Safuil

Mikkin followed his party into Dubrael's cavernous hall, fidgeting. They had waited three days for Dubrael's council to deliberate. Three days spent hoping the Dwargs would band together and fight Dragonwall's common enemy. In that time, Fik and Gro had shown them all over the city. There was something to be said for Dwargish hospitality.

Safuil's halls abounded with secrets. Mines that stretched to the center of the earth, vaults of hidden treasures—gems, priceless relics, coin enough to make every citizen in Dragonwall wildly rich—markets for trading, stages for plays and reenactments, underground fields of dirt for growing mushrooms and potatoes with light from shafts in the mountain. But most spectacular was the Hall of Memories. Here they found a garden of luminescent plants and statues portraying Dragonwall's history. Giant dragons carved from stone and gems. A stone forest that paid homage to the Sprites. Famous Dwargen lords. Even a few Drengr kings.

Mikkin and the others got lost for hours, wandering its vast depths. Even Unka appreciated it. He asked question after question in his broken language. Fik and Gro took some warming up, but eventually their love for telling stories outweighed their dislike of Gobelins.

And so it was they found themselves awaiting Dubrael's answer.

"Welcome, welcome," Dubrael said as he stood from his stone dais. This time, there were six Dwargs with him, three to each side of the stone steps. "Before you, stands Safuil's most prominent council members." He spread his arms wide.

Lord Averaen was at the head of their group. He bowed in greeting. "Have you an answer for us, Lord Dubrael?"

"I have." Dubrael sat back on his stone throne. "The Dwargs of Safuil have deliberated. While it took some convincing,"—his eyes darted, scowling, down to those standing before them—"we reached an agreement. While we would rather hide in our mountainous city, Dragonwall needs us. We will help where we can."

Lord Averaen's shoulders relaxed. "I am happy to hear it."

"Our fastest bird was selected. A message has been dispatched to King Talon. He will be informed of our allegiance. If he chooses to retaliate, our metalsmiths are at his service. Tomorrow, our forges will begin preparation. The Drengr will have armor as they did in the days of old. What we make for humans will provide the magic necessary to shield against dragon fire."

Lord Averaen nodded. "Armor would be most appreciated. What of weapons?"

"Oh yes. Of that we have plenty." Dubrael's smile was cunning. "Our vaults are well stocked."

"And what of the other Dwargs? Will they take up arms?"

Dubrael hesitated. "As I said before, I cannot answer for my compatriots. However, I think we might have a chance of persuading them. I would recommend those along the Northern Range, from here to Ice Port. Our tunnels connect us." He hesitated, glancing between them. "I will have envoys prepared. Perhaps some of you would like to accompany them? Explain the dire circumstances?"

Lord Averaen glanced over his shoulder and his eyes fell on Mikkin.

Mikkin stepped forward. "Count me in." Jamie did the same. To Mikkin's surprise, so did Berbik and Unka.

Unka had done naught but follow them around like a lapdog. He and the lad had developed an interesting relationship. If Mikkin wasn't mistaken, it appeared that Jamie cared for the poor creature. Something in Unka's willingness to help Jamie rescue him had won Jamie over. He no longer treated the Gobelin with disdain.

"Hm...an unlikely group." Dubrael nodded, but appeared pleased. "Very well. And what of you, Master Drengr?"

"I must return to Fort Edge. We do not know Kane's plans. While the wild dragons are busy at Fort Squall, my own fort could still be in danger."

They talked for a while longer, but it was decided that Lord Averaen and his group would return home. The Dwargs agreed to lead them safely through the tunnels and out of the mountains, where they could fly the rest of the way home.

That night, Dubrael threw a memorable feast. All those who lived within Safuil's city gathered in the great dining hall. There was game hunted from the mountains above, roasting on giant spits. Roaring fires that warmed the cold stone. Mushrooms in every capacity, stewed, roasted, baked. Potatoes too. Even a few leafy vegetables and other delicacies from trading were out on the tables in heaping piles.

The Dwargs were a rowdy people. They sang and drank and carried on telling their most favored stories. Histories, mostly, of their favorite Dwargen lords, inflated to extreme proportions. For a people who claimed to steer clear of politics, they had a fair share of reenactments about great battles spanning Dragonwall's history.

Mikkin and Jamie soon found themselves fuzzy, roaring with laughter as Fik recounted—with a heavy accent—a story of Lord Hendol and how he'd gotten caught with his pants around his ankles. It was during one of the battles against the Kalds hundreds of years past. "It was when the mountain shook," Fik was saying, his voice increasing with every word, "that we Dwargs knew giants were crossing over our homes. Out runs Lord Hendol from his lady's chamber, tripping all the while with his pants around his ankles as he struggled to do them up. The guards in the hall had a right time being serious!"

"And did he make it through the tunnels to meet the Kalds in battle?" Jamie's eyes were round.

"Oh aye." Fik's palm smashed against the table, making the earthenware jump. The sound blended with the rest of the merriment around the hall. "Hendol took a band of clansmen on the backs of goats through the tunnels. Goats—astute climbers, you know. But that wasn't the funniest part," said Fik.

Mikkin chuckled.

"His lady came out after him, wrapped in a blanket, shaking her fist at his retreating figure, screaming that he'd left his dignity behind. Dwargish women," Fik huffed. His face took on a soft look.

"Do you have a woman?" Jamie asked, eying the Dwarg.

"Aye, a godsdamned difficult one." His soft tone didn't match his words.

Hours later, they stumbled to their beds.

Their morning departure was slow in coming. They were late to rise and gather around a breakfast table. Lord Averaen was there to dole out instructions to Mikkin, words that might help increase their chances of winning others to their cause. "They'll want to refuse," he advised. "Dwargs are damned stubborn about this kind of thing."

Mikkin listened while he spooned porridge into his mouth.

"Make sure you press the importance of the matter. And a little flattery goes a long way where Dwargs are concerned." Lord Averaen's eyes flicked to Fik and Gro who sat two tables over, hugging their heads and groaning as they ate. Dwargs prized beer and ale. They were also heavy drinkers.

When it was time to depart, Fik and Gro assembled with with a small party. Individuals that Mikkin had met in passing. "This is Bulgrog, Mozzun, Thanduk, Netruc, and Burdus," said Fik. "But you can call them Bul, Moz, Than, Net, and Bur."

Mikkin and Jamie nodded, glad for the shortened names.

"We Dwargs appreciate simplicity when the time calls for it," said Berbik appearing beside them. "But don't start calling me Ber," he added, eyes narrowed. "I prefer Berbik. Short enough as is."

At this, Mikkin grunted.

Their two groups—the Drengr with their guides, and Mikkin's with his—gathered at a crossroads of tunnels. The tunnels running ahead would take the Drengr up and then out, dumping them on the side of the mountain where they would depart. Mikkin's party would go deeper, traveling along the underside of the range.

"Well, this is where we leave you." Lord Averaen took Mikkin by the shoulder before grasping his forearm. "Glad we got you out of that stinking hole. I'll report what I've found to my fort and send word to King Talon, though I'm sure Dubrael's will reach him first. You take care, and give those damned dragons hell when you face them."

As if summoned, Dubrael appeared to bid their group farewell. Two Dwargs accompanied him carrying weapons. "These are for your Riders," he said to Lord Averaen. "A gift of goodwill."

While the Drengr already had Sveraks, their Riders generally carried bows. Dubrael presented each female with a long knife, strong enough to pierce dragon scales. They thanked Dubrael for his gifts, strapping them to their belts. Dubrael also gave Mikkin, Jamie, Berbik, and Unka similar weapons.

"While I don't expect trouble in the tunnels, you never know. Perhaps they will serve you well when we meet again on the battlefield."

Unka eyed his new weapon with glee, and held it against his body, hugging it for a long while before strapping it to his belt. To the small Gobelin, the thing was more like a sword than a knife. Gobelins valued treasure above all else. No doubt the ruby in the knife's sheath would be a prized possession for the dejected Gobelin. Mikkin almost felt bad for having slain his compatriots.

Almost...but not quite.

The Drengr's group departed first. Their guides held torches aloft as they departed down the dark tunnel. Mikkin's group watched until the darkness swallowed them up. Then he turned to Fik and Gro. "Well, that's that," he said. "Lead on, Master Dwarg."

Torches were passed around, and they departed. Mikkin couldn't help the thrill that shot through him. A new adventure but the same goal. Seek vengeance for Mardra and his boys.

"Welcome to the Great Stone Road," Fik said after nearly ten minutes. The small tunnel they followed took them to a larger one lined with glow baskets, though these were scarcely spaced. The torches were welcome in the muted light.

The road, as they called it, was much wider and taller than the tunnels they were used to around Safuil. "The Dwargen lords of old carved it out of the mountain after settling their cities," said Fik. "Lords Throstak, Kirsolir, and Wemut decided that all great cities should be connected. They petitioned the city holders across the mountains and it was built."

Thus began their long trek. Mikkin listened to the drone of Fik's voice, on and on, but there was only so much history one could take. After going into great detail about the obstacles encountered carving the Great Stone Road into the mountain, Fik went on to talk about each city, and then each city's history of its lords.

"And then there was Lord Akrouth," Fik was saying when Jamie let out a small groan. Fik didn't seem to notice. "He bred a new line of mountain goats that could see in the dark tunnels so they wouldn't bash into the rocky walls."

"I'm going to bash my own head into a rocky wall in a minute," the lad whispered.

Mikkin suppressed his laughter, but said for Fik's benefit, "And how'd he manage that, Master Fik?" This sent Fik spiraling into another long-winded explanation that left Jamie groaning all the more.

He didn't mind the history lessons. Dwargs valued storytelling above all else. While it would be a full day and a half on the Great Stone Road before reaching Kisteg, the first city on their path, he was certain that Fik's stories would keep them occupied all the way and beyond.

He smiled to himself. He'd started this journey without a plan, without much of anything, really. Just a pesky lad by his side, green as grass, eager to see adventure. He spared a glance for Jamie. Now they had a plan and more purpose than before. With help from the Dwargs, he would raise an army capable of meeting Kane's forces in battle. He would have weapons. He would have support. But most importantly, he would have his revenge. Yes, in that sense, he'd been more successful than he could have imagined.

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