, drew it and slashed his own braids. His beard parted, the prince’s legs slipped down, and he was gone.

Korin recoiled and landed on the stone before the outcrop, breathing hard. He dragged himself back up and leaned over the shaft. It was much bigger than the opening. The edges of the hole overhung the shaft itself, the ore intrusion little more than a vent shell. Hot air stung Korin’s eyes. He squinted, trying to see below. The shaft glowed with a fierce haze of orange light. Korin couldn’t tell the source, could barely look down. He saw no bottom or sign of the prince.

Stepping back, he took a gasp of breath. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath against the hot sulphurous air flowing up from the hole. Spinner stood near, shield at his side, his halberd butt-end to the stone in resting stance. He watched Korin with a look of calm resignation, waiting for whatever came next.

Korin sized him up. Spinner had just watched him throw the prince of their mountain down a mysterious shaft in the middle of an ancient altar, and now he just stood there as if waiting for a guard assignment. But more than that, he was there at all.

“How are you alive?” Korin asked.

“Eh, it got sporting for a bit. I could have killed more if they’d kept coming, but after a while, they slammed the grating down and piled bodies atop it. Couldn’t lift it. I don’t think they ever came down here before. I haven’t smelled them since we came through the grate. Except on me.”

Korin realized the truth of it. There was no filth on the stones down there.

“I wish we hadn’t done that to our shields,” Spinner went on. “I liked this shield. I washed it in the water back there, and the rest of me, too, but I don’t think I’ll ever feel the same about it. What got Rendjaw?”

“Did you see what I just did?” It was a stupid question.

“You threw the prince down a vent shaft.”

“Why did you help me?” And not Firehelm, he meant.

Spinner tilted his head and squinted as if it was a strange question.

“If you of all dwarves were fighting the prince. . . Well, there has to be a reason. And to be honest, I didn’t care much for him.”

“What?” To Korin, Spinner may as well have said that he could shape-shift. They had followed the prince all the way to this forsaken ürsi hive on the edge of legend.

“Why did you come? Why did you join the guard?”

“It sounded more exciting than anything else.” Spinner scratched at his beard. “I will say I’ve regretted my decision.”

Korin gaped at him. The absurdity of the whole situation was too much for words. At least for him. Not so much for Spinner:

“Besides, I’ve had my suspicions. You can fill me in, if you’ll finally talk. If I don’t like it, I could probably kill you, too.”

Korin had never thought of Spinner as much of a warrior. He just thought of him as, well, Spinner. But he had come through battle after battle and fight after fight unscathed. His blond braids hung over thick shoulders, and the padded shirt beneath his brigandine could not hide the size of his forearms. He was quick, and he was accurate. He was a warrior among warriors. Why had Korin always overlooked this?

“If we ever get out of this ruin,” Korin said, “I’ll talk. But I don’t think we will, brother.”

“Well, not if we try to fight our way out.” Spinner grinned. How he could stay cheerful, Korin couldn’t fathom. “Wouldn’t mind taking a break, though.”

Just like that, he sat down on the stone, folded his legs beneath him, and leaned back against the ore outcrop as if he were in a peaceful camp. “Wish it wasn’t so flaming hot down here.” He unstoppered his waterskin and took a long drink. Korin realized that Spinner had three waterskins, and three rations bags, too. Spinner spoke on as if little was amiss.

“Wouldn’t want to live in a place like this. I like home. Stays cool. Can always take a dip in the hot spring if you like, but otherwise, nice and cool. It’d be miserable to forge in here. Do you think they did forge? Haven’t seen anything like a smithy. Strange dwarves, these ones. Wouldn’t mind having a pick in here. I’d love to bring a hunk of this back with me.” He patted the living ore.

“I think it’s a kind of sanctum,” Korin said.

The delving had started to make some sense to him. He had heard of sanctums in the old colonies, kept by the clerics who tried to capture the light of moon and stars in gems. He’d never heard of anything quite like this, but he felt sure it was meant to house whatever that thing was—the strange plate of luminous metal that lay on the stone next to the outcrop. It had folded closed along the seam when it fell, hiding the runes. It must have had cleverly wrought hinges.

“Eh. Never saw much use to that sort of thing,” Spinner said. “Clerics and starlight and all.”

Korin shook his head. He hadn’t, either. He bent down and touched the strange artifact, then he picked it up. It was heavy. He lay it back atop the outcrop and flipped it open, covering the hole again. Up close, he could see the fine hinges. In any other metal, they should have snapped under the plate’s own weight. He saw again the dense lines of engraved runes. Whoever made it had wanted to preserve some story or knowledge. He remembered Flintcoat’s tale. Was this the dîrthna? He sighed. He really just needed to sit down.

22

The Secret Way

Despite the uncomfortable heat, they slept right there, surrounded by the massive pillars and the living ore. They didn’t bother to trade watches. If the ürsi came, they came.

When Korin woke, he had no sense of time. Spinner was already up, walking around behind the heptagon dais near the north pillar. He didn’t have his shield or halberd with him, and he was tossing a chunk of the living ore up and down with one hand while talking to himself.

Korin climbed to his feet, sore and bruised. He rotated his shoulder, hearing a click as his muscles worked loose. He’d taken a couple solid blows. Spinner saw the movement.

“Good waking,” he said in a tone that wouldn’t have been out of place in the Chamber of Waters on an uneventful day. That thought reminded Korin of the cool fresh air of home.

“Good waking,” he replied, but he didn’t mean it. Spinner stepped back onto the dais and came to stand next to him, still tossing the ore. When Korin said nothing, he continued:

“Used Firehelm’s halberd as a pick.”

Korin nodded.

Spinner kept tossing the ore and catching it. It started to irritate Korin, so he spoke.

“What now?”

“Well, we could head back and try the grate.”

“And hope the ürsi aren’t there?”

“Probably wouldn’t get through. The grate was thick and this living steel is strong stuff. It’s covered in a pile of corpses, and the hinges were inset into the top of the stone.”

“So we’re trapped.”

“That’s what I was wondering.”

“What’s to wonder?”

“Never knew anyone not to dig a second way.”

It was true. Dwarves always dug backup exits in their mines in case of cave-ins or other exigencies. The only time they didn’t was when focused on defense. That’s why Ice-Cloak had just one adit, and digging others was forbidden. But Korin hadn’t seen a single serious defensive measure in this whole place. He didn’t think the trap that got Rendjaw counted. That was something else.

“Seems like it was meant to be a path to right here,” Korin said. “It’s not a colony or a mine.”

“Still, let’s say your were some kind of cleric, and you had to stay here all the time or come down here and do whatever. You think you could keep from digging. At least a little?”

“I’m not sure I understand the type of dwarves that made this place.”

“Eh, I kind of do. They were telling a story. They carved it to tell a story. . . About the first dwarves and the pillars of creation. Reckon the crevasse beneath the grate was supposed to be the fissure, then the stair down, and these are the pillars of creation and the living ore. We’re supposed to be under the firmament.”

It made sense.

“Fine. But how does that help us?”

“Well, I’ve heard a lot of stories. Knew a dwarf worked with the enamelers in the Face. He could really tell the Battle of Five Kings. Made me feel like I was there. He had scars that he got there, too. Told us all about it. Even told us what he heard Brokenspear say. I swear, I listened to him tell that story a dozen times and loved it the last more than the first.”

“So?” Korin asked. He’d heard descriptions of the battle from survivors as well, though many didn’t want to talk about it.

“Turns out he didn’t get to Ice-Cloak until two years after the battle.”

“You’re joking.”

“Nope. I believed every word he said, but turns out, he never even saw Brokenspear alive.”

“Were you mad?” Korin asked. Spinner grinned.

“Not really. Impressed more like. He told a great story.”

“So, what does that have to do with us?” As strange as Spinner’s account was, they still stood in the bowels of a hot mountain buried under a pile of bodies.

“Well, just that a story isn’t a good story because it’s true. At least, not completely true.”

Korin squinted, getting an inkling of what Spinner was talking about.

“You think there’s a hidden way.”

“Well, look at it like this.” Spinner stamped on the rock. “What is this?”

Korin looked down.

“Gneiss.” The same polished, gorgeously veined stone the ancient dwarves had used for all the masonry down there.

“And look around.”

Korin did. It took him a few moments, as if trying to think through a fog. When it hit him, it came all at once. Of course. The cavern walls were dark, with streaks of glassy obsidian. The gneiss had not come from this cavern. There was no gneiss down there. It had to have been brought. The scope of such a project was staggering.

Spinner saw when Korin caught on.

“They didn’t bring this all down through the crevasse. Some of these blocks are too large. So, I think there’s another way. Hidden now so that it doesn’t break the story of the place.”

Korin looked toward the northern pillar where he’d seen Spinner walking.

“That’s the most obvious place,” Korin said.

“Ay. That’s why it’s probably not there.”

“Hmmph.” Korin looked around the edge of the platform and the bases of the pillars.

Spinner looked up at the cavern roof and pointed.

“Second pillar on the right.”

Korin looked up. He didn’t see anything unusual at all. The tall pillar rose to the ceiling, just like the others. The pilaster ended in a heptagonal capital.

“What about it?”

“Miner’s eye.”

The faint glow of miner’s eye followed the edges of the heptagonal capital where it met the ceiling. Korin glanced around, but no such line of miner’s eye traced any of the other capitals. Compared to the halls Korin had seen in the upper portions of the delving, this cavern had relatively little miner’s eye. He knew that the red varieties were difficult to propagate, the rarest of all the luminous fungi. He didn’t know much about the propagation, but it grew better in some places than others. Red miner’s eye liked drier conditions, for one. He thought of the water dripping into the pool. This was the first cavern or chamber with much humidity. That was part of why the heat felt so oppressive, he was sure.

“So, you think there’s something different about that pillar.”

Spinner nodded and walked over to it, stepping down from the heptagon dais and onto the lower part of the platform. He put his hands on the base of the pillar. Korin joined him. The seamwork of the masonry was immaculate. A fingernail couldn’t fit between the blocks, and they were perfectly smooth and polished. This was dwarven working to marvel at, fine beyond flaw. There was no sign of an opening or hidden way. Each layer of stone was offset, not by a full half but by a quarter. It gave the slight impression of twisting movement as the pillar rose. It would have been nearly impossible to hide a secret door in that masonry.

They circled around behind. Only then did Korin notice that the pillars did not actually touch the sloping walls of the cavern. The platform continued on the other side of the pillar for another seven feet before ending at a sheer edge. There was a two-foot gap and then the sloping cavern wall. That was a bit odd. Korin would have built the platform flush with the natural stone. They approached the edge and peered down. It was dark, but they could see buttresses curving up from the rock below, and the stone they stood on looked to be layered three feet thick. The cavern walls closed in beneath the platform. Again, Korin marveled at the engineering. Then he saw something, a narrow groove in the obsidian wall across from the pillar. There was another below it, and below that. Intentional cuts down the cavern wall, hard to see in the black rock. They continued as the stone sloped beneath the platform.

“There,” he said, pointing. Spinner looked and grinned.

“That’s it.”

“Could just be from the building,” Korin answered. It didn’t make sense, though. They would have needed a way to move up and down, but that would have been easier with scaffolding. He certainly wouldn’t have cut the rock like this for labor. The cuts were too small for scaffold footings.

“We’ll find out.” Spinner ran back. Korin watched him grunt as he put on his pack. It hung low. By the look of it, Spinner was the only one who had kept most of his gear, as well as three rations pouches and three waterskins. He looked comically loaded down. Korin suspected one set of supplies had been Rendjaw’s. And the other? It took Korin a moment. Meadsong.

Had Korin seen Meadsong die? Or had he left him behind without another glance? The thought made him feel sick. Hefter and Stoutarm, too, buying them time.

After donning his pack, pouches, and skins, Spinner grabbed his halberd and shield, but when he returned to the wall, he frowned. “You know, I’m not sure we’re gonna be able to take these,” he said. “We’ll see after.” He set down halberd and shield and with barely a hesitation leaned out and grabbed the highest groove. It was just wide enough to fit four fingers, excluding the thumb. He planted his other hand against the smooth obsidian as he jammed his foot into one of the lower grooves.

“There’s a bit of a dip in it,” he said. “Makes it easier.” With that, he started climbing. Korin watched until he disappeared under the platform ten feet below. He sighed. It was his turn. Korin grabbed the groove himself, feeling that inner dip Spinner had mentioned. He pressed his boot in below and worked his way down. It grew dimmer, but his eyes adjusted quickly. When he was below the platform, he paused and looked around. The bases of the seven pillars jutted up from the closing rock at the bottom of the cavern, intertwined with a whole network of buttresses and supports for the stone platform above. In the center of all, the intrusion of living ore thrust like a spear through the underside of the platform. Korin had seen intrusions of rock plenty of times before. For one to be left over like this, hanging in the air, it was normally because the surrounding rock had been softer and worn away by water. Or maybe as the aftermath of the cataclysm when the world was settling.

Just below him, where the cavern wall nearly reached the pillar, there was a small stone landing wide enough for a single dwarf to stand. There was no room for Korin. Spinner stood on the landing, pressing his hands against the stones of the pillar, groping here and there. Something gave under his palm. He put his shoulder against the stone and pushed. A section swung inward with a groan. Spinner crouched and peered inside.

“Stairway,” he said. “But it’ll be tight. Probably too tight for the halberds, but I’ll want my shield.” He turned and looked at Korin. There was no way they were going to pass each other. Korin tried not to grumble as he backtracked up to the platform. He hauled himself over onto the stone floor, then slung Spinner’s shield over his shoulder and climbed back down. Spinner had already gone inside the pillar. The door was only three feet tall. Korin crouched, looking in. It was dark, but he could still see the bottom of the narrow, curving stair. Spinner was right, there was no getting a halberd up there. Even the shield was going to be a pain. He ducked inside and then passed the shield to Spinner, who grinned down at him.

He couldn’t help admiring Spinner. Korin wouldn’t have noticed, would not have had the determination to look. He would have died down there, starved most likely, or jumped before that slow end. Still, they were a long way from the surface.

“Right,” Spinner said. “Up we go.”

Regardless of whether miner’s eye grew near the pillar capital, there was none inside the pillar. It was hot and close and dark and it didn’t feel like the air had moved in a thousand years. The outer leather of Korin’s brigandine was slashed and torn, and the exposed steel beneath scraped on the stone as he pressed against the center column of the sharp spiral stair. The steps were a tad high. Whoever built this hadn’t meant it for comfort. The crevasse was the primary route into the sanctum after construction, but the builders must have lowered the gneiss into this cavern from above, closing up the hole with the top of the pillar.

As they climbed, Korin estimated their distance, in part to keep his mind off the miserable ascent. Each step looked to be about nine inches, a ridiculous stretch to make over and over. Nine inches for each step, his thigh muscles burning. He counted those steps, trying to gauge their level. He suspected they had been about one hundred fifty yards from the cavern roof. Dwarves had an uncanny intuition of space and measurement. He did some calculations. They must be about halfway. He was wet with sweat. They took a short break to drink a few sips of water, but Spinner didn’t want to wait long.

The stair kept going and going, turning and turning up through the hot mountain. How deep they were, Korin could not guess. From the point they entered, they couldn’t have come anywhere near the center of the mountain on a north axis. They hadn’t seen a real dragon, and he still didn’t know why the mountain smoked. He was sure it had something to do with the sulfur air which vented into the sanctum, but that was about it. They should have been through the roof of the cavern, but the stair kept going. Korin needed a drink again. He unstoppered his waterskin as they climbed. Just another swallow. He couldn’t be wasteful with what little he had left, but he’d stopped sweating, and that wasn’t a good sign. The stair spiraled on. Korin’s back ached. He couldn’t stand up straight in the constrained space. Spinner was humming ahead of him, somehow a cheerful tune. Then the humming stopped.

“Shame about Meadsong,” Spinner said while climbing. “Shame about all of them.”

Korin grew tired of counting, but it must have been close to a thousand feet before they staggered through a low arch and into a sideways drift. Korin tried to get his bearings. What direction did they face? The spiraling of the stair had confused him. He no longer felt sure of the direction or even the time of day. It was dark within the drift, with only scant traces of miner’s eye to give light. The way sound bounced off the stone told him it was spacious. The floor and walls near him were hewn from the natural rock.

Korin wiped his face with both hands. His eyes stung and burned.

Wait. He hadn’t put his mask and helm back on after the fight with Firehelm. He’d tucked his axe and knife back in his belt before he’d slept, but the strap of his helm had broken and he’d been distracted when he woke.

Then he remembered the dîrthna. He groaned out loud. He had forgotten about that, too. Waking up to a search for a hidden escape had distracted him. The dîrthna must still be lying there in the sanctum. Should he go back all that way, or just leave it there? Leaving behind such a treasure seemed irrational. But the thought of a return down that stair, and then another climb up. . . His legs ached, his whole body ached, and he felt lightheaded. Let it stay for another thousand years.

It wouldn’t stay, though. The ürsi knew about the sanctum now. They might wait a while, but he suspected they’d come, eventually. That treasure of dwarven antiquity would fall into their clutches. What would an ürsi do with it? What did it matter? If he took it to Ice-Cloak, he would be a hero. For a moment, he pictured it. He saw his uncle’s face. Korin shook his head to drive away the images. Such glory Firehelm had wanted for himself, and Korin had killed him. No, let the dîrthna lay there. He couldn’t stand to be a hero.

“Are you well?” Spinner asked.

Korin nodded.

“It’s nothing.”

“May as well rest here for a bit.”

Korin sat down on the rock. It was gneiss, though unpolished.

Spinner jumped back to his feet.

“Look,” he said. There was a recess in the wall near the opening of the stair. Korin had thought it a natural feature in the dim light, but now that he looked closer, he could tell that it was carved. Spinner reached inside. He fumbled around, then pulled something out. It gleamed. It was living steel, and fashioned into a familiar shape. “There are tool blades here.” The piece in his hand looked like the head of a mining mattock. Spinner leaned it against the rock and drew out another, a smaller pick-head. “No hafts, though.”

“I reckon the hafts would have rotted,” Korin said. “It’s a cave-in stash.”

Claim miners made cave-in stashes on each level of their delvings—extra tools in case of emergency. Normally, they stored water and dried rations, too. Cave-ins were rare in dwarven tunnels. Queen Jade’s mine wardens constantly inspected for proper bracings or any sign of instability in the claim mines, but such things happened from time to time. It was rare for any dwarves to die, but it was an inconvenience to the workings.

Korin tried to rest as Spinner attempted to stuff the mattock head into his belt. It was comical how weighed down he looked with pack and rations and tools and waterskins.

“Are you sure you want to take those?”

“You’d leave them?” Spinner asked, as if the idea was absurd.

“Here.” Korin reached out and took the pick head. He undid his belt, ran the leather through the haft-hole, and put his belt back on. The mattock-head he hefted in his hands.

“This is too heavy.” It was no heavier than any other mattock, but a miner didn’t carry a mattock in his belt when he expected to have to run for his life. What the dwarves called a mattock was considerably larger than a dwarven pick, which had a chisel-like point and a narrower blade used for finer stonework. A mattock was a bulkier tool with broad blades meant for brute-force slamming into rock. Spinner sighed.

“The pick, then.”

Korin nodded. He’d just have to carry it. It was a treasure, true. In Round-Hold, even the sight of the unsmelted living ore had mesmerized Korin. Now he begrudged carrying a tool of priceless living steel.

23

Mining Fire

They hadn’t gone fifty yards before they came upon a collapse. The tunnel wall had fallen in, and it looked like obsidian had poured into the tunnel like water and frozen there. Surely, the tunnel was there first. That meant that the obsidian had moved since the digging of the tunnel, just as at the entrance. There was heat in this mountain. Perhaps heat enough to melt the rock. Spinner climbed up the hardened flow of obsidian. There was a gap between it and the drift-back.

“Looks like we can squeeze through,” he said. Spinner slid his burdens ahead, then followed on his belly. Korin watched his boots wriggle out of sight. At length, he heard Spinner’s voice.

“Through.”

Korin sighed and climbed the obsidian on hands and knees. He crawled through on his belly. It was easy to get stuck in a gap like that. The old dwarf miners always said: “only the pick-less squeeze.” Better to widen a gap than die. His hauberk scraped on the drift back, but he made it well enough, sliding down the far side of the obsidian flow. Spinner grinned and they kept walking.

The colonies of miner’s eye grew more plentiful, snaking along fissures in the rock. They passed side chambers, quarries for the gneiss that had built the workings below. Here the dwarves of old must have delved for centuries, abandoning the quarries when their work was complete, leaving only a hidden stair behind. Yet it made sense, purely for practicality, that there would be another, more direct way out of the mountain for the laborers. At first, Korin and Spinner wasted time checking the massive quarries for adits, but they found nothing but dead-ends and more strange flows of hardened obsidian. Always, they returned to the wide drift that had led them from the spiraling stair.

“If there’s an adit, it’s along this drift,” Spinner said. Korin agreed, and they checked the quarries no more.

It wasn’t long before Korin noticed the air grow even hotter. He struggled to breathe. Spinner kept quiet as he walked in the lead. Deep breaths burned, both from sulfur and heat. Ahead, a faint shaft of light rose up at an angle from near the dusty floor. A round hole about six inches wide was drilled two feet through the rock, and on the other side, they could see bright light. Spinner knelt down and looked through it.

“Take a look,” he said, rising. Korin knelt. He looked down at a hall from above—the one with the dwarven statues serving as support pillars for the expansive domed ceiling. He could see ürsi moving about below, armed males as well as females. In that hall, Bronzedelver had died.

Now Korin knew where they were. The drift had brought them south. With relative accuracy, he could pinpoint their location. Good. Korin didn’t know how much more of this he could take. The air felt thick to swallow. He pressed his face against the drilled hole and breathed deep. The air from below was cooler, and it helped, though he could taste the stench of ürsi.

“Alright,” he said, standing back up. They continued on. The heat was like standing near an open kiln. Dwarves minded neither great heat nor great cold. They could stand before a glowing forge with little discomfort, but this heat was like nothing Korin had known.

The drift came to four rough steps down and a narrow chamber of rough-hewn walls. It was dark within. Tool marks scored the unfinished surfaces. There was a closed stone door in the far corner of the room. With his sense of direction restored, Korin knew it was southeast. It felt good to have his bearings again. But the air did not feel good.

“How can it be so hot?” Korin asked, opening his skin and taking another swallow of water. The skin was nearly empty. Without a word, Spinner unslung one of his waterskins and handed it to Korin. Then, he pointed to the door. They walked over to it. There was a grooved handhold in the stone, and the hinges were on their side. It would open inward. There was a slot that must have once held an iron bar, but only reddish stains on the rock remained. Spinner grabbed the groove and leaned back, pulling. It grated and moved about an inch before Spinner had to pause and catch his breath. Korin wiped his face again. There was no sweat, just the dry heat. Korin turned his back to the northern wall. The south felt the slightest bit cooler.

That was strange. Why would part of the room be hotter than another? He turned to face north again. The north wall of the chamber radiated heat, and as he looked. . . it glowed red. Not so much as miner’s eye, but like steel barely heated in the forge. Yet it was rock. There were still tool marks in it. Spinner gave the stone door another heave, gaining a couple of groaning inches this time. A crack of light appeared around the door, and there was a sucking sound. A draft of cooler air blew through the crack, as if the chamber drew it inward. The new air stank of ürsi, but anything cooler was better.

Korin stared at the rock wall, unsure if what he saw was real. It was not every day that a dwarf saw something in the stone he had never seen before, but then, this mountain was unlike anything he’d ever seen. He took a step toward the glow, then another. The closer he got, the hotter it grew, heat emanated from the wall. He had to squint. It felt like pressure against his face. He reached out a hand, but the heat was so intense he dare not touch the stone. Instead, he pulled his knife and stuck it against the rock. The rock was soft. The tip of his knife dug in as if he had stuck it in wood, and the sound of the steel on the stone was wrong. He backed away, the heat stinging his skin and eyes.

A rush of cool air flowed against his back, and the rock flickered and dimmed for a moment. He turned, blobs of color floating in his vision. Spinner had pushed the door open to a ninety-degree angle. He heard the sound of ürsi beyond.

Together, they looked out, feeling the air flowing against their faces. It reeked, but they took great deep breaths. They recognized the hall beyond. They were on the highest gallery of the first hall the dwarves had found after descending into the mountain. As he had seen before, there appeared to be no other doors or entrances along the upper galleries. They would not have seen this door before. The carvers had left no sign of the door from without when it was closed. The precision and angles of the stone cutting let Korin know hardly a seam would remain when the door was closed.

On the south end of the galleried hall, Korin could see the archway of the tunnel landing. Through it rose the stairs that led to the surface. The larger northern arch must lay directly below them. In the middle of the hall a fire still burned, its smoke rising rancid and dark. The air here felt cooler and damper than the rest of the delving had. There was little of the miner’s eye growing, but he could still see the ürsi that swarmed below. Armed fighters mixed among the females and young, and they were riled. Their racket filled the echoing chamber. It didn’t look like the she-ürsi were happy with the presence of the males, and he saw one of the she-ürsi knock a few of the smaller fighters down with her the powerful claws. They had gotten too near her cubs. He saw that a few male ürsi had climbed to the second gallery, but there were none on the third. With the ground level swarming all the way to the gallery stairs, there was no chance of slipping out of the hall unnoticed.

“That doesn’t look good,” Spinner whispered.

“I’m not sure there’s any use,” Korin said. “But we could always die fighting.” Korin wasn’t sure he would know what to do if he escaped, but he also didn’t relish the idea of being eaten alive. He hoped that when it came to it, they killed him first.

“I’d rather not do the dying part,” Spinner said. Korin didn’t reply. Spinner set a hand on Korin’s shoulder. They locked eyes. “You had a life before Firehelm,” Spinner said. “You can have a life again. But we need to get out of this mountain.”

Korin didn’t argue, but he felt it was a lie. What life had he had before the prince? What life could he have now, carrying the weight of these memories? It felt unimaginable down in this dank, filthy, smokey, hot. . . Extremely hot. Korin looked back into the chamber behind.

“The heat,” he said. “It’s coming from that wall.” Spinner looked back and squinted. He’d been preoccupied with the door and hadn’t heeded Korin’s exploration. Now, he approached the north wall of the chamber warily. He reached out a hand but drew it back.

“What is it?”

“It’s soft, like heated metal,” Korin said. “Like there’s a fire behind it.”

“No fire could melt stone.”

Korin remembered the story Spinner had told him back home.

“Dragonfire,” Korin said.

“That’s a myth.”

“Well, whatever can melt stone, it’s behind that wall.”

Spinner retreated from the heat. He stood with Korin in the doorway, sheltering in the cooler flow of air while staring back at the heated rock.

“It’s a myth,“ Spinner muttered. “But it’s a good myth.” He grinned, then. “If there’s a dragon behind that stone, and we let it out, it would probably eat us.”

“What are you talking about?”

“A story,” he said. “If there was a dragon behind that wall, and we let it out, it’d probably eat us.” Korin frowned and didn’t reply. Spinner kept on. “But it would probably eat the ürsi too. I was hoping we could fool the ürsi. Maybe skin one and wear its hide. But we aren’t going to get through that throng. If I have to die, I’d rather die by dragon than ürsi, and I’d rather the ürsi die, too.”

Korin did not believe there was a dragon behind the rock. He was almost entirely sure he did not believe there was a dragon behind the rock. But something was behind that rock, or in it, and he had no idea what. The rocks had melted in the cataclysm, yes, but that had been. . . well, the cataclysm.

“I’d probably choose for a dragon to devour me, too, rather than an ürsi. I don’t expect to get that choice.”

“The dragon isn’t important,” Spinner said.

“Then why are you talking about dragons?” Korin caught himself raising his voice and looked back over his shoulder. The ürsi still shrieked and gibbered amongst themselves.

“Because there’s something dangerous there, and we may as well let it out.” Spinner tapped the pick-head hanging on Korin’s belt. “Give it to me.”

Korin undid his belt and let the pick slide off, then handed it over. Spinner sat down on the stone, folding his legs under him. He slipped his knife and handaxe out of his belt. Axeheads were fit hot on tapered hafts, split and wedged, and then a pin driven through. The haft itself was shorter than a rock pick’s handle, but it was something. Spinner bent the tip of his knife while loosening the pin, but he got it. He went back down the drift a fair distance to slam the axehead off the haft so the ürsi wouldn’t hear. But he managed to free it. Then, he trimmed and set the pickhead onto the haft. The socket of the pickhead was a tad wider than the axehead. To keep it from shaking loose, Spinner used shards of rock to wedge the split more. It was the quick work of twenty minutes.

“Better shut the door,” Spinner said as he hefted the pick of living steel. Korin put his back against the door and got it most of the way shut. There was still a crack, but he didn’t want to shut out all the cooler air. His lungs hurt and his nostrils burned. Even cracked, the thick door should muffle the noise, and the boisterous ürsi certainly weren’t listening.

“Well,” Spinner said. “Let’s mine.” He strode to the glowing rock and struck hard in the center. The blow left a deep score, but the noise was muted—not nearly as loud as it ought to be. Dwarves knew the sounds of metal on rock, knew the tones of vibrations in tools and the timbre of the stone. They could tell much from the sound of struck rock, from the temper of their tools to the consistency of the minerals. This sounded like nothing Korin had heard before. It was too dull. Too soft. Spinner didn’t waste time standing in the heat. He struck again and again with quick accurate blows. A piece of stone broke away. He kicked it aside. After a few minutes, he retreated. He handed the pick to Korin. Even the wood of the haft was hot. Spinner took a drink from a skin and nodded.

“Your turn.”

Korin didn’t last nearly as long as Spinner before he retreated. His beard protected some of his face, but he wore no helm or mask. He had added to the gouge, though. The rock grew softer and glowed brighter the deeper they struck. Spinner traded off with him, attacking the rock with fresh vigor. The chunks that broke away glowed a dull orange. One fell on Spinner’s boot and stuck there, smoking into the leather before he kicked it away. They traded five times, each driving into the rock with all their strength, gulping down their dwindling water between. They threw two empty skins onto the rock, with little left in the others. Korin’s arms and shoulders shook, even the muscles in his neck, but accuracy was not important. He struck and struck and struck.

During Spinner’s next turn a whole fracture-line in the rock gave way, and a thick facet of the wall collapsed. Spinner recoiled with a cry. Searing heat washed all the way back to Korin.

“The door!” Spinner gasped. Korin grabbed the grooved handle and pulled. It was easier to open this time. He got it wide enough to squeeze through into the air of the upper gallery. They crouched down and glanced back into the chamber. Spinner patted at the smoking leather of his brigandine. The hair of his beard had singed. Bright light emanated from within the chamber, and they squinted to look inside. The wall glowed with fierce orange heat. Flakes like bits of fiery hammerscale fell to the floor and broke apart like sparks. The wall bulged, hung for a moment, then broke like a slow bubble. And when it broke, it flowed.

24

The Surface

The heat forced them back around the sides of the doorway, blinking away spots in their vision. Korin had seen the blinding stone flowing and bubbling out of the wall. Molten rock, as if melted in a great crucible. Flames leapt from the ground at its expanding edges. Korin couldn’t believe it, and yet he’d seen it with his own dazzled eyes. It was the most beautiful and powerful thing he’d ever beheld. He glanced around the door again, squinting. The molten rock flowed faster and faster as the rock fractured, glowing semi-formed facets of rock falling away as the wall collapsed. The flow was feet from the door, and Korin couldn’t look inside anymore. He leaned back against the stone.

“Well, there goes our hiding place,” Korin said, trying to blink away the floating lights.

“Keep your wits, Strikinghand,” Spinner said.

The gallery had a stone rail running around its edge at waist height, made of fine-carved stone balusters and a banister running between the support pillars. There were at least six inches between every baluster, and the balusters themselves were only two inches wide, as if turned on a lathe. Bright light flowed across the ceiling of the hall. Crouched back against the stone, Korin couldn’t see below, but the ürsi had grown hushed. They could not have missed the light.

“Get to the stair.” Spinner rose and pushed Korin in the direction of the stair, but instead of following, Spinner stepped into the doorway pushed the door open wide with his shoulder, growling against the wash of the heat. Korin waited until Spinner turned and followed him, gasping. They hunched as they moved, keeping below the railing and near the wall. The stairway was halfway down the western side of the gallery, and they lay on their bellies on the upper landing. The whole northern end of the upper gallery glowed with orange light. A few confused outcries broke the hush below. If the ürsi rushed up to investigate, Korin knew they were done for.

The light grew even brighter. He could see every singed hair of Spinner’s beard. Molten rock flowed out of the door and pressed against the balusters of the railing. For a moment, it looked as if the rail held back the flow. Bits of a black skin-like film patched the molten rock. It pooled and bulged in the gaps between balusters. A single viscous lump fell, dropping below Korin’s sight. He heard screeching. The molten rock deepened, a foot high at the railing. All at once, the resistance failed and the rock flowed between the balusters, reconnecting and running over the edge of the gallery in a scaly sheet of fire.

The cavern erupted with a din of shrieks and screams. The stairs from the second gallery to the main hall were only a few yards beyond the base of the stairs where Spinner and Korin waited. Ürsi from the second gallery ran past, desperate to reach the lower hall. They never looked behind to see the two dwarves peering down from above. A few stragglers trailed behind, and the scramble on the second gallery ended.

Spinner tapped Korin and motioned down. They stayed low as they crept down to the second gallery and the next set of stairs. From there, they could see the chaos below. At the end of the hall, the molten rock flowed like a waterfall directly in front of the wide arch of the northern tunnel, pooling and creeping outward, flames leaping at the edges.

A mass of ürsi swarmed the arch that led to the surface, fighting to escape. And fight it was. The she-ürsi, much taller and fiercer than the males, slashed down with their long claws. Rather than fight back, the males pushed away, running into and fighting each other instead. The she-ürsi scrabbled, trying to gather their young about their legs, but the kits were being trampled and scattered in the chaos. More ürsi fled into the hall from the northern tunnel, screeching as they dodged the growing pool of fire and raced to join the madness at the southern arch.

The light flared and the fall of molten rock surged, sending flaming spatters halfway across the floor. The whole side of the third gallery around the doorway was nothing more than a streaming flow of fire pouring over the edge. As it fell into the pool below, the molten rock piled high as if it couldn’t flow away fast enough. Already it rose six feet high in the middle and growing, flames fanning outward, hissing and crackling. An ürsi ran from the north archway in the last few feet of space, but as it did, its hair and clothes caught fire. It raced flaming and screeching through the hall. Others behind it stopped in the archway, gyrating and screaming. The last of the gap disappeared, trapping them behind. Korin could feel the air within the hall pulsing with heat, the fire sucking the moisture away. It was bright as day.

Now that the flow of ürsi from the north was cut off, the pressure lessened near the south arch. A few ürsi fighters rolled as they throttled each other. A she-ürsi flailed at anything that moved near its dead young. But many were escaping through the arch.

“Get ready,” Spinner whispered, choking up on the haft of the pick and slipping his shield down from his shoulder. Korin drew his axe with one hand, and lacking a shield, he drew his knife with the other.

“Shouldn’t we wait?” Korin asked.

“Can’t let ‘em catch their wits,” Spinner said. “Just hope it’s night.”

Korin took a deep breath. In another minute, the only ürsi remaining were fighting, crazed, dying, or dead.

“Now!” Spinner sprinted down the stairs and Korin followed. The molten rock had covered nearly a third of the hall.

Korin had expected a reaction from the ürsi, but those left were so crazed that they hardly noticed the two dwarves rush by. They gave the frothing she-ürsi a wide berth, and then they were through the arch, stumbling over more dead ürsi trampled in the mad rush. Some injured were trying to crawl. Spinner and Korin dodged and jumped and kicked their way through, and then they were on the stairs. How far had this stairway gone when they first descended? Korin could barely think, let alone remember. The further up they climbed, the fewer bodies. They could hear howls ahead. They overtook a limping ürsi. Spinner slammed the chisel-end of the pick into its skull as he passed, not even slowing down as he yanked it free. Korin watched for light ahead and hoped it was night. His heart pounded, and his lungs felt raw and pained. The stair ended at a pile of ürsi dead and the solid black intrusion of obsidian. The hole opened overhead to the dark of night. Scrambling over the bodies, Spinner reached up, hooked the pick, and heaved himself out in one motion. He turned and reached down. Korin slipped his knife into his belt and grasped the hand, pushing off the stone with his legs as Spinner hauled him bodily to the surface.

The night was overcast, without so much as the light of stars. Oh blessed night! The howls of the ürsi rose in unceasing din all around. There were growls and the sound of fighting. Shadowy forms raced erratically in all directions. There were more bodies on the ground around the hole. Spinner broke to the west, toward the salty wind. Blessed wind! It felt so cold on Korin’s raw skin. He followed, lashing out with his axe at the figure of an ürsi emerging from the dark. He felt the steel bite but didn’t stop to see the ürsi fall, pulling the axe away behind him.

He ran and he didn’t sweat. There seemed to be no more sweat in his whole body. He focused on Spinner, running, running, not looking back. Korin stumbled and grunted. Spinner came back and helped him up off the bare rock, only to fall himself a few yards later. Korin lifted him, and side by side they ran, bags and waterskins jostling. Spinner’s heavy pack slammed into his back with every stride. What did he still have in there after all that time?

Spinner ran out of breath and they slowed to a walk, doubled over and grasping his knees, still moving as he heaved. No doubt, his heavy load had worn him down, for Korin was sure Spinner was the healthier of the two. He laid a hand on Spinner’s pack.

“You don’t need to carry all this,” he said. Spinner spoke between breaths:

“We may need it.” He straightened and walked on, still breathing hard. Not if we die, Korin thought, but said nothing. From then on, they walked. They could hear the ürsi howls behind, but they heard no sound of pursuit.

When the morning light brightened the east, they were only two miles from the sea. They reached the berm of gravel and sand above the shore less than an hour later. They slid down the black sand and broken shells and lay against the base of the rise. Korin emptied the last swallow from his waterskin, and Spinner emptied his. Korin’s lips were cracked, blistered, and bleeding.

Spinner looked over at Korin and grimaced.

“You’ve looked better,” he said. Korin reached a hand up to his face. He felt blisters. He lowered his hand, and it brushed his beard. The hair was crispy and hard in the braids. The front of Spinner’s brigandine was flame-darkened, and his lips and beard below his mask were scorched as well. Korin laughed. Spinner looked surprised, then he grinned, and then he too laughed. Korin’s eyes burned as his dehydrated body tried to form tears.

They allowed themselves a few hours to rest. Sheer exhaustion demanded it. Korin lay and stared at the blue sky above, watching the seabirds wheel overhead. He shivered at the cold, but he didn’t care. Cold was a sweet sensation. He basked in the sapphire blue of the sky above. The clouds had rolled further east in the early morning. How did he deserve to gaze upon the sky again? It was a privilege that only he and Spinner enjoyed of all their shield companions. He thought of Ironroot and Slipstone back home, maimed at the Battle of the Ridge. They were fortunate. Thirty-six dwarves had served Firehelm since the beginning of the Prince’s Guard.

At midday, they moved, taking slow steps down the beach. They had to keep moving. Korin longed for a stream flowing down the shingle, clashing with the waves in bitter-sweet union. If ürsi had come over the rise, or a troll, Korin might have just knelt down and waited, but all they saw were birds and kimgrip and a few lenock who stared with large, brown eyes. Even the creatures of the shore did not consider the two weary figures much of a threat.

They slept on the sands that night, nestled against the rise. The waters expanded and withdrew. Before dawn, they moved again, and in the morning, they came upon a shallow brook flowing into the sea. They drank until Korin felt he would vomit. Then he waited and drank some more. They filled their water skins, grunting at the added weight, but thankful.

“Do you think you could find Round-Hold again?” Korin asked.

“I’m not sure. We may have already passed it. Or it is ahead. I’m not sure.” He motioned toward the sea. “This all looks the same.”

Korin nodded. He’d been fevered when they’d first gone to Round-Hold, and they had left beneath the stone. All he remembered clearly was that it lay within sight of the sea. But they could hardly risk walking exposed on the berm.

It was a few hours later that Korin saw a familiar outcropping of dark rock. He tapped Spinner’s shoulder.

“Ravensbeak,” he said, pointing. Spinner nodded. At least they could sleep in shelter that night. Korin looked over at the golden-hued westering light. It might be dark before they reached the basalt outcrop and the ruins beneath.

“Well,” said a clear voice. “It’s a good thing you were ugly to begin with.”

Korin spun around. She was there, standing on the rise with the sunlight on her face. Black braids wrapped around her cheeks in a framing circle, just like he remembered, but she wore no hood. A few loose strands of hair moved in the breeze. She wore a mantle of kimgrip hide draped around her shoulders.

Korin raised his hand.

She raised hers.

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A. Trae McMaken

About A. Trae McMaken

A. Trae McMaken lives and works near the shores of Lake Huron. He writes in an attic overlooking the Black River, watching through the window as his flock of sheep munch grass. He has had a varied career as a traveling storyteller and folklorist, a fiddler and singer, but these days he much prefers to stay put and write.

Also by A. Trae McMaken

As of March 2023

The Dwarves of Ice-Cloak
The Cripple King (Vol. 1)
The Mouth of Fire (Vol. 2)

Volumes 3 and 4 to be released in 2023

The After Adventures
After the Wish Dragon
After Endok

Stand-Alone Titles
Tale of the Timberlost: A Novella
Those Who Dwell