The dwarven army was impressive. Three hundred of them, I counted, marching ten by ten in 3 regiments across. They were clad in resplendent armor, each piece different and suggesting a story, a crest upon their right breast. I wondered if those symbols were for their families or for themselves, since each of them differed from the next.
Amidst the clanking of armor and the rhythmic thud of boots against the crunchy ground, they carried on in silence. It bothered me, and was not at all like what I was used to in Lords of Chaos. As dwarves I felt they should have been joking and speaking of pubs ahead, now that there was no threat in their sights.
The heroes of their lot were a different story though. They had no sigils or badges, and now that we’d all met, they didn’t have any problems talking with us either. I listened closely as they spoke, taking in every detail and trying to get a sense of what lay ahead.
Durgin's eyes sparkled as he began. “Ach, ya know, the real beauty of Khazud-Tharik is down below. This here, this is just the cap to the whole flask. An old place, ancient origins, no bells or steam in sight.” He looked up at the davern roof with distaste. “All mined out, no reason for devices.”
“Thank the Forgers,” the shield maiden chimed in.
“The future is Steam, Mesta,” Durgin retorted, an emphasis on the word that was religious in nature.
“The Fiery Hells steam dwarves in their pits,” she chimed back. “Black smoke and molten metal, it be the trade that pushes the top city. Tis the head of the body. Wouldn’t be nothing more under if not for the top.”
“Aye, is good,” the dwarven warrior added.
Durgin frowned. “Ifn’a King would listen, he’d know that Steam can power the forges as well, Theor!”
Theor snorted. “They’re good as they are.”
“Blessed flames,” Mesta added. Durgin rolled his eyes.
“We be a place of treasures.” Durgin said, rolling his eyes over us as we got closer to the city entrance. “Not just in gold and gems. It's the craftsmanship, the history. Every statue, every carving tells a story. Tis the tale of the clan.”
Kevinar nodded. “Your clan . . . they are far removed from the depths of my own homeland. Much more accessible. Tell me . . . how have you safeguarded them against those who would plunder your riches?”
Durgin chuckled, “Aye, that's where Steam is our truest friend. Trust me . . . you don’t wish to learn the answer.”
Mesta nodded, her hand resting on her shield. “Aye. And should any get past Durgin's tricks, they'll find me and my shield sisters and brothers ready. Our training is as rigorous as our forges are hot.”
Ike, the Kobold Warrior, looked up curiously. “And the goblins?”
Theor frowned slightly, before allowing the folds of his face to smooth and his demeanor to go calm. I gained a +1/10 Perception and realized I had seen something the others had possibly not. He stroked his beard as if in deep thought. “Diplomacy is as sturdy as the strongest armor. We've had our fair share of conflicts and friendships with the surface folk. It's a delicate balance, like walking on a blade.”
“What matters is that the king’s hold here be powerful,” Mesta said, her voice tinged with pride. “Our kingdom stretches deep, woven into the very roots of the world. And should we need, we can retreat into our stronghold, defending and withdrawing through tunnels and fortresses that have stood the test of time.”
Theor nodded in agreement. “Each passage, each hall within our domain is a bastion, a ground we defend with our lives. Ai, retreat is not defeat, but a tactical withdrawal. Tis a maze for our enemies, should they dare venture into the heart of the world.”
Now at the city wall, Mesta stepped forward, her gaze fixed on the massive doors that barred their way. The doors, carved from thick dark slabs of stone and reinforced with bands of dark steel, looked old and weathered despite their refuge hear from the winds without. Intricate runes, etched deep into their surface, glowed faintly in the dim light.
The shield maiden raised her arms, her hands tracing patterns in the air. A soft, blue light emanated from her fingertips, weaving intricate glyphs that shimmered like stars against the darkness of the underground. The runes on the door responded, their glow intensifying, pulsing in rhythm with Mesta's movements.
Kevinar watched in silence, but something about the intensity of his gaze suggested that the man was learning the movements in case we’d need them later. Ike also stared, but it seemed likely he was just impressed.
The air around them thrummed with energy as Mesta's incantation reached its crescendo. With a final, fluid motion, she completed the glyph, and the magical seal she had created hovered in the air, a masterpiece of light and energy.
Then, with a deep, resonant groan that echoed through the corridors, the doors began to move. Massive gears, hidden within the walls, turned slowly, their movements synchronized with the pulsing runes.
We stared into a wall of darkness, something that no eyes could penetrate. Without a word, the dwarves pushed forward and we followed them, the doors closing behind us with an authoritative thud.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Past the now open gate the march continued, the steady beat of dwarven boots echoing off the glowing lichen walls of the tunnels. Theor, looked us over and gestured wide. “Ya thunk that the gate would open to the city, didn’ya. No such luck for attackers. These tunnels spin, dip, and rise before they head to the proper. We are in miles and miles of tunnels, each with its own purpose and story. Tis a nightmare to attackers. Tis Khazud-Tharik.”
Mesta's eyes gleamed with pride. “Our history is etched in these stone walls. Each chamber, each hall bears witness to our triumphs and struggles. The tapestries, the statues, they all speak of the sagas of our forebears. It's not just a kingdom; it's a living chronicle.”
As they passed a particularly intricate doorway, Durgin couldn't help but boast about his contributions. “See these carvings here? They're not just for show. Press the right sequence, and you might find yourself in a hidden chamber or even trigger a defensive mechanism. Our architecture is our fortress.”
Kevinar peered about at each and every feature as they were pointed out to him. “Such hidden chambers and secrets. . . Have they ever been used in times of war?”
Theor nodded solemnly. “Indeed, tis a truth. Many times. Battles aren’t lost here. They are just lengthened.”
Mesta added, “And it's not just about war. These chambers hold our most sacred relics and provide shelter in times of need. They’re part of our survival.”
We reached a last rise, coming into view of another gate. This one was all bars, and beyond it stood a company of crossbowmen, though not in any state of alert. The bearded watchmen were spending their time booting metallic spheres against the wall, cursing or celebrating as they won and lost. It was a game that I couldn’t identify in any fashion, but I had to admit that it looked like a lot of fun.
“Open up, ya larders,” Theor yelled. A couple of the dwarves hopped up and pulled a lever. A puff of heated air sprayed into the passage, and a grinding noise sounded the rising of the inner gate, finally revealing the dwarven city beyond.
We stepped through the threshold, and I was shocked by what I saw. The city was a marvel of light and architecture showcasing the dwarves' mastery of stone and metal. Lanterns hung from vaulted ceilings, casting a warm, welcoming glow over streets lined with shops and homes, each meticulously crafted from a mix of various shades of stone and assembled in a way that was absolutely beautiful.
Majestic arches crafted from polished stone spanned overhead, etched with intricate runes that shimmered in the dim light. Towering statues of legendary dwarven heroes stood sentinel at every corner, their stern gazes surveying the bustling streets below.
The air was filled with the clangor of hammers on anvils and the rich aroma of spiced fungi roasting over open fires. Merchants hawked their wares from stalls overflowing with glittering jewels, finely wrought weapons, and luxurious fabrics. Dwarves of all ages, NPCs clad in sturdy outfits of leather, bartered and bantered, their voices gruff and angry. From one building spilled the flicker of a broad fireplace, an ornery shanty being sung in an unknown tongue from within.
The cobblestones beneath them felt almost velvety after the rough gravel of the outside and the smooth stone of the tunnels. Both Jeldorain and I sighed in relief as we switched over the common luxury of avoiding splinters.
Theor dismissed two of his reigments, and we proceeded into the city. But the further we ventured, the more the splendor gradually unraveled. The polished stone gave way to rough, unadorned rock. The statues became fewer and less grand, eventually disappearing altogether. The vibrant energy of the initial entrance faded into a somber quietude, broken only by the occasional cough or whisper.
It bothered me. None of it felt right. I shared eyes with Kevinar, then Ike, and could see that they both thought the same thing.
And what are you going to do about it? Jeldorain asked. Follow them. Keep your wits. That is all that can be done.
Dimly lit alleys, barely wide enough for two dwarves to pass, were lined with cramped dwellings. Here, the dwellers wore threadbare clothes, their faces etched with the lines of hardship. Children played with makeshift toys in the shadows while sickly dwarves leaned against the walls, their eyes dull and distant.
There was another market area here, but it looked desperate and strange. Makeshift stalls displayed meager wares - a few root vegetables, some dented utensils, scraps of cloth. The proud architecture of the wealthier areas was nowhere to be seen here. Instead, support beams, patched and repatched, held the weight of the mountain above.
Why is there such a difference? I asked Jeldorain. The dwarves I know of would never treat their poor in this way.
Jeldorain chuckled, but it felt forced. Those are the dwarves of a game. The dwarves I know, in the Frozen Hells, would treat their lessers even worse.
We veered off the main thoroughfare, going onto a narrow, less-trodden path. This pinched up road wound through the worst section we’d seen yet. The passageway was cramped and dimly lit, the only illumination coming from sparse patches of glowing fungi growing in the nooks and crannies of the rough-hewn wall sconces. The stone underfoot was uneven, worn down by the countless footsteps of those who had traversed this hidden artery of the kingdom. The air was cooler here, tinged with the musty scent of damp earth and the faint odor of sweat and toil.
“A servants’ passage?” Kevinar asked our now silent hosts.
“You said you wanted to be secret,” Mesta said. In her eyes blazed an unpleasant glint, like the sun shining off the tip of a rifle.
If they wanted to keep you secret, then why did they take you past so many markets? Jeldorain asked. He didn’t laugh, and I understood immediately that our future wasn’t going to be pleasant. I made to apparate my icearigama, but he stay me with a spectral hand. Wait for your chance. They don’t know that you know.
As we progressed, the passage twisted and turned, a labyrinth of sorts, revealing the less glamorous facets of dwarven society. The walls were bare, devoid of the ornate decorations that adorned the public areas. Pipes and conduits ran along the ceiling, a practical display of dwarven engineering, but lacking any aesthetic consideration.
Here and there we encountered the servants of the road, all moving with a desperate scurry of purpose. Some, I noticed, were missing an ear, or some fingers. Their clothing was functional, made of coarser fabrics, and mended in several places. Their eyes, when they met those of the party, held dull fear mixed with the sharp blade of hare.
In some sections, the corridor opened up into small chambers used for storage or brief rests. Here, we observed simple wooden benches, and shelves cluttered with tools and supplies. These humble alcoves, a sharp contrast to the luxurious lounges of the upper echelons, were marked by a quiet efficiency and a sense of resignation.
Going to a doorway built at an angle into the ground, Mesta again opened it with her magic, revealing a tall but narrow tunnel lit by lichen and large sets of runes lit by every color. She ushered us inside while Theor ordered the rest of his army to return to their barracks.
Now or never, champion, Jeldorain opined.
I caught eyes with Kevinar and Ike, but Ike shook his head. The message was clear. We’d roll through this mess as diplomatically as we could.