—Bas—

A heavy rumble from high up on the mountain slope stirred Bas from his dragon-like torpor—not that he had any experience with draconic sleeping arrangements, even if an overflowing pile of gold sat in the farthest, most lightless corner of the tent, glinting and spilling out onto his mattress. Absent-mindedly he brushed the encroaching coins back into the heap, clinking and clattering. Then, with painful slowness he levered himself out of the tent. It didn’t seem like much to worry about. The sound wasn’t particularly loud, closer to distant thunder, and he was surrounded by dwarves. If there was an issue, his vertically challenged friends would be swearing up a storm by now.

Bas was, however, curious and after going through the effort of leaving his tent he might as well see what all the racket was about. Reality was rather disappointing. Just a minor rockslide kicking up dust and noise as rocks and small boulders bounced and bounded down the valley slope like a herd of stone goats. The most notable part of it was its proximity to Luneil’s Dungeon, which, on second thought, might be significant after all. He caught Grimheld’s eye and raised an eyebrow.

Grimheld met his gaze. “Something big has been happening in the Dungeon,” the dwarf said, “nothing to get yer head in a twist over though. Dungeon either hit a natural fissure in the mountainside while expanding, or a room it created was structurally unsound and had knock-on effects on the surface when it collapsed. It’s far too small to be able to generate traps of any decent size, let alone to begin manifesting magical effects inside it.”

Bas gave a small hum of agreement, even if he remained unconvinced. From what he knew of Luneil, the crazy entity that controlled the Dungeon, he wouldn’t put creating a bullshit trap beyond him. ‘Rocks fall and everybody dies’ sort of bullshit. Although, that wouldn’t explain the current rockslide, there was no one in the Dungeon to trigger any traps. Maybe Luneil was having a test run…

“Look, kid… Bas,” Grimheld said, noticing his pensive expression, “just be glad we weren’t inside or nearby when it happened. As adventurers we rely on skill and teamwork to stay alive, there are very few people who can survive a Dungeon alone. Getting wiped out by a rockfall or a chasm that suddenly opens up isn't avoidable, it's just bad luck. Yer always able to fight a little harder or a little longer, kill one last enemy in order to stay alive and get out of the Dungeon with yer hands full of loot. But random disasters? I don't need to be a dwarf to tell ya this, ya can't fight the ground.”

Bas nodded, meeting Grimheld’s gaze before turning away. Privately, he wondered whether the random disasters Grimheld talked about were truly random. Luneil's existence showed that Dungeon's were capable of thought, and others might be as well. Perhaps not to the same extent—Bas had a hard time believing ever single Dungeon on Era was a manipulative asshole with a fetish for human suffering—but it was certainly worth considering that such “accidental” cave-ins might be carefully orchestrated to wipe out the occasional threat, or as a way to kill extra adventurers for their power.

Bas broke off the train of thought, looking around. The valley was still filled with a tenuous daylight, the sun teetering on far-off mountain peaks. He let his mana burst out from his hand, feeling his senses expand between his fingers as his power filled the space around him. The air was still and silent, a far cry from home, back on Earth. He missed his world, with its unsleeping cities and noisy skies. He missed his family, expecting at any moment to wake and see his parents standing nearby. Perhaps not expecting, but certainly hoping; but even he knew it was a vain hope, he’d felt pain here, hunger, thirst, and the seductive hum of power beneath his skin. He was somewhere different now, and everything he knew was separated by an incomprehensible expanse that made distant stars pale in insignificance compared to the impossible gulf between him and his former life.

A wave of loss struck him and he let the mana around him snuff out, his perception snapping back around his body like a rubber band. When he had arrived he had been naïve, idealistic. In a way he still was. But he no longer clung to the notion that he had been brought to Era for a reason. There was no guiding hand behind his presence, nothing and no one to catch him if he fell. He no longer believed the universe revolved around himself. He was no one special, despite the minor measure of awe and apprehension that the residents of Era bore towards him. Or, rather, towards his species. The legend that surrounded him was not his own, but something inherited from his species, back when humans—or Exiles, as they had once been known—had been a force on this world.

Perhaps that sense of personal distinction, the delusion of exceptionality, had been beneficial, allowing him to continue, resolute in the knowledge that his decisions were correct. But it had also blinded him with the belief that everything was going to be okay. For all he knew, his family could be dying of hunger, thirst, or monster attacks in some forsaken wilderness, along with half the human race. In books and movies, the hero always returned home once the task had been completed, but he wasn’t a hero, and neither was he a child. And yet, he had been acting like one, believing that the world worked towards some greater purpose, that every stroke of luck he experienced had been ordained. He had taken the world for granted, in both Earth and Era. That had to stop.

It was fine to dream big, as long as he dreamed believably, but for that he needed understanding. Something he had precious little of. Just because there was a commonality between the two worlds didn’t mean they were the same.

The dwarves had told him how Tyl, the Goddess of Order, had presided over a centuries long peace. That would have been impossible on Earth, there was always a small-scale war going on somewhere. It should have been impossible here. Peace was prosperity and progress. And yet, Era had apparently been stuck in a late-medieval level of technology. Something was holding the world back…

But perhaps “peace” was a misnomer. Maybe there hadn’t been a war between kingdoms, but there didn’t need to be. Era had monsters that could tear through a village without batting an eye. It was like a war that never ended, requiring a steady stream of soldiers to stem the tide of claws and teeth.

It was true that monsters seemed few and far between, at least outside of Dungeons, but all it took was a single monster to slip past a patrol and hundreds of defenseless farmers would die. And if the farmers died…

“What happens when the cities don’t get enough food?”

“Prices go up, more people become adventurers and farmers, life goes on.”

Bas frowned, why would people become adven… oh. Oh. Dungeons. When people couldn’t pay for food they turned to Dungeons in desperation, hoping to strike it rich. And then most of them died, and the ones who lived came out with enough money to feed themselves and their families.

And what did it all mean? Farmers died to monsters, soldiers died to kill the monsters, food became more expensive, and people risked their lives in Dungeons to return with enough gold to afford a meal. It all amounted to a huge number of deaths, keeping the populations of kingdoms from growing. And with so much of the population devoted to farming and fighting, there was a major shortage of artisans and crafters. Not that crafters were in huge demand; Dungeons could easily plug any shortage in production, and spare bodies were hardly in short supply.

Era had never advanced beyond medieval technology because it was unable to. At some point it had lost momentum and, unable to provide the conditions required to fuel progress, shifted gears toward survival and slow growth instead. The existence of multiple races with poor relations to each other didn‘t help the situation, little knowledge shared between them. With the result being that no single race had the knowledge required to make any significant advancements, each race acting like a secret order, holding on to their treasured knowledge, for fear of becoming irrelevant without it.

Grimheld rested a hand on his shoulder, breaking Bas out of his contemplation, “What are ya thinking about?”

Bas shook his head, “Just differences between your world and mine. Nothing to worry about.” He had seen Grimheld's attitudes toward the duergar and the Jord-Elva—one of the elven subspecies. Being magnanimous was all well and good when it required no effort to do so. When it came to affecting actual change? Bas doubted anyone would be so willing as to let old enmities lie. Era was fundamentally broken and there was little he, or anyone else, could do to change it.

The sky had turned a darker shade of blue while he'd been thinking, and so he decided to be proactive, sweeping away the remnants of the previous night's fire and piling logs around fresh tinder and kindling before retrieving a flint and steel from a nearby pack. After a minute of striking flint down against steel, a spark caught, setting the small pyramid of wood and twigs ablaze.

Half an hour, and several logs, later, the fire was truly roaring. It had taken Grimheld all of twenty minutes to bring back a brace of marmots that would be their evening meal. Slowly, everyone pulled themselves out of their tents—literally in Blue's case—and gathered around the fire for an evening meal under the stars. And for a while, Bas forgot his worries, eating and laughing with his friends; and, as the night wore on, one by one, they returned to their tents, with heavier stomachs and lighter hearts.

It took less than a minute for Bas to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

———

The sound of bells and booted feet woke him just before the dawn. Bas groggily rubbed sleep from his eyes and almost jumped out of his skin when a booming voice woke him up the rest of the way, “Kortvalund? Is that you, ya fucker?”

“Buln Smallhammer, what demon have I pissed off t' have you on my case? I didn't know the embassy was so desperate that they were forced t' employ wee babes in arms like you.” Bas heard Kort chuckle, followed by the sound of them clasping hands, “How've you been, you damn incompetent?”

“Pretty well, ya murderous fuck. My wife had twins recently, two daughters, the brats won't shut up.”

Kort laughed, “I see they'll be following in their father's footsteps then, I'm glad t' hear your wife's been treating you well, she's certainly been feeding you too much. Is Ogja still waiting for me?”

“Same as always. I think she'll be delighted to know your banishment has been repeale—”

“Contingent on the truth of your claims.” A nasally voice interjected.

“Oh shut the fuck up for just one moment will ya Filias, we—”

“That's Pardoner Fi—”

“Fine, shut the fuck up, your elven highness.” All was silent for a moment, “Better?” Buln asked.

There was an insulted sniff, “You ought to show a representative of Tyl a little respect.”

“The only thing I'm showing Tyl is my big, hairy—”

“Be careful, Buln, that's heresy. I tolerated you on the way here, don't test my patience further.”

“Bollocks.” Buln finished.

“Y-y-you...” Filias spluttered.

“M-m-me?” Buln mimicked the elf in a falsetto. “What are ya gonna do about it. Attack an ambassador? Start a war? Tyl would be happy about that.”

Kort burst out laughing, audibly clapping Buln on the back.

“Hilarious.” Filias drawled, elongating each syllable. “Where's the Dungeon. And where's the Exile who allegedly,” the sneer was evident in the elf's tone, “found it.”

Bas poked his head out of the tent, unable to resist stirring the pot, “Yes Filias?”

Buln and Kort guffawed.

“That's Pardoner Filias to you.” The source of the voice was none other than a tall willowy elf. Unlike the Jord-Elva, however, this elf's features had none of the offensive sharpness to them. If anything, Filias looked like an elf straight out of a movie, straight down to the arrogant twist of his upper lip. “Where's the Dungeon? My goddess has tasked me to verify your claims and protect the site from core-robbers.”

Bas pointed up the slope on the opposite side of the small river, “Up there.”

Filias nodded and turned sharply, causing a cacophony of chimes to erupt from him, as he walked back to a small unit of soldiers waiting just outside the camp.

Bas looked closer at the elf's equipment. Filias was outfitted in a white robe with a hardened leather breastplate over the top of it. That, however, was not the source of the clamor. Tiny silver bells had been fastened to his pack, jangling each time he took a step.

“Why is his bag covered in bells?”

An unfamiliar dwarf with red hair, an aquiline nose, and piercing blue eyes, sauntered over to him. “Tyl requires all her Pardoners to place bells on their equipment, although some take the duty more seriously than others. They say it's so that her servants can't hide in the shadows, but personally, I think Tyl just wants to make the daft twats look stupid.” Filias stopped in place, sniffing audibly. The red-headed dwarf shouted at his back, “Well, get moving. You're doing the Goddess' work, no dawdling.” Filias' fists clenched and then stamped back to his men, bells ringing even louder.

The dwarf grinned at Bas and stretched out his arm, “Buln Smallhammer—large in any other way that matters—second ambassador of the Dwarven Council to Valis, at your service.” Buln gave a shallow bow, arm still outstretched.

“Bas.” He said, shaking the dwarf's hand.

“I never thought I'd be shaking hands with a human.” Buln said. “How times change, eh.” The dwarf looked over his shoulder toward Filias, his expression souring. “That Sol-Elvan prick and his goddess have caused us no small amount of trouble.”

Bas nodded in sympathy, “How so?”

“Well, as ya know, the city of Ilae was meant to send settlers over here on the quiet. Would have taken about a month of travel. But someone asshole working the scry-link sold the information at his local tavern. Tyl caught wind of it and got her Pardoners to make a grand announcement about the discovery of a new Dungeon, looking for pioneers to what should have been a dwarven settlement. Things have been falling apart recently, so she's trying to distract everyone with a big collaborative effort, but it was not her right to do so.” Buln growled, “This was meant to be a dwarven city. But ya know what the worst part is?”

“What?”

“She could've covered it up, as she should have. But she didn’t. The news made its way to a group of backstabbers, degenerates, and ne’er-do-wells—all suspected core robbers—led by a nasty fuck called Lodr. So, Tyl sent a group in advance to deal with the robbers, us. Or, rather,” Buln gestured to Filias and his men, “them. Of course, I wouldn't trust Tyl's cronies alone in a desert with a cup of poison, much less a Dungeon, so I had to chase after them rather than travel with the first wave of settlers from Valis. And guess what? That prick, Filias, is a Caster variant. He cast a Haste spell on everyone except me. Do ya have any idea how fucking hard it is to run after a Sol-elva who's cast a fucking Haste spell?” Buln shook his head, “No, I don't think ya do. I'm a dwarf. I ain't got long legs. I'm made for busting kneecaps, not bending them. But I got here in the end, before the pointy-eared bastard and his men could get up to any funny business.”

“And the core-robbers?”

“Ah. Them. Didn't see them, so they're probably still on their way. Don't worry, Filias might be a prat, but I suspect Tyl gifted him and his men some extra power to deal with anyone who comes close. Just as well. A new Dungeon with a single floor wouldn't stand a chance against a group of practiced core-robbers.” Buln rubbed his chin, “Also, if he tells you that you ought to pay Devotions—you know, a tithe of Lifeforce—to Tyl, just politely tell him to piss off.”

Bas wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he simply smiled in acknowledgement.

Buln clapped his hands, “Now, down to business. Would I be right to say that ya purchased two hundred thousand gold worth of land?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Well, if ya need any help paying off the debt, the Dwarven Council will be happy to help ya out. The Banker's Guild can be a little...” Buln waved his hand, searching for the right word, “difficult... sometimes.”

Bas smiled. “Thanks for the offer, but I don't think that will be a problem.” Like a magician drawing back a curtain, he pulled aside the flap of his tent, revealing the pile of gold coins within.

Buln swore, “You got all that from the Dungeon?” The dwarf glanced over at Filias' men and swatted Bas' hands aside, letting the tent flap fall back in place, “Show that to no one, and tell no one how you found it. Not until you get stronger. Wealth like that will solve your debt problem, but you need to be careful. There are those who'd kill you for a tenth of that.”

Buln straightened, reaching into a small pouch at his side and easily withdrawing out a large scroll that shouldn't have fit inside, “Now, every inhabitant of the new settlement will be required to follow dwarven laws—which amounts to 'pay taxes and don't be a dick'. Additionally, should the population of your settlement reach a certain size, you will be required to provide land for buildings necessary for the maintenance, oversight, and administration of your lands. Finally, once the settlement is properly established, all goods entering and exiting the Dungeon will be evaluated for taxation purposes. In return you'll receive supplies, builders, a small peacekeeping force, and you’ll be able to pass any other laws you wish, as well as implement further taxes.”

“What's the tax rate?” Bas asked, accepting the scroll and reading through it slowly. The contents, written in dry and officious language, conveyed information on various taxes and dwarven laws. He put the scroll away for later reading as he listened to Buln's reply.

“For dwarves, zero percent for the first year, five percent for years two through five, then ten percent for every year after. Non-dwarves will be subject to an unchanging tax rate of fifteen percent. This tax rate is equal to that of neighboring kingdoms. For the purposes of taxation, any employees or members of an adventuring team which you are part of will be considered dwarves, within reason. Is that acceptable?”

Kort cleared his throat from one side where he'd been silently observing.

Buln smirked, “Ah. Of course, your friends will no longer be banished from dwarven territory. Understand everything?”

“Yes.” Bas replied.

“Perfect,” Buln said, handing Bas a finely wrought golden band inset with a strange arrangement of gems and silver inlay, “this is yours. Channel your mana into it.”

Bas accepted the ring but made no motion to put it on. “What is this?” If Lord of the Rings had taught him one thing it was ‘don’t put on mysterious rings given to you by strangers unless you want to end up married to the Dark Lord’.

“It’s a Ring of Rule, wearable magic that integrates with your mana. It’s a symbol of the authority invested in you by the Dwarven Council and also serves as authentication for secret messages.”

Bas shrugged and slipped the ring onto his finger, pushing a thread of mana into it. The golden band instantly tightened, not uncomfortably but enough to create a small degree of pressure. Bas looked at it curiously. The ring had morphed into an intricate weave of golden filaments, a small jewel set within, glowing with silver fire. “What happened?”

“It's bonded to your mana.”

Bas tugged at the Ring, not causing it to budge, “Can I remove it?”

“It can be destroyed by draining it of mana, something only yourself or a representative of the Dwarven Council can do. I would not advise doing so.” Buln held up his hand to stave off Bas' reply. “Pulse mana into it again.”

Bas did as instructed, then gasped in surprise as the Ring of Rule seemed to melt, lines of liquid gold flowing into his skin until nothing remained but a faint golden tattoo, encircling his finger. He looked at it suspiciously, it had transformed into flowing liquid gold and melded into his skin, and yet his finger remained miraculously unburnt. He flipped his palm over, examining the tattoo from the other side.

“Ya can wear gloves if ya really want no one to see it. When ya call your Ring back out, it'll appear on top of whatever's on your hand.” Buln smiled, “Excellent. Now, where can I set up my tent. The first settlers should arrive from Valis in a few days, they've brought builders and supplies with them, so the first buildings will be going up soon. Will be good to have a solid roof over my head.”

Bas looked at him, “You're staying here?”

“Well, of course. Someone needs to maintain the interests of the Dwarven Council here,” Buln said, casting a sideways glance in the direction of the Filias and his men. The Pardoners were slowly making their way over the river. “I don't trust those assholes. But it's probably for the best they're here.”

“Why?”

“Lodr and his gang, they're likely on their way here right now, they snuck out of Valis when the news of the Dungeon broke. Killed a guard who'd been trying to keep tabs on them. They'll attempt to steal the Dungeon's core and sell it for a few million gold, so it's good that we've got a bit of protection while the Dungeon's still weak. Monsters tend to get a little aggressive when someone touches the core, but that doesn't amount to much with a young Dungeon.”

Bas nodded, looking at Filias' group ascending the slope. Somehow he doubted Luneil would go down easily—or fairly, come to think of it. He watched them as they climbed, a bad premonition stewing in his gut. He was only broken out of his trance by Buln clapping him on the shoulder.

“So, where can I pitch my tent?”