Blood loss was making him delirious, Kársek realized. The hall was stretching out before him at impossible length, its lines growing vague and twisting each time he began to lose focus.

“In mountain’s shadow we wander, lost,” he sang tunelessly beneath his breath. “Halls forsaken, iron oaths become rust.”

He grimaced and pivoted on the shoulder he’d been dragging along the wall, turning to look behind him. His ember lantern was almost dead, its single beam devoured by the darkness after only a score of paces.

Nothing behind him.

He winced and pulled his hand from the deep wound in his side. The blood was near black across his palm and fingers. The pain was a steady drumbeat that marched in time with his heart.

Too much blood.

Wincing, he looked back up the length of the corridor. The Portal. It had to be up ahead. It had to be.

“Ancient runes lost to rime and frost.” He resumed stumbling forward, hunched against the pressing darkness. “Gone the gleam of gold, our ancestor’s trust.”

The ember in his lantern flickered, went out, came back. Kársek resisted the urge to smack its side. No amount of jostling would renew its source of Earthblood. He had to move faster.

His thoughts strayed to his dead companions. Back behind him somewhere, falling to that wave of ashen walkers. The sound of Freyka’s screams echoed in his ears once more, and he grimaced, squeezed his eyes shut tight, and forced himself to continue singing.

“Our feet tread paths beneath starry skies, Far from halls and honored hearths…”

A whisper behind him, like a wind through a wood in winter. He glanced back and saw them coming.

The ashen walkers.

Five of them filling the breadth of the hall, lurching forward, blind heads twisting from side to side as if seeking his scent. Another row behind those, and then the moving shadows indicating five or six more beyond.

Kársek bared his teeth as he fought to go faster. Refused to admit defeat. Sliding along the wall, barely able to stay on his feet, he struggled to stay ahead of the tide of monsters.

Up ahead. A corner. Perhaps beyond that lay the Portal. Just another twenty yards. If he could reach it. If he could…

A giant black hound prowled into view.

Kársek felt his throat squeeze shut.

It was a vision from a nightmare. Its haunches would reach his shoulder, its burning red eyes were demonic and soulless. Shadows burned off it like vapor from a blade tempered into an oil bath, and it stared at him with disinterested curiosity.

“Honor dimmed like ember’s fading light,” sang Kársek, forcing himself to stand tall. If he was to die here, it wouldn’t be hunched over like an elder. “But through the eons we hearken to the eternal cry.”

Then two golden-headed hatchets came swirling into view. Too much blood loss, thought Kársek, as he saw the hatchets slow and turn to orient on his hallway. Or his mind had snapped. That was also technically possible.

A faint bubble of scale-light grew beyond the corner’s turn, and then a man jogged into view, slowing as he caught sight of Kársek and his ember lantern.

A human, a massive example of his kind, nearly twice Kársek’s height, with shoulders like barn doors and the face of an executioner. He stepped up alongside the hound and rested his hand casually on the beast’s huge head. The twin hatchets swirled at his sides.

“Forge and fire,” whispered Kársek. A sense of danger radiated from the human like heat from an open oven. Pale his face, gold his shorn hair, and in his hand he held a stone blade of great antiquity and beauty.

“Forge and fire,” said Kársek again, trying to put some iron into his oath. He straightened. If he was to be slain here, he wouldn’t go down without a fight.

* * *

Harald had lost track of how long he’d been running down here. A bell? Two? He’d found the perfect pace and learned to trust the Goldchops and his hound. They destroyed all that they came across, so that not once had he had to use his Dawnblade to defend himself.

The rewards felt paltry in comparison to what he’d been earning on the 27th, but in a sense, he was being paid to exercise. He kept a steady jog going, navigating the turns and twists of the corridors, occasionally descending or ascending steps, and often looping back so as to not go too far from the Portal.

Could he convince Sam to do their morning runs here?

She might find it a bit strange.

Occasionally he’d find himself starting to lag, despite Shadow Fortitude, and then he’d simply engage Dark Vigor, which would perk him up like a concentrated mug of coffee. But a dawning sense that he was tapping a reservoir that wouldn’t be so easily replenished was starting to come to him, so, with regret, he turned and began angling back to his distant Portal, charging the Mastiff to find the way home.

Right till he turned a corner and saw a young dwarf slouched against the wall in a pool of his own orange light. The dwarf’s dirty blond hair was tousled and matted with sweat, his eyes sunken with pain, and his hand was clamped to a great messy wound in his sunflower yellow tunic.

The dwarf called something, but his voice was too slurred for Harald to make it out.

“Hey,” Harald replied, raising his empty hand in greeting as he clumsily dialed up his scale-light with the other. “Do you need help?”

The dwarf’s eyes widened as he straightened, and he seemed to reassess Harald before nodding over his shoulder. “Walkers!”

“Oh, right.” Harald willed the Goldchops into action, and they flew down the hall. “Don’t worry about them. Here, let’s fix you up.”

The dwarf’s intense grimace didn’t fade. His beard was little more than a bushy goatee that was twisted into a tiny chin-braid a few inches long, and his eyebrows were bristly and fierce. “There’s too many of them,” he gasped. “Run.”

“Nah, I think we’re fine.” Harald glanced at the mastiff which was prowling alongside him. “Why don’t you go make sure?”

The mastiff growled in approval and bolted past the dwarf.

Harald could make out a large group of walkers approaching just beyond the edge of his scale-light. But the Goldchops were already threshing them like a field of wheat, passing back and forth through their ranks and bursting them apart.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The dwarf turned to stare at the massacre, eyes going wide once more.

“You’re fine,” said Harald, lowering himself to one knee beside him. “My name’s Harald Darrowdelve. Where’s your party?”

“Dead,” rasped the dwarf, but he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from the Goldchops as they went about their murderous work. “How…?”

“Just, you know. A great Artifact. My dad left it to me.” Harald studied the wound. It looked like a walker had gauged a huge hole through the dwarf’s side. How he was still standing Harald couldn’t begin to guess. “Here. Absorb this.” And he dug out an Golden Dawn from his pouch.

The dwaft finally looked away from the massacre, saw the precious scale, then glanced up at Harald, eyes wide. “You’re… you’re sure?”

“I don’t think you’ve much of a chance without it.”

“The name’s Kársek,” rasped the dwarf, and pressed his fingertips to the scale, absorbing it.

Color immediately returned to his features, which proved to be tanned and ruddy, with the faintest hint of freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His eyes were a deep, piercing green flecked with gold, and he had to be a teenager by dwarven years, given how short his beard was.

“Ah,” exhaled Kársek, examining the vanished wound and inhaling deeply. “That’s a sight better. Thank you, Master Darrowdelve. You’ve assuredly saved my life.”

“Didn’t look good, I’ll give you that.” Harald tried for a smile. The young dwarf’s natural disposition seemed to be fierce intensity, which made it had to act relaxed. “Anybody else in need of helping?”

Kársek’s brow lowered as he frowned deeply, and then gave a slow, grave shake of his head. “No. I am the last.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Harald. “Do you… shall we fetch the remains…?”

“You are most honorable,” said the dwarf. “But though gear can be brought back through the Portals, the dead cannot.”

“Oh.” Harald winced. “I’m sorry, you’re right. Of course.”

“No apologies needed. I…” Kársek lowered his head, and for a long moment simply stood in silence, mastering his emotions. Then he finally raised his face, eyes burning bright. “I would say a prayer over them, however. You are under no obligation to accompany me.”

“No obligation needed,” said Harald, rising to his full height. “I’d be happy to accompany you there and back to the Portal. I don’t think you should be down here alone without any weapons.”

“I lost my hammer in the first walker rush,” said Kársek, tone flat. “It twisted away, the head of my weapon trapped in its chest. They came upon us very quickly. Through an archway we hadn’t seen. It was…”

Harald resisted the urge to put his hand on the dwarf’s shoulder, or to make a conciliatory statement. Once he might have rushed to do so, to urge the dwarf to not blame himself, to make bland and pointless statements about the perils of the dungeon.

Now, though, he knew better.

So he simply stood in silence, giving Kársek time to wrestle his emotions under control, and when the dwarf gave a jerky nod, they turned and began retracing his footsteps.

“You are down here without a party?” asked the dwarf.

“I am. I’ve had the good fortune of inheriting a powerful Artifact, like I said, and I recently acquired… you know, I’ve yet to come up with a good name for him. Houndy?”

“No,” said Kársek, tone flat. “Houndy is a bad name.”

“Yeah. Shady? I’m still working on it. But with my Goldchops and my new Servitor, this level isn’t that dangerous for me.”

“Remarkable Artifacts,” said the dwarf, admiring the hatchets that floated alongside Harald. “Masterwork?”

“You got it.”

“I used to dream of crafting something so fine,” said Kársek softly. “But fate pulled me from the forge.”

“You can craft Artifacts?”

“I cannot. But there are many dwarves in Dumrûn, far more talented and experienced than I, that can.”

“That’s where you’re from?”

“No. I am what’s known as a Tinker Dwarf. My family and clan are descended from those dwarves who were banished or imposed self-exile upon themselves.”

“Oh.” Harald resisted the urge to apologize. Had he heard of Tinker Dwarves? Maybe.

“There aren’t many of my kind,” continued Kársek. “We wander the Continent in small groups, doing metalwork wherever we’re needed. I was born in Marheim. I’ve never seen the halls of Dumrûn, and I never shall.”

“I’m… I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. I consider myself an honorable dwarf and have no regrets. It is my ancestor that brought shame upon my line, and it is he that deserves scorn.”

“Understood.”

They walked in silence for a brief spell, until Kársek paused, hand outstretched to the wall, and bowed his head. “I’m sorry. I… I do not mean to be curt with you. I am not currently myself, I fear.”

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

Kársek grunted, clearly not agreeing, and resumed walking.

They found the bodies only a few turns deeper into the dungeon. Evidence of Kársek’s blood led them to the site of the battle, where some six walkers lay shredded upon the ground. Two dead raiders lay amongst them. One was a second dwarf, a young woman with thickly braided burgundy hair, while the second was a gangly human in rusted chainmail, his lank blonde hair matted with blood from where half his face had been torn off.

Harald remained behind, giving Kársek time.

The dwarf pulled the two bodies clear of the dead, and arranged them neatly beside each other, draping a cloth over both of their faces. For a long while he just stood there, gazing upon the bodies, but then he began to sing, a low, funereal song in what had to be dwarvish.

The dwarf was a fine singer, and the raw emotion behind his words gave Harald the chills. The song didn’t go for too long, and seemed to have a looping chorus, and it was on this that Kársek ended, his hoarse voice trailing off into a whisper, his head bowed, his frame wracked with emotion.

Finally he knelt and took a necklace from the dwarf. This he pocketed, then he fetched his hammer, a massive block of carefully shaped stone inscribed with runes and turned at last to Harald.

“I’m ready.”

Harald inclined his head, glanced to Shady—no, not Shady—and commanded him to lead them back to the Portal.

The Shadow Mastiff took off without hesitation.

They walked in silence after it.

“Freyka and I grew up in the same clan,” said Kársek at last. “She was older than me, and we were never close, but we both harbored a desire for something more. Something different than what life with the clan promised.”

Harald nodded, listening intently.

Kársek stared straight ahead. “She was wild, Freyka. Given to madness and laughter, to taking great risks and coming out on top. She was fire trapped in flesh, and I was unable to resist her call.”

Kársek frowned, strode on, hands linked behind his back. “Our clan passed through Flutic a month ago. We come through once every three years as part of the Migration Loop. She urged me to abscond, and I, infected with her madness, agreed. She had saved enough coin and scales for us to survive on, and we hired on with the Free Company, where we met and joined with Larkos.”

The way he said that name indicated a distinct lack of approval.

“I warned Freyka that he was not to be trusted, but she just laughed and demanded I trust her.”

“What was wrong with Larkos?”

“He promised too much, knew too little, and was a fool. Freyka insisted we were using him for his writ as much as he was using us for our weapons, and I let myself be carried along. But I should have trusted my instincts. The man’s confidence melted away like spring frost when we arrived down here, and Freyka was arguing with him when the ashen walkers surprised us.”

Harald nodded his head thoughtfully, not knowing what to say.

They walked in silence, accompanied by the Goldchops, which, after a few minutes, suddenly whirred ahead, disappearing into the darkness.

They both stopped.

There came the sound of old tapestries being chopped apart, and after a few seconds the Goldchops returned.

“Incredible,” said Kársek. “A kingly gift your father left you.”

“Yeah.” Harald chose not to elaborate. “So. I don’t mean to pry, but what are you going to do from here?”

Kársek looked up at him, surprised. “You saved my life. There can be no question of that.”

“True,” allowed Harald.

“Perhaps you are not familiar with our customs,” said Kársek, seeming to realize the problem. “We dwarves, even we Tinker Dwarves, take the old ways most seriously. Upon emerging from the dungeon, I will swear the heartoath to you, and give you my service for as long you deem it right.”

Harald came to a stop.

Kársek looked back at him, stopping a few steps further down the corridor. “Such is the dwarven way. I will not shirk my honor.”

“Look.” Harald’s mind raced. “I just freed my last oathbound servant. I’m in no rush to take on another.”

Kársek frowned, his fierce brows beetling over his bright eyes. “It is of course your choice. But I must pay the life debt that I owe you or be deprived of my honor.”

“All right,” said Harald, considering. “Repay the debt. Um.”

“There is no need to reach a decision now,” allowed Kársek. “Nothing worth deciding is decided in a moment.” He frowned. “Something I would say often to Freyka, to no avail.”

“You were both only in Flutic for a month, correct?”

“Correct,” said the young dwarf.

“And were staying at an apartment…?”

“We rented a…” Kársek considered. “You could call it an apartment, yes.”

“Well.” Harald scratched the back of his head. “You’re welcome to come stay at my place tonight, then, while we figure this all out.”

“I would not inconvenience you further.”

“Honestly, my home is… well. Pretty big. It’d be no inconvenience.”

Kársek looked up at him, studying him intently as if seeking some hint of a lie.

“Look, Kársek.” Harald stopped and faced the dwarf. “What you just went through… I’ve been there. My first foray into the dungeon? I was nearly torn apart by dire rats on the 1st Level. And on the same day the crew I’d put together betrayed me and tossed me aside. I know what it’s like to need to hold it together even as everything inside of you is wanting to fall apart.”

Kársek’s bright eyes gleamed wetly, but his striking features remained otherwise stoic.

“So just come back to my place, all right? It’s not good to be alone after something like this. You can have a bath, eat some food, sleep, and know that when you wake up you’ll be amongst good people who can help you figure things out.” Harald considered. “Well, mostly good people. Vic’s in his own category. What do you say?”

Kársek swallowed, then nodded jerkily.

“Good man.” Again Harald resisted the urge to clap him on his bright yellow shoulder. “Let’s just focus on getting the hell out of here for now, yes?”

“Yes,” said the dwarf, voice gruff with emotion.

They walked in silence till they reached the perilous shaft chamber with its hanging chains and Portal embedded against the wall. Harald dug out a Copper Crescent, and the portal activated, coming to black, raging life.

“You first,” said Harald.

Kársek stepped up to the exit, hand on the broad head of his hammer where it was slotted into his belt, and stared at the raging magics that shimmered within the stone archway. His lips pursed, his brow furrowed, and then he cut a sideways glance at Harald.

“I will repay you for this, Master Darrowdelve. One way or another, I will find it within my means to recompense you for not only saving my life, but for your kindness.”

And then the dwarf gave another jerky nod of his head, stepped into the Portal, and was gone.