The Raid had turned out to be a huge success. Whatever rewards or treasure the dungeon may have offered had been obliterated, but those who participated seemed more than pleased as most unlocked a new Skill or two, if such tales were to be believed. There was a huge party where everyone behaved all prim and proper.

I jest. Adventurers are not known to be the most disciplined of people, and the rager that we had that night burned through a few stockpiles of choice beverages. Debauchery, revelry, and noise complaints were the activities of the following night after all present for the raid took some much-needed rest during the day.

Many kobolds flitted about the party, some bringing offerings of food, drink, and company to those who didn’t mind the scales. From my understanding, kobolds do not normally find the non-scaly races to be attractive, but when there is a good story to be researched for the next play they intend to perform, they will employ all the charm and seduction at their disposal to suss out the details. Adventurers see and experience some weird shit, so it seems only natural that they develop appetites and coping mechanisms beyond those of average people. Ergo, no one commented when “odd pairings” developed, such as when Gambino and Bambina sauntered away with a slightly inebriated Bellwright between them.

I spent much of the time introducing Nabonidus to my friends and inner circle. After a long bath and some fancy clothes, he spruced up into a rather presentable fellow. Naturally, as soon as people discovered his Abilities to see into the future, some parlor tricks were demanded, such as correctly identifying cards drawn from a deck or guessing which shot glass of whisky contained Reaper’s Kiss Peppers. I had to chase away more than a few that wanted to partner with him for a venture at one gambling den or another.

Nabonidus captivated a large audience with his rendition of the events of the battle and his role in it. The deep bass of his voice carried his tale to appreciative ears of how he had guided one particular [Artillery Mage] in destroying the huts that spawned the endless tides of ogres. The logic around it seems absurd, but the power behind such Abilities had many clamoring to recruit him into their merry bands of Adventurers.

Hopper and Ribbette had served as forward observers. They snuck around the ogre village and pinpointed the locations of the huts in question. Through their connection to me, they could have used telepathy to communicate to me if a hut was hit or not, and I could have told Nabonidus as such since he was next to me. If needed, my pets could have theoretically ran into the village in a suicide mission to find other key targets. The key here is that we had the technical capacity to do these things, and so in Nabonidus’ visions of the future, he could have requested that we do those things. Hypothetical and future versions of us would take all the risk and deal with all the fallout of acquiring such information, but the real version of us mostly sat there quietly.

The [Artillery Mage] who was placed directly under Nabonidus’ command was a little miffed at the time spent aiming, with it seemingly arbitrary when Nabonidus gave the command to fire, but apparently, over 90 percent of the shots landed on target, so the man quickly warmed up to the potential of such a boon to his craft. The man had confided that he unlocked the Skill [Artillery Targeting - Guided Shot], which was a highly coveted and rare Skill that leading experts theorized required many consecutive shots on target during a violent engagement. Since practice drills simply would not do, and the opportunities for real combat were rare, much less successful at acquiring the Skill, the demand for his talents just went up by an order of magnitude. Can’t remember his name for the life of me, but he was proud as a peacock and drunk as a skunk that night.

My ponderings on recent events had me in a contemplative mood the next day at some boring meeting that was bogged down by a bunch of gnomes and dwarves arguing over the naming of some device or another. The gnomes thought that the acronym should come first, and then the words to make that acronym should come second. The dwarves thought that cool words should be presented first, and then a pleasing acronym should be made from them. They had a whole chalkboard with double elimination brackets for every acronym they could think of, with speeches and votes each and every time. These engineers spent more time on names than designs or construction, but longer-lived races tend to care about names quite a bit.

“Hey, Torborg, I’ve been thinking about a few things,” I whispered to my equally bored friend next to me.

“A dangerous undertaking if done by some of this lot,” the dwarf replied as he gestured around vaguely at those gathered, “but more often than not your ideas are good. What’s on your mind?”

“So, [Artillery Mages] launch magical projectiles really far to blow up distant targets. At the battle a while back at Berkerin, both sides used cannons that launched magical projectiles to damage the shields each side had erected. Why not make cannons that shoot physical projectiles that could actually damage a wall or hurt people? Also, I was thinking about making trains, sort of like those used for mine tracks with their carts for ore, only on a bigger scale and between cities. Why have I not seen either of these things before?”

Torborg looked at me with a mixture of pride and sorrow, his eyes misting over as he gave me a knowing look while he nodded his head.

“Aye, such things are known, but I could give you a much better answer with a book I have at home. That is, if we can ever get out of this meeting with all these gear-heads.” He continued as he once again gestured vaguely at the gnomes and dwarves who were still going at it.

“Hmm, I think I have an idea to get us out of here,” I replied back as I leaned in conspiratorially.

“Oh! This ought to be interesting,” he answered back as he casually grabbed a nearby shield on a table and readied himself for mayhem.

“Skull, I need you to do something for me.”

“Name it, Master, and I will see what I can do.”

I gave her the details of what I wanted, and I could feel the mischief and mirth bleed through our connection and into me. With things ready, Skull allowed her voice to pass out of her realm of shadow and into the material world, albeit, off to the side and away from me.

“I don’t get it,” she exclaimed with a gruff voice in her best impression of a dwarf as she stood behind one such fellow, “What’s the difference between a mortar and a crucible anyway? They are both just fancy rock bowls, aren’t they?”

All conversation ceased as the gathering of dwarves and gnomes turned to face the one who dared utter such sacrilege. The poor dwarf just looked around and then pointed to himself as he asked a quiet “Me?”.

Then the floodgates opened as all present, sans myself and Torborg, berated the dwarf for his poor choice of words while people provided conflicting answers to explain the difference. Such discrepancies in the most sacred of scientific answers gave way to more arguments, and in less than half a minute, fists were being thrown as an all-out brawl developed.

“Aye then, that’s our cue to take our leave,” Torborg said to me as he ducked behind his shield and backpedaled his way out of the meeting room with me. The gentle clunking of objects colliding with his shield gave prudence to his decision to grab it, so I suspect this was not his first rodeo.

“Good thinking back there,” he confided in me as we made it to the safety of the outdoors. “You have grown more familiar with dwarven customs. ‘Any person may be excused from a meeting that turns into a brawl’,” he recited while taking the pose of a wise elder. “Now, let’s go to my house and I can answer these questions and more.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

His house was rather identical to most others in town; just another blocky building of black stone. Inside though, the house had the trappings of dwarven culture that turned it into a home. Statues and busts of famous dwarves and kin, tapestries, paintings, knick-knacks, tools, and other examples of artisanry and culture lined the walls and shelves in a tasteful but uncluttered display.

“Your wife is an excellent homemaker, I see,” I said loud enough for her to hear as I looked around to take in the sights. The house was also very clean and tidy, much to my satisfaction.

“Indeed she is. She has made me the happiest dwarf alive.”

“I would contest that,” his wife challenged as she entered the room with a gaggle of children in tow. The youngest was still a babe, and his little beard was a strong green in color, if a little short for his age, which was understandable considering the complications involved during his birth. “For you have made me so very happy as well,” she finished as she approached her husband and pecked him on the cheek. “Welcome to our humble abode, Emperor. We invite you to share in the bounty of our hearth,” she finished with as best a curtsy as she could manage with her brood gathering around her.

“You honor me with your hospitality,” I replied with a slight bow. I totally forgot her name, so I just didn’t use it. She didn’t use mine either, so perhaps the forgetfulness was mutual.

She smiled at me warmly as she grabbed a nearby bottle of whisky and poured out shots for each of her children, with some whisky being added to a bottle for the youngest of the bunch. She motioned the bottle towards me in an offer to pour me some, but I wordlessly and politely declined the invitation.

“I have brought him here because it is time for ‘the talk’,” Torborg stated as he finished patting all his children on the head.

“Ah,” she said with a knowing look. “Go right ahead, dear, I will keep the children out of your beard while you do.”

With us excused from further social niceties, we made our way to his study, which itself was well adorned with precise instruments for measurements, quality tools, a choice selection of brews, and a plethora of books on their shelves. He took a large tome in hand, one well worn through use throughout the ages. He carried it over to a table presumably used for schematics and gently placed it down as he invited me to join him.

“There comes a time in the life of all dwarves when they start to notice changes in their body and mind,” he started, apparently staying on script. “Some of these changes may be confusing, but they are completely natural.”

“I know about the birds and the bees,” I offered, hoping to skip any awkward conversation topics.

“Oh, ahem, right,” he replied sheepishly as he took a moment to mentally skip ahead in the lecture. “You may also notice certain ideas about the world. You see how it is, and imagine how it could be better with the right application of technology. You are not alone in puzzling out these solutions, for your ancestors have already developed many of those things you dream of.”

With a gentle touch, he opened the book, his hand expertly skipping past the first few pages and diving into the meat of it. Within, I saw diagrams of things I knew of, things that I only really thought of after I saw them in this world for the first time. As he flipped the pages, I saw steam locomotives, advancing to more sophisticated versions that hovered on magnetic tracks. I examined primitive firearms, all the way up to complex machine guns and guided missiles. The books also presented complex circuitry and boards covered in such circuits, along with electrical batteries and capacitors. As he flipped the pages, I even saw jet engines, tanks, and pages that covered topics on nuclear fission and fusion.

“All of this,” he said softly, his voice laden with sorrow, “is forbidden. You can design it, you can make prototypes, you can leave them on display.” He turned to me, his face hardened and serious. “But no matter what, you can never implement these into society at large. Should you try, the gods will warn you to stop. After a warning, they will make demands that you cease. If you do not comply, they will send their mortal servants to stop you. If that fails…” His gaze turned away for a moment, his mind wandering to that which was and will never be again. “If that fails,” he continued once more as he turned back to me, “they will send down their celestial servants to purge your machines and anyone nearby from this world. Entire civilizations have been destroyed overnight by the errant actions caused by such hubris. I don’t know why the gods take this stance on technology, only that it is a mandate that must be obeyed.

“Several times now, the gods have wiped the slate clean, with most of the world being obliterated by their divine judgment. Let us learn from the mistakes of our ancestors and not trod down the same path.”

He looked at me with a mixture of sternness, remorse, and shared understanding at what is denied to us. It dawned on me that he was looking for a reply, and so I nodded to him.

“This is unfortunate, but it answers many questions. Is it safe to say that I am allowed to use magic to achieve many of the same results, such as those artillery cannons?”

“Yes and no,” he replied as he wavered his hand side-to-side in front of him in a non-committal answer. “Those siege cannons at Berkerin were allowed to exist because the physical aspect of the shot was laughably weak. One would be hard-pressed to destroy much of anything with them. However, the magical component of them was strong, and they were designed to disrupt shields, not destroy entire cities in one explosion.

“Most devices that are powered by electricity are forbidden, but as you have seen and demonstrated with your many works, anything that uses magic and mana to achieve the same result is generally permitted. The best clues and guesses that have been made theorize that the gods do not oppose the results, but rather the means. This suggests that there is something they fear or loath from certain developments of technology, not their applications. This is why anything strictly mechanical in nature, such as gears and pistons, are allowed, but things like engines that burn fuel refined from oil or devices that use explosive powers are forbidden. You will most likely discover the boundaries yourself as gods send you warnings, should you continue to push the limits of your skills. Take the warnings to heart, but do not be discouraged, for the gods are not angry with you, but simply advising you to look in a different direction.”

Torborg gave me a moment to absorb his teachings and collect my thoughts as he patiently waited to see if I had anything to add.

“The gods have not said anything so far, other than a general and vague warning that I skirted the line as to what is acceptable with pocket dimensions.”

“That’s good, and also expected,” he replied to my confession. “No using pocket dimensions to lift heavy things to create perpetual motion, such as with a water wheel. Exceptions can be made if you want a water source to return to the top of a waterfall or something, but generally for aesthetic purposes only. Sometimes, how you intend to use something is more important with the exact effect that is occurring. For instance, you could enchant a crystal to glow certain colors based on certain conditions, but you cannot arrange thousands of tiny crystals in a grid that create certain images for a display screen. If you want the same effect, just use high-quality illusions and the gods don’t mind.”

“It all sounds very complicated and arbitrary, but I feel like I will be able to figure it out.”

“It is, and the gods almost seem secretly proud when you find a little loophole. It is like they know the rules, but they are not authorized to hand us the manual. We each have to figure out the rules as we get close to breaking them.”

“Well then, Torborg,” I offered as I held my hand out to him. “Would you like to work with me to find every loophole and bend every rule we can in order to forge a better world.”

“Aye,” he answered as he shook my hand while his face blossomed into a smile. “As long as your world is fair and just and you don’t become a racist tyrant or something, I would be happy to.”

With the two of us in agreement as to the path we would take together going into the future, Torborg gingerly placed the book back where it belonged on the shelf and whispered a short prayer in thanks to his ancestors for passing on such knowledge. Our business completed, we departed the house after another song and dance routine with his busy wife who appeared keen to attend to her fussy baby. I caught a glimpse of the crib in the corner of the nursery, and the mobile above it was adorned with anvils, hammers, tankards, and beards, so I suspected the children would grow to be the epitome of dwarven heritage.

With the dungeon cleared and no pressing obstacles in our way, Torborg and I returned to the daily grind. We placed wagers on how many healers would be needed to tend to the aftermath of the brawl that we snuck out of earlier. My guess was way off on the low side, so I found renewed respect for Torborg’s estimates about such things. It took 8 healers to tend to the 14 wounded, with only 2 individuals making it out unscathed. Many others sported minor bruises, but overall, no one appeared to be harboring any grudges and they actually seemed to be getting along better than normal. That wasn’t just boys being boys, for a third of them were women, and they gave as good as they got. At least they all keep things interesting, for we would be building a relatively simple road for many weeks to come.