Buri pushed open the doors to the Cave of Steel. The long hall was less full than he had expected. It had been twenty years since he last saw the long cavern with its vaulted ceiling, where Thrond’s elite smiths showcased experimental pieces for the army to test. He had remembered it always being crowded, and hoped to disappear into that crowd. Instead, less than two dozen soldiers occupied the room.

Buri stalked in slowly, looking to both sides as he passed through the doors. Three young dwarves sat on a bench to the right. Two of them drank from a flagon of water while another oiled a sword blade. An old man was crossing his path directly in front, pondering a list of armorers. Further along the hall were middle aged men engaged with practice mannequins. Six on the left, three on the right, four further down. Buri turned his head to the thwack of a sword blade embedding in a wooden mannequin. Nine men were gathered in the far end of the hall. Two of them spoke while the rest listened. A lone dwarf sat on a bench near a rack of handaxes and arming swords. He had a flagon of hot liquid and two ceramic mugs. On the bench was a long handled warhammer with an inordinately large head.

Buri went to the rack of handaxes and arming swords. He was offered his choice of any weapon when returned to the kingdom. A feeble reward for two decades of anguish. He opted to keep is bearded axe as his mainstay. He had no desire to forget his time with the doomed nor rid himself of its vestiges. He did, however, need a new sidearm.

The handaxes were all nicely forged and sensibly crafted. In a near empty space he saw the last of a selection of war picks. He took the pick and twirled it quickly to feel its weight. The head was heavy, but manageable. He looked quickly about and found a rack of iron shields. He selected a tall kite shield and propped it against a mannequin, then reached back with the pick.

“That pick’s rubbish,” said the man at the bench. Buri swung it into the shield. The tip snapped off and the handle bent in Buri’s hand. He threw it in a nearby barrel set aside for failed weapons. He then took up an axe with an unusually rounded cutting edge.

“I recommend the one to its left,” the lone dwarf said.

Buri ignored him and went to work on the shield. The axe held up well and left several dents in the shield, even splitting through at one point. Buri didn’t care for the balance, though. It took too much effort on the return swing, and he knew well that the slightest hindrance could mean death in battle. He set the axe back on the rack and took the one the lone dwarf had suggested. It was perfect. He stuck it in the loop in his belt, nodded appreciatively at the lone dwarf, then turned to leave.

“There’s some fine arming swords on the rack as well,” the lone dwarf said, “and I’ve a spare mug, if you’d like some spiced cider.”

Buri turned and quickly examined the man. He was slightly shorter than average, but broad and thickly muscled. He had the bearing of a blooded warrior, and his posture eluded to extensive training in heavy armor. Buri sniffed the air, the aroma of the cider was strong and earthy, with a hint of dark sugars.

“Thank you,” he said to the stranger, “but no.” He turned again to leave.

“You’re Gund Yorman’s nephew,” the stranger said to him.

Buri turned. “Who are you?”

“A soldier. I’ve seen the brand of the doomed, and can tell it from your other ink. Is that uniform down there? Being tattooed from crown to heel?”

“I have nothing to do with the Army Chief,” Buri said. “Thank you for suggesting this axe. Enjoy your cider.”

“We’ll be serving together. By order of the prince.”

Buri sighed. “Then we’ll be acquainted soon enough.”

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“No one expects you to take to Thrond quickly. The Underguard is no place for a person with clean honor. You are back though, and we do expect you to return to our ways before too long. A good place to start would be here, with me, and this extra mug.”

Buri breathed deep and stepped toward the door.

“Buri,” the stranger said.

Buri turned and glared. The stranger stood and stepped towards him. He was definitely a strong dwarf, and showed a constant readiness in his limbs. His eyes conveyed a blend of anger and sorrow, as if he were guilty of some past grievance.

“I should have told you my name by now,” the man said, “but I don’t expect you want to see me. You never enjoyed my company before. I always loved you like a brother though, whatever you thought of me.”

Buri examined the man more closely. He had black hair and green eyes and wore no plaiting in either hair or beard. Something in the man’s eyes, a realization and denial both at once, a knowing look that refused to accept the truth. Buri sighed. "I'm at your service, Dread Highness."

Ror smiled. “You remember me? Good. Buri, I almost don’t know what to say…”

“I doubt that, Dread Highness.”

Ror laughed. “Buri, they never told us where you were sent, only that you were to train with a crack legion. We all assumed the Sunderers… We were children, and didn’t think to ask more questions. It just made sense. You were so big and knew how to fight better than any of us. Had I known… What happened? Why were you sent to the doomed?”

“To train.”

“I was told as much, but why train with criminals?”

“They’re effective fighters, and extremely disciplined. If I may, Dread Highness, I’d prefer to leave.”

Ror nodded and Buri left. The other soldiers watched him with sidelong glances as he exited the hall.

When he had returned to his quarters in the citadel barracks, he thought back to the men and women he had left behind. There was old Tal, the former wife of Opeth, Guild Master of the Hunter’s House. Tal had amassed a large store of skimmed pelts from countless trophy hunts over the decades. She was a good woman, but she broke the laws of the kingdom, and the doomed was her family now. The same was true of Giis, Skal, Voli, Torbar, all the good people Buri had fought and bled with. Good people who had made bad decisions. Only Valung deserved the cycle of torture the Undergard endured. Valung and his murderous White Ring. They belonged down there with the rock worms and acid dragons and crypt lice. The others deserved better. But they broke the law, and there was nothing to be done about that.

Koll, Buri thought, recalling one of the Doomed he never met, but knew everything about.

Buri sighed as he lay on his bed. The Queen had a streak of compassion in her to be sure. No one but her showed any love to the Hur boy, as strange as he was. But she was of the north, of Nirmo, where the horrors of the Underguard would be considered commonplace.

No, he would find no sympathy there. If the King felt any remorse for sending an innocent boy to certain death in hopes of crafting a perfect soldier, then perhaps he would pardon Koll to appease Buri. But so far the King had only offered Buri weapons as a reward. Grar did not seem to regard Buri as a person, so why would an exile of the Undergaurd be any different?

Buri knew his uncle would do anything to gain his favor. The old man had practically wept and sniveled when he came up from the Vault. No. I want nothing from him. Buri would wait, and he would watch. He would look for a person who held power and wielded it with virtue, and then he would tell them of the innocent man among the doomed, of the living soul who dwelt among the dead legion. He would not beg to the King or Queen, only to suffer their indifference, and he would not exploit his uncle’s guilt. If Koll were to be freed, it would be for the sake of justice, and for the sake of truth. With this resolve hardened and defined, Buri closed his right eye and went to sleep.