"You shouldn't touch that!" shouted Gislain.

Cara smiled and shook her head. The whole journey had been a cycle of her little brother touching something and her little sister telling him not to.

"It's alright, Gissy," Cara said, "it's just a big rock."

She finished the last bits of her moon apple and tossed the core onto the road. Her silver mare turned her head after it, but she kicked the horse gently and pulled on her reins. "No, you pig, that's for the birds. You'll eat when we stop." Just as she said, two ravens landed and fought over the fruit. One tried rolling it along a certain path, while the other pecked sharply at its core.

"It's not just rock," her mother said as she brought her dappled palfrey alongside Cara, "but it's all right if he touches it."

Cara smiled at her mother. It was difficult for her to travel, as she suffered from what their court physician called a 'changing humor'. The changes were mild in her youth, but in recent years they'd become more difficult to bear, and to witness. At home in their castle, or a vassal's holdfast, her mother could stay in her chambers til the humor passed, but on the road it would be difficult to hide the malady. Cara admired her mother for her courage. She smiled, and her mother smiled back.

"I'm well, sweet girl," Queen Yselde said to her daughter. "The road has been beautiful, and I'm eager to see my friend Halfi again. How are you enjoying the journey? Are you eager to see Thrond?"

"Oh, yes! Very eager. And the journey has been grand. The sun has been splendorous the entire way, and Obrus looks more magnificent every step we take."

Her mother's eyes drifted far away, gazing into another time. "It's another world, Cara. A mysterious world, a beautiful world, and a dangerous world. We're fortunate to count Narvi's folk as friends."

"Your mother speaks true," said her father from behind, "on both matters. Thrond is a mighty realm, and Grar's patience is not to be tested. And the Titan's Arm is no mere stone. It's black mannarim, the most mysterious substance in the world."

He brother Hale spurred his destrier to the the Titan's Arm and looked along the ground at its edge. "I saw a loose piece," he said. His voice had grown so deep. Cara wondered if she'd ever be accustomed to it.

"I doubt it, son," said their father. "Small pieces of this stuff are almost impossible to find."

"I saw light glinting off of it," Hale persisted. "There was a flutter of something beyond this crack. It looked like a piece of white cloth, a banner perhaps, and I saw the stone."

"There are no banners here, son." Their father was looking up and around, his brow wrinkled in confusion. Hale dismounted by a gap in the black wall and rummaged about on the ground.

Cara looked at her brother, once a tender boy with scrawny arms and narrow shoulders, now a grown man, broad backed and sinewy. He'd been sent away eight years ago to Castle Gwynd of Eruhal, to be fostered by King Verrold Arcadia, and came back suddenly after King Verrold’s death. Verrold’s second son had risen against his first and taken the throne, and Hale was sent back safely to High Alden. His fosterage in Eruhal was perhaps her father's greatest triumph, even despite the coup, and it had been her greatest sadness. Hale had been her truest friend since the day he was born. He’d come into the world screaming, his shrill cries ringing off the walls of the keep as the court physicians worked to keep their mother alive. It had been a turbulent birth, and even though Queen Yselde was saved, the infant boy howled and wailed until Cara's red curls first touched his wrinkled forehead. He then opened his big, dark eyes and instantly smiled. Shrieks turned to coos, and from that day on the two were inseparable. And then he was taken from her. It felt like she’d lost a part of herself, and the man that came back was much changed from the boy who left.

"Here," Hale said. He'd found what he was looking for, and brought it to Cara. "For your collection."

She looked at the stone. It was a fine piece, almost perfectly round and smooth, with a glossy sheen that reflected the colors of night and twilight, despite them being under the shadow of the Titan's Arm. She felt her thoughts drifting as she peered into the light dancing about the sphere.

"How could it have broken off the Arm?" she wondered aloud. She trotted her horse to the gap in the wall and looked along the ground. All she saw were the standard fair of loose pebbles and fragmented slabs of shale. She peeked through the gap where Hale said he saw the white banner, but there was nothing. Her gaze was drawn back to the gleaming gem in her hand. There was no other black stone around besides the vast black mannarim wall, but she could see no sign of where it could have broken off, especially given its shape.

The Titan's Arm had been dominating the horizon for three days, jutting out the stony ground and arching over the cobbled mountain pass. They were two weeks on the road, moving slowly with their large entourage along the winding path through High Alden's cascading green hills. In all there were some three hundred in their party; soldiers and guards, free riders, hedge knights, servants and maids, Cara's favorite troupe of players, and merchants from High Alden, Corn Hill and distant Casimir looking to trade with the dwarves at Thrond's Grand Bazaar.

Mist hung in the air through much of their early journey, then parted like a curtain once they'd passed the dew laden hills of their realm. Before them now were fields of iron and stone, bordered on the north by the glacial river Sholai, and on the south by the vast eaves of the Coldwood forest. Here and there icy fingers of the river reached toward the road. Twice Cara had to bathe in those frigid waters. Nearer to Mount Obrus she found steaming hot springs hidden away in groves of ash and willow trees scattered along the Coldwood's edges. At length they reached the high road through the Ladder to the Moon mountains and the last leg of their journey. The road was hard and steep, lined by stacked walls of shale and large granite boulders spotted with damp moss, and they said goodbye to the sun as they rode under the shadowy veil of the Titan's Arm.

For miles it stretched on, a vast wave of black metallic ore that curved overhead like a half tunnel made of scorched iron. Cara thought of the many legends that tried in vain to explain the structure. There were tales of powerful beings waging war on the Ladder to the Moon, and tales of baleful creatures coming from the sky and being turned away by the Fire Mother.

"Imanna's fire," said Dennel, their master at arms. They were flanked on either side by their royal guard, and before and after them two columns of veteran soldiers protected them and their entourage of servants. Dennel was master over them all, and there was no finer man for the task, in Cara's opinion. Dennel was old and worn like a cliff on a stormy shore, but as tough as the weathered stone he resembled. His stringy gray hair was tied in a knot behind his head, and he wore only a tan gambeson with steel jack chains for armor. If one didn't know better they would mistake him for a common soldier of the line.

"Imanna's fire is white and gold," Gislain promptly corrected.

"Aye, You Highness. And I'm sure it was when she sent it from her caverns beneath the ground. But now it's turned to stone, and the color's long gone."

Cara looked again at her stone. Hale was leaning close to look as well, and his head rammed into hers when his destrier hopped over a sudden dip in the road.

The two laughed, but Cara's head really hurt. He's grown so big, she thought. Hale had been a tall but slim boy, and had come back a powerful man. Ten and eight, he was, just two years younger than her. She got him back, even if he had grown and changed. She wondered what had changed him the most, the time before or after the coup.

Her father and Dennel had also ridden close to see the stone. They could have been the same man in some ways. Both were tall and distinguished, quietly strong and hard from years of struggle. Her father was clearly a King, though. He wore his hair cropped short his faced shaved clean, in the manner of his forebears, and over his mail was a surcoat of indigo velvet. A cloak made of nightlion pelts was draped over his shoulders.

"It's beautiful," her father said. "I'm amazed you found a piece separate from the rest of the arm. Such a find is rare, son. You must make this the centerpiece of your collection, Cara."

"Give it here," said Dennel. Cara handed the black orb to the old soldier and he held it up to the light. "Come here, little Princess," he said to Gislain. She rode her pony next to Dennel's dapple grey courser and he showed her the rock. "See the white halo, and how it flickers gold when you move it about? Now think of this the next time you're about to correct me, eh?"

Gislain giggled, then resumed issuing orders to Istan. Istan had dismounted his pony and was trying to pry a sharp claw of mannarim from the Arm with his dagger.

"You'll sooner kill a corpse," said Salimod. He rode to a slender piece that hung close to the ground, drew his mace from his belt and struck it hard. Other than a cloud of glittering dust exploding from the mace, nothing happened. He rode back and showed them the mace. The tip of one of its flanges had been thoroughly dulled.

"And this mace is dwarven made," he said with a wry grin.

"But don't the dwarves mine mannarim under their mountains? " Istan asked, his young face a tangle of awe and confusion.

"You're absolutely right, Istan," her father replied, "but it's a different form of the metal. In the underlands, mannarim shines like silver, but above ground it's black as the Worm. The only exception is in the soma pools north of the Sholai basin, along the eaves of the Starwood. There flakes of silver mannarim pepper the riverbeds and lagoons and shimmer like living stars."

Cara turned excitedly to her aunt. She'd ridden close to look at her brother's weapon. Her face look worried, and her hand had gone to the chain around her neck.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

"Are you excited, Auntie?" Cara asked.

Her aunt smiled meekly. "I am, but I'll miss you all so very much. I don't know how I'm to survive in such a fearsome place."

Cara saw that her aunt's eyes were gazing upward toward the tall and brooding Mount Obrus. The mountain was vast, dwarfing other peaks with its height and surpassing them with its girth. The dwarves were tough people with thick skin and hardy spirits that lived for two centuries, if not more. And here was this frail, gentle human of fifty five years, her dark brown hair starting to show streaks of grey, about to become their princess.

"You're such a beauty," Cara told her aunt, trying hard to sound confident, "they're sure to adore you." Her aunt smiled pensively. Cara's eyes drifted upward to the massive hulk of dark granite at the end of their road. Perched on its haunches, glaring down on the world from beneath its stony brow, it looked more like a beast than a mountain.

"It is a beast," Dennel said once, "and the dwarves of Thrond are its claws."

A high pitched cry pierced the air. Ichar, her father's kestrel, wheeled overhead, then swooped down towards her father's raised arm. She perched and squawked, and he fed her a strip of dried rabbit haunch from a pouch on his saddle.

Cara turned back to Obrus, the endless wall of dark stone visible through the end of the Arm. Her mother was comforting her aunt, telling her how often the two families would be travelling between their two kingdoms. Now this is father's greatest victory, Cara thought, much more so than fostering Hale with Verrold. Her father was furious when Prince Derrion stormed Castle Gwynd and murdered Prince Marcas. And to Cara’s sad surprise, he seemed saddened by Hale’s return, rather than glad for it. He had hoped for his son to seal a strong alliance between their realms, and would have to make do with what friendships still remained. Cara looked back at her aunt. I wonder who he'll sell me to, and for what.

"We'll reach the gate of Malgond by midday tomorrow," her father was saying. "We should get plenty of rest tonight, as we'll all be eager to explore Thrond once we arrive. You will all love the Royal Family. The King is a stern but loving man, and Queen Halfi is thoroughly delightful."

"And their sons are very handsome," her mother said, looking directly at her.

"Truly?" Cara asked, trying not to appear overly curious.

"Very," said Idana, “especially Halfur, methinks. Though Ror is much more genial.”

Cara had met Prince Balvor of course, and the older Prince Lobuhl. Lobuhl had frightened her. She could scarcely believe such a happy and fun loving man as Balvor was related to an expressionless gargoyle like Prince Lobuhl. Other than that she had only met their guards and the Princess Klar. Klar had come with Balvor on one of their visits, but seemed too distressed by being under the open sky for Cara to spend much time with her. She was kind, though, and lovely.

"Will Princess Klar be more lively this time?" she asked.

"I would assume so," her father replied. "She's a delicate thing, as dwarf women go. Never recovered fully from her mother's death. I remember Grar's first wife and she was fragile as well."

"A sad affair, Queen Yevn's death," said Dennel.

"I'm certain you and Klar will bond, my dear," said her mother, "and their youngest girl, Yemi, is positively full of life."

"I like Ror best," said Idana. "He reminds me of Balvor, and of course the Queen."

"Yes," her father agreed. "Grar's sons are much like his brothers. Ror is mirthful and Halfur is dour."

"Will there be a tourney?" asked Hale.

"There will be a proving," her father replied. "Mounted combat is a highly specialized role in their ranks, and a joust with your destrier wouldn't go well against one of their wargoats."

"They don't ride rams?" Istan asked.

"No, obaki sheep are far too willful to be mounts. The proving will be a melee, with single combat leagues fighting for the first purse. I'm sure you'll be welcome to strike the bell, as they say. I warn you though, dwarves are small but very fierce, and stronger than you'd dare think."

Cara had witnessed that strength during one of Balvor's visits. Even the way dwarves walked belied their surprising might.

"I favor reach over strength," said a voice from behind. It was Lord Luhman Bray, one of the few lords her father had begrudgingly brought on the journey. Lord Bray was a short, thickset man with a porcine nose and ample jowls. Behind him, on a spirited bay courser was his son Howl. Lean and tall and comely, Howl was so unlike his father that many doubted his parentage. Lord Luhman had gone through great pains to prove Howl his son, ostensibly to validate the pride he took in producing such a desirable spawn.

"I discern the true impetus of Luhman's efforts," her father once told her. "He fancies Howl for you. Fear not daughter, I will see you wed to a worthy suitor."

She saw no reason for Howl to be unworthy of her hand. He was both handsome and clever, strong and kind, and danced as well on the floor as he did in the yard. But he was the heir of a portion of her father's kingdom, not the heir of another King, and so he saw nothing to gain from the match. Cara smiled at Howl and sighed. Howl gave a slight bow and kept silent.

"You favor what you don't have, eh Luhman?" said Dennel.

"I favor what I made," the plump little lord replied. "I held the best of my blood back for my heir, and I regret it not. I wager three tode of gold that Howl will win this dwarven proving."

Cara could see the impatience on her father's face. She looked over her shoulder again at Howl and his lord father. Howl shook his head and rolled his eyes, which made her grin.

"Come, father," the young knight said, "let's return to our places. His Grace no doubt craves time alone with his family."

"Ahh, yes yes, of course," Lord Luhman blustered, "you no doubt missed your son, Your Grace. The whole kingdom is cheered by his return, no matter how grim the circumstance."

"Father… " said Howl.

Lord Bray blustered again, then followed his son back to the wagon his three plump daughters were riding on.

"I ordered him to remain behind," her father grumbled, “but he bleated like a dying sheep to come, even though his wife obeyed my command.”

"Howl has grown strong," asked Hale. "Has he been knighted?"

"He has," Dennel replied. "He was sworn to the Sword's Logic a year ago to the day. He rides well, he tilts well, and bears injury without complaint."

Hale nodded thoughtfully. "He is a boon to the realm, then. And as Lord Luhman's firstborn son, he's heir to a wide and fertile plot of land."

Her father ignored Hale and Dennel's exchange, though Cara knew what they were up to. One of the first things Hale had commented on after his return was that Cara remained unwed. He told their father of several noteworthy lords and heirs he'd met in Eruhal, but their father rejected them outright. "She is a princess," he told Hale, "and she will be wed to a prince."

The ring of clouds that girded Obrus's hips cast a long shadow over the land surrounding the road. Between the clouds and arched ceiling of the Titan’s arm, it almost seemed night had fallen over them. Istan had ridden to the fore of the train with his head swiveling all about.

"Aren't there any guards?" he asked. He almost sounded disappointed. "Don't they have towers? And gatehouses? Are their murder holes in the Titan's Arm?"

Istan looked quite the little prince in his silvermoon doublet and indigo cloak. His dappled racing pony trotted proudly in spite of the dark of the road.

"They have guards, little Prince," said Dennel, "more than you can count."

"Ser Gammon said dwarves hide in mountains as well as elves hide in trees," said Hale.

Ser Gammon, thought Cara. There’s a man I could stand to be wed to. Ser Gammon Foss, the Hay Knight, was the talk of every maid, lady and princess from Casimir in the west to Jannis Araad in the east. Even women of other kins grew faint when his name was mentioned. Cara couldn't help but wonder how he had not yet taken a bride. He was only a knight, however well reputed, and so her father would never even consider it.

"And as well as drow hide in shadows," her father said to Hale. "They've been watching over us for a long time, no doubt. We'll be greeted very cordially, but not until we're through Malgond. Dwarves tend to be shy on the road, and are often out of sorts when under the open sky."

"Has Thrond ever been invaded?" Istan asked. He kept searching the rocks and boulders that lined the road, likely hoping to spot a row of archers or pikemen.

"Attempts have been made," said their father. Ichar screeched and ruffled her wings. "Forgive me, Ichar. How could I be so forgetful?" He reached into a pouch on his belt and retrieved Ichar's hood, then gently placed it on her head. "There was a Provosan king who attacked Thrond, long ago in the days of Narvi the Blooded. He had his sappers light massive dung fires in the dimroads in hopes of choking the dwarves out. He and three others of his allies formed a spear wall around Malgond to waylay the dwarves when they at last fled."

"What did the dwarves do?" asked Istan. Cara shuddered to think of unwary dwarves fleeing through their surface gate to escape the noxious fumes of dung and pitch, only to be impaled on human spears.

"King Narvi's army emerged from hidden tunnels and built a camp outside the walls of Red Dawn, the chief castle of Provosa. Narvi ordered his men to dig tunnels under the walls of the castle. They opened the ground and emerged from the inner ward, killing all who were there. They then attacked the king’s armies from behind. All the invaders were slaughtered, and the name of that king has since faded into oblivion."

Dennel spat. "Savage little runts." Ichar screeched again and fluttered her wings.

Cara looked to her aunt. Her mother had taken Idana's hand. "I'm glad you picked a nice one," she said. Her aunt smiled sheepishly. Cara then rode to the edge of the Titan's Arm and gazed at the mountain. It seemed as unassailable to her as it had to Istan, especially with such cunning defenders living within it. The dwarves of Thrond are its claws.