Buri unburied his fist from the rioter’s mouth and a pile of teeth clattered on the bloody stone floor. A few stray incisors stuck in the man’s beard amidst a growing fountain of red. The man looked at Buri with a stupefied glare for an instant before dropping to the ground. Two others were struck and the crowd abated just enough for the Black Helms to put their tower shields in a wall and fit their spears through notches cut in their sides. The mob then ran around them, trying to climb the steps of the plaza dais and get to Klar. Buri was tempted to let a few past, to frighten some sense into her. He’d thought her clever when she told him how she’d been wearing gaudy jewelry and rich gowns to appear as a wealthy tradeswoman. With her identity hidden she was able to get close to the men inciting the riots and was close to learning valuable information. He almost laughed once when he saw her in one of her disguises; her hair plaited and bejeweled beyond the point of absurdity, and her face painted like a mummer from Canthor. Her dress was one of the lowest cut he’d seen, a detail he took note of several times. His amusement turned quickly to fury when he and the Black Helms came to the Armsman’s Square and saw her backing away from the angry mob, a paltry dozen men trying vainly to defend her. She was garbed as a princess, and had openly confronted the crowd alone. Stupid girl, was all Buri could think as he, the Black Helms, and Vor the Cold fought to keep the crowd back.

“Kill the first three rows!” shouted Vor.

“No!” Buri shouted back. He cared nothing for the lives of a craven mob, but he knew spilling their own people’s blood would bring consequences the realm could not now afford. He saw movement above his head and looked up. Someone had dodged past his spear and hoisted an anvil over his shield. He leaned his spear against the top of its notch, took the anvil in his hand, tossed it backward onto the steps to the dais, then regained hold of his spear.

“I command the Stone Guard,” Vor said next to him, “you command no one.”

“And I command the Black Helms,” chimed Muradin, their captain. The Black Helms were a legion unlike any other, specialized in warring against other dwarves. His uncle had advised their formation when relations between Grar and King Karli of Heth had grown sour. No one had expected they’d be loosed on Thrond’s own citizens. In the short time that he’d been back, Buri had seen the people grown brazen and insolent, and that merchants had gone unchecked in amassing influence and sway. They were using the controversy stirred by Koll’s return to show their power, and Klar was fool enough to think being their princess would be her armor. It was her folly.

“I protect the King’s daughter,” said Vor, “every spear here is under my command. Kill the first three rows.”

“I want to, Vor,” Buri said, “more than you know. But if we do, we’ll all regret it.”

Muradin bellowed a string of commands and ten Black Helms swung around the Dais to block the crowd from spilling around their line. Buri saw a woman in a shirt of rings and boiled leather slip under a shield and run up the stairs. Her eyes showed more fear than anything, but Buri dare not risk harm to Klar. I should, he thought as he drew a throwing axe from his belt and hurled it at the girl. He timed his throw so that the handle struck her head, sending her sprawling and unconscious. I should let one of these crazed fools get close enough to fit their hands around her throat, then maybe her eyes will open.

“My men will NOT kill their own people!” Muradin was shouting at Vor. After he’d ordered the ten men to cut the mob off from the sides of the dais he’d ordered four of them to rally around Klar. The dais pressed against a wall on two sides, then flared out in a crescent, giving Klar some protection. While Muradin was distracted, Vor had lived up to his name The Cold, driving his spear through the chests of two of the bigger men in the mob. There were a few screams, and a cry of murderer, but the crowd was in enough of a fervor for most people not to notice the two dead men. Muradin looked ready to turn his spear on Vor.

“These aren’t people!” Vor shouted back. They’re no better than a pack of dogs!”

“You strike a dog when it snaps at you, Vor! You don’t kill it!”

A voice louder than any horn or bell rose just above the din. Some of the people stopped shouting and turned, then took hold of those near them and pointed. Buri chanced a look, swiping his spear in an arc in front of him to dissuade any from rushing his shield. Only one of us needs to go down, and they'll all break through.

The voice bellowed again, and in a few moments the mob was quiet. Ror had come, and with him Koll.

The mob parted as Ror lead Koll to the dais. When he came upon the two men Vor had killed, he looked at the Stone Captain with a grim face and nodded curtly. Buri shouted for the men to part and let their prince through. They obeyed. Who do I command, Vor? No one you say? Many a time in the underlands, Buri had commanded men above his station when their orders were ineffectual. He’d learned to trust in force of will over force of rank. Apparently soldiers above were no different than soldiers below. Dwarves will be dwarves, and we follow the strong.

Ror rose to the dais and spoke with his sister, then stood on the top stair to address the crowd. “A quarter of a million enemy soldiers are moving fast through the dimroads, two thirds of our trained warriors have died, and you lot have seen it fit to assault what few good soldiers we still have. The goblins may just as well wait until we’ve done their work for them. Do you people not see the Black Helms here? They were formed to fight Heth! Not Thrond! But you, you, are the ones rising up against the children of Obrus. Children attacking children, is that how it’s to be? A brawl here and there, well, that’s healthy for any proper dwarven realm. But this, a mob gone blind with anger, assailing a defenseless woman? Your princess no less. This is beyond cowardice. This behavior is diseased, and it makes me ill to see it.”

Buri kept his shield high and his spear notched, but he could both see and feel the shame growing throughout the crowd. The girl he’d struck with his throwing axe had woken and was sniffling behind him. He felt a hand on his shoulder and inclined his head just enough to see Ror at his side. The prince gave him a gentle push, and Buri ordered the men to part ranks again to let Ror through. The prince had the young girl next to him, his arm was draped over her shoulder as if she were of his own blood. He lead her to the two dead men and stopped, then ordered the guards to stand their spears.

“Two of Thrond’s citizens, hard working craftsmen both, skilled and dutiful, killed by the Captain of the Stone Guard.”

“There should be a reckoning!” shouted some craven from the rear.

“There will be,” Ror’s voice was as plain as a wall of unburnished steel, “but not for Vor the Cold. He did his duty, and he will do it again, and again, and again until not one of you has a drop of blood in their veins, should you present him with the need. You have power in your hands, but so do we. The power of life and death. Such is our right as the blood of kings, but we also have a sacred vow to uphold, to safeguard the children under our mountain. Are we not all sons and daughters of Obrus?”

Ror then looked to the girl. “Did you know these two men?”. She sniffed and shook her head. “I did,” he said. “The one with the brown hair was named after my uncle. His friends called him Lobuhl the Peasant. His father served beside Lobuhl the Prince in the Six Rivers War. My uncle was younger than I am now, and he fought next to this man’s father against Ronehelm's combined might. They fought shield by shield, spear by spear, and marched together the whole slow, agonizing way to the Shield Lands, slaying the last of Dalibor Tomalt’s outriders before they could reach the Bloody Veil.”

The girl sobbed. “I wasn’t going to hurt the princess, I swear!”

“This man,” Ror said, pointing at the other big dwarf who lay bleeding onto the ground, “Sheor Thrain was his name, but I called him Sheor the Damp. He was just shy of the skill needed to be a citadel smith. I’d come to his forge to watch him, to see if I could offer some advice to help him improve. He’d hover far too close to his quenching vats, soaking his beard in steam while talking himself toothless to me, his apprentices, his sons, his wife. Anyone near enough to see was a distraction, and his blades often came out brittle and warped as a result. He discarded far more than he ever sold. I never gave up on him, though.”

“Dread Highness please,” she mewled, holding her hands pitifully against her face, “I was just going to drop to my knees and beg her to have my father sent back up from the doomed, just like the Dung Wraith's was.” A rush of whispers spread like a wave through the crowd. Ror raised his hand and the whispers hushed.

“He will have an inquest,” the wave rose anew, and Ror calmed it again. “All the doomed will have inquests, and if any others are found innocent, they will be restored. Any loss of incomes will be restored as well, a kindness Koll did not receive. If that does not sate you people, then you are beyond hope.”

Buri looked back at Koll. Koll’s eyes were brimming with tears as he looked with pity on the crowd. Buri felt a wrenching in his gut. The moment Koll was returned, he’d forgotten about the undeserved plight of the others in those dark pits. There were doomed men and women, guilty of petty crimes, being torn open by foul creatures not meant for the world of thinking people, while these ungrateful cowards enjoyed peace and plenty. Well, they had peace, but now a reckoning for all was fast approaching, as Ror had warned. For the shadow of a moment, a displeasing thought crossed Buri’s mind. Valung, you lying old goat, how deep in this privy have you stuck your arm?

Buri’s thoughts were interrupted by a person cheering. A few others joined, but Ror thrust his finger at them. “Don’t!” he shouted. The cheers stopped. “I don’t do this for you.” He pushed the girl into the crowd, gently, then pointed his finger at Koll. “I do it for him,” he pointed at Buri, “for him,” he pointed at the ground, “for them,” he pointed up, towards the citadel, “and I do it for Thrond. We’re a better realm than to risk exiling innocent citizens to a life of fear and savagery. We’re also a better realm than to tolerate belligerence and entitlement amongst our people. My sister is your princess, and she cowers from you against a wall, behind four soldiers. Were I a prince in Narvi’s day, I’d be chastising Vor for not having everyone here chained and thrown into the surts. Now, as to that reckoning…”

Ror commanded Vor to round up one hundred of the rioters and send them to Forvangur, where they’d be given gear for war and sent to fight against the goblins. When they had been rounded up and carried away, Ror put one final dagger through the hearts of the mob. “You all stand to have your loved ones returned to you. The families of Lobuhl the Peasant, and Sheor the Damp... they’ve lost their loved ones forever. Take these men to their families, and beg forgiveness for your part in their deaths, or I’ll personally lay more of you down next to them. My people.” He spat and went to Klar.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Muradin ordered the four Black Helms surrounding Klar to remain with her, most likely to vex Vor. Buri lingered around the bottom of the dais, prowling the bottom step until the Armsman’s Square looked as if it nothing had ever happened. When he rose he found Ror with his arm around Klar’s shoulder. Vor stood nearby with his bloodied spear, and the four Black Helms stood in a quiet row behind the Stone Captain. Koll stood on the dais, but not close. Guilt was in his eyes. “Dread Highnesses,” he said, “if there’s anything I can do… anything that I can undo…”

“You are not to blame,” said Ror. “He is.”

Klar reached back and patted Ror’s arm, which he removed. “Who’s he?” she asked, trying to appear calm. Buri could see her fighting to keep herself from shaking.

“Valung,” he said.

Ror looked at him darkly. “What do you know of this?”

The old one-eyed man warned me. Buri had not forgotten the old man’s message. The reborn, he called me. He’d been waiting patiently, moving from one time wasting assignment to the next, waiting to see the fire rise. He’d not expected Klar to be threatened so soon.

“Valung loves Thrond,” Koll said incredulously.

One side of Buri’s mouth lifted in a mocking grin and he let out a near silent laugh. “He’d love to see it shattered.”

Ror looked around the square, then to the nearest ohr-tempus. “This is no place to speak of these things. My chambers, everyone.”

The trip to the citadel was uneventful. People gazed through worried eyes at Klar. She did her best to appear unshaken, but her face was glacial pale, and the corners of her eyes were stung with red. Ror’s chambers were dimly lit. Only a third of his sconces held crystals, with a soft orange glow came from his forge. Maps, archives, and records of battles lay strewn about his many tables and work benches. Helms and shields sat on chairs, or propped against walls. Other bits of armor could be seen on their stands or other furniture. Klar stepped over them as if they were crypt lice spores. Only two things in the Prince’s apartments were in their proper place. A suit of very fine looking platemail, and Malgond, his warhammer.

Buri had heard a few soldiers talking of Ror’s hammer in the steel shed. They spoke of the weapon as if it itself were a hero of glorious battles. It was a well crafted weapon, to be sure, even if the head were a bit oversized. Ror was doughty enough to wield it, no doubt. The haft was long, and ended in a cruel spike. Its every surface was carved with norian runes, the augustine glyphs Narvi and his cousins used to communicate their deeper purpose. Buri wondered if Ror knew their meaning, or if he just carved them in his hammer for fashion’s sake. He doubted anyone in Thrond knew the ancient meaning of those marks, and he doubted even more the meaning Valung had attributed to them. Malgond’s head was longer and taller than most warhammers. It ended in a square point, a diamond of angled steel that threatened to become a spike, delivering all the heavy weapon’s force into a single, small point. The peen lacked the subtlety of the head. It was long and sharply angled into a long spike, sharpened on its edge like an axe. The head of the weapon gained much of its curious size by its outer portions dropping below the haft, giving an inset appearance to where the haft and heat met. The whole thing was one piece of very well forged steel.

The armor was clearly not made by Ror. Ror knew the craft well, but the work of a citadel smith was unmistakable. Every angle, every curve, every surface was perfect. The spaulders were shaped like the heads of different beasts; the right a dragon, bearded and cunning, the left a phoenix, crowned with plumage and fierce nobility. His rondels were the heads of owls, his vambraces twin serpents entwined about each other, his gauntlets bore spiked knuckles and fingers, and his sabatons were forged in the shape of snarling bears. The cuirass and couters bore the crest of Narvi, set with gemstone in the traditional colors, though the rest of the armor was all deep crimson, silver and black enamel. The silver portions of the armor were ungilded, but glowed with a golden light that looked like flame when the light played of its angles. The helm was a sallet, with both visor and bevor, a segmented flare over the neck, brigandine aventale, and a pair of blackened ram horns edged with that same sun flamed silver. The long fur of a bison’s shoulders was fastened to the seams about the neck and shoulders. Buri caught himself before he asked, for he knew the armor was made of mannarim from the pulse he felt in the air when he leaned close.

“Tell us of Valung, Buri,” Ror commanded. Ror had sent the Black Helms back to their post in Forvangur. They were one of the few legions not to be struck with the soldier’s plague. The irony was not lost on Buri.

“He despises the entire realm,” Buri said.

“He seems content to captain the doomed,” said Vor.

Koll was near Buri, looking closely at Ror’s armor. “One could buy an army for the cost of the faulds alone,” he said.

“Touch it,” Ror told him. When Koll put his hand on the mannarim his eyes seemed to glow.

“It feels, alive…”

Buri put his hand on the shoulder of the suit. He felt it too, a current of warmth and power, like blood travelling through a vein.

“I never heard him speak of any scorn for the realm,” Koll said, looking him in the eye. “He had ample complaints towards its governance, but I always heard him speak longingly of Thrond.”

Buri looked back to Malgond hanging on its pegs. He wondered if even this mannarim helm could stand against the hammer, were it swung with enough hate. “He loves the Thrond he’s built in his mind, but loathes the Thrond built by Narvi.”

“Recent injustices aside,” said Ror, “what does he hate us for in particular?”

“Oh he loves you well enough,” Buri replied. “We heard about you nigh every day. He used any excuse he could to tell the story of the child that blinded the giant. He feels indebted to you. He would say that after you tore out his eye, he began to finally see clearly.”

“I’ll be happy to improve his eyesight further.”

“He hates my father,” said Klar. “I remember him better than you, brother. He always challenged my father, never took any of his commands the first time they were uttered. I asked him why he tolerated Valung’s insolence, and he said he named him Captain for his fierceness, not his obedience.”

“Then what did he name me Captain for?” said Vor, “My body count?”

“He named you Captain because he learned,” Klar said.

“He doesn’t hate your dad,” Buri said. He sensed Ror would understand better than Klar what he was about to say. Her love was for her king father and dead mother first, and her kingdom second. One thing that had given him hope since his return was that Ror had become a defender of the people, rather than a bully, and as he showed in the square, he would not refrain from defending them even from themselves. “Valung doesn’t think of anyone as a person. When he looked at your dad, he saw a symbol, a piece on a board. I can’t tell you much beyond that. If you want to know his deeper thoughts then you’d best ask him to his face. What I know I saw, rather than heard.”

“You were closer to him than I,” said Koll. “We rarely saw him in the Ring of Hope. The Black Ring spent more time by his side than I’m sure you wished.”

“We didn’t see him often. We were the White Ring’s watchmen, not Valung’s. Only Breya the Young had any hold over him, so long as she kept his respect.”

The door to Ror’s chambers burst open and the king strode through in a red ringed hauberk and black cloak. Buri and Vor both bowed low, and Koll dropped to his knees. Grar went straight to Klar and took her in his arms. “I’m alright father,” she insisted while returning his embrace. He looked into her eyes. “I can’t lose you,” he said. “Were the people punished?”

Ror nodded. “I sent one hundred of them to Forvangur. They’ll see a true mob when they face the goblins.”

“Was any blood spilt?” Grar asked.

Ror hesitated, then started to shake his head, when Vor lowered his head. “I took two of my brothers’ lives, Dread Sovereign.”

Grar’s face was stern. “They should count themselves lucky. Both of you were soft on them. I’ve labored many long years to protect the abundance they enjoy, and they’ve shown their thanks with insolence. Ladhu, rise and speak to me as a man. How did you feel when you first heard of the demands for your release?”

Koll was slow to respond, lifting his head, then rising to his feet. He looked Grar in the eye, and did indeed speak as he would to any other man, with kindness and honesty. “I was afraid, Dread Sovereign.”

“I can imagine. A lot can change in ten years, and the doomed receive no messages from Thrond.”

Koll nodded. “I wondered if Farin had found another husband, and if Nava would even recognize me. Then I felt foolish. If I hadn’t asked for her hand, Farin would be a maiden to this day. And Nava would never forget me. Every day she’d remind me of my least flattering traits. ‘Mind your head, dad, you might strike it against that man’s elbow. Be careful what you sup on, dad, you’ll be wide as you are tall before long, seeing as you don't have far to go.’”

Grar and his children laughed. “I’ll never know pain as you have, but then I’ll never know such joy, either.”

“It was… wonderful, Sire, to be returned. Words cannot do justice to how I felt when first I saw them both again.”

“And what words would you choose to describe your feelings when the first mob gathered. Chieftain Brann tells me you were accosted.”

Koll took a moment to respond, during which he regarding Grar carefully. “I was sad, Dread Sovereign. Not for myself, but for those gathered in the mob, and for the realm as a whole.”

Grar in turn took a moment, regarding Koll as carefully as Koll had regarded him. “Truly,” he said at length. “We’re better than this. Or, we must be, to deserve the treasures of our mountain father. We live atop the glory of our world. It’s unfitting for our people to behave as coddled children. What do you suggest we do? I’d have your thoughts, as best as you can express them, as one who’s seen close at hand our realm's particular malignance.”

Buri saw Koll raise an eyebrow when Grar mentioned the glory of the world, and Obrus’s treasures. “My King, if you would have my thoughts, then promise me no reprisal. I don’t know how to anticipate your response.”

Grar did a thing that surprised Buri. Even Klar and Ror seemed startled, and Koll most definitely was. The King walked to Koll, dropped to one knee, placed a closed fist over his chest, and looked up at the man he’d once sent to die. “I’ve heard of your humility in forgiving the throne for the injustice you suffered, but I refuse to accept it. So long as those of your household live, the line of Narvi is indebted to you. You have nothing to fear from me, or any in Thrond.” When Grar rose he was a king again, mighty and dour, with eyes of dark fire. “I’d have these mobs thrown into the surts for threatening you as much as for threatening my daughter. Tell me your thoughts on the matter, and I might consider them.”

Koll spoke immediately. “Disband the Underguard. I beg you, Dread Sovereign, send killers and rapers and seditionists through the hidden door, and take fingers from thieves and possessions from skimmers, but send no subject of yours to that forsaken place.”

Grar’s face was stone, and when he nodded his head, it was with the unreadable grace of an owl gazing into the moon. He offered more words of care to his daughter, commendation to his son, and a curt nod to Vor before turning to leave. “And you,” he said to Buri, unexpectedly, “how would you respond to these mobs?”

Buri looked at his King through half closed eyes. Grar was almost of a height to him, and very strong. Buri could not guess one way or another how a battle between them end. He spoke with a quiet and measured voice, but could not restrain his lips from rising in a slight grin. “Send them to the Underguard.” Grar smiled, hinted at a laugh, then turned and left.