Hanmoul hailed from the bloodline of Bürumm-Dal Irøngut, famous for turning any amount of alcohol into white-hot battle-gall. The ancestor was also a renowned warrior berserker. And among the Iron Borns, his blood flowed thick and sanguine, filling his descendants with equal-parts courage and choler.

The Maotai, or perhaps the herb Gwen had placed inside the Maotai, seemed to have awakened something in Hanmoul long made dormant by his thankless labour as the Commandrumm of the Overland Expedition. Straightaway, his face grew beetroot, his bile churned, and his torso filled with fire.

_Crack!_

Hanmoul slammed the jadeite cup so hard that it splintered the ironwood, jarring his instrument-sensitive fingers.

"Another!" His blood was boiling, evaporating the pain in his hand, swelling his head to twice its size. “I’ll not let you drink me under, lass! The Hammer Guard will never live it down if a mere child, and a human at that, defeat the sons of Bürumm!”

“I am afraid you’re in for a surprise then.” The girl’s jadeite irises gleamed, vivid with the hue of rainbows— a surface phenomenon that only the Overland Expedition had ever laid eyes upon. “Bathroom breaks be damned; there’s only one way this is going to end.”

“Oh-ho, lass, yer playing a dangerous game!” Hanmoul summoned his lads and ladettes behind him. “KINNA! Brin' the stash you’ve got hidden in the cellar!”

“YER SURE?” the barkeep, a matronly Dwarven woman wider than even Hanmoul, hollered back with a voice no less loud than a Clarion Call. “That lass's quarter yer size. Do yer fancy popping her Human life-preserver?”

“I’ll be fine, really.” Gwen’s tone was almost amused. “Commandrumm, care for a wager?”

Her audience banged the table with their steins.

“Ankrumm! Ankrumm! Ankrumm!”

“Ankrumm it is! What do yer fancy?” Hanmoul belched, expelling the hot, alcoholic air, feeling as though he had just delivered a breath attack. “I’ll wager yee, alright, but woman, but what will ye do if yer lose?”

“First, that won't happen because I’ll drink ALL of you under…” The sorceress placed a hand on her pancake-flat abdomen. “If I win, promise me you’ll help me with some of my ‘Overland’ businesses. I need Dwarven Machinists, like the ones they’ve got in Bavaria to repair my Dwarf-made printing engines.”

“I donnae know if anyone’s willing ter leave the Murk.” Hanmoul’s eyes were twin moons as he spoke. “But aye lass, I’ll find ye someone. And what if yer eyes are bigger than yer stomach?”

“First, I’ll pay for everyone here. Additionally, I’ll import, gratis, ten more bottles of this priceless liqueur,” Gwen offered. “And supply you with monthly care packages from the above-ground world, sans commission.”

“Ha! Yer on!” Hanmoul’s face was radiant with Essence. “Bring on the Jäger and Korfrumm!”

The crowd roared.

“Kor! The Commandrumm’s serious now!” Grimgal’s face glowed with admiration. “His old man gullet might never recover from this.”

“Shall I call for the Kirkdun?” Tordrum, who was the oldest, asked the general vicinity. "We might still need the Commandrumm, come tomorrow."

Gwen narrowed her eyes when a familiar-looking green bottle materialised on the table.

“From the old country.” Hanmoul grinned with confidence.

Gwen did her best to read the label.

“Tell me that doesn’t say Jäger... meister.”

“Aye lass.”

“…”

“And this?”

“Korfrumm is distilled from the crushed Korumm beetle. Do you have Korumm in the above-ground world?”

Gwen gave the dark amber liquid a sniff. It was, for all intents and purposes, a sickly-sweet coffee-mead.

“Don’t tell me.” She licked her drying lips. “You pour the Jäger into a thimble— then you drop it into a stein of Korfkrumm…?”

“You have heard of the magnificent Jäger Bombe?”

Gwen pinched her brows, suddenly assaulted by heady visions of Friday night outings, projectile hurling, student dorms, ravished dresses and the ugliness of the morning after. When the only time a student could afford drinks for herself was the happy hour, it made for terrible drinking habits.

"HA, no regrets, lass? Wilting on yer Commandrumm already?"

“Not really.” She sat back to reassess the situation. Ollie was asleep, thank god. Additionally, she was wearing tight, waterproof, malfunction-safe armour with magical undies, not to mention her liver was booze-proof. She was in good hands, ones belonging to herself. All-in-all, what was there to fear but fear itself? Student-Gwen would have been three shots in already.

“Alright, Hanmoul.” She banged on the long table. “You lot! Clear out! Mistress Kinna! Line 'em up!”

If there was drunken Karaoke in this world, Gwen was sure the Dwarves would be champions.

"... We must away— ere break of dawn.
Far under the Himmseg— to low-ways deep…"

Inside The Nut and Cog Rotary Tavern, a Human sorceress' voice reverberated.

Earlier, Grimgal had regaled their audience with a bawdry jig about a lonely female Mechanic who discovered an amusingly shaped spanner. After a smack across the head, the aborted act was then followed by an epic recital by Hanmoul about Bürumm-Dal’s slaying of the Dusk Wyrm at Dürren’s Hall.

Tordok attempted a song but passed out two verses into the tune. A few others obliged, too intoxicated to recall the lines, but made merry all the same.

When finally it was Gwen’s turn, she had to sing, or it would show that she was too intoxicated and therefore signal her loss. Driven to a corner by their expectant, exuberant faces, she called upon the spirit of Tolkien to see her through the predicament.

Softly, beginning with melancholic, lilting notes, her contralto voice wafted through the boozy air, narrating the only “Dwarven Song” she knew.

"The fire was black— it flaming spread..."

One by one, the belching, groaning, fussing half-conscious tavern grew silent.

What would the Human sing? The crowd had wondered. A song of home? A tale of sorceresses and suggestively shaped vegetables? Indeed, a sorceress of such alcoholic depth would possess a harem of legumes.

Then she opened her mouth, and with the Divination-assisted aid of the Alexandrite left to her by her Master, she belted out the Dwarven words, drawing on a minor Ventriloquism cantrip to reinforce the sentiment.

“Far over the Misty Mountains cold
To low-ways deep— an’ caverns old
We must away— ere break of dawn
To find our lost and wayward home.

The Dark was roaring, down below
The earth was moaning— in th’ deep
The drake was black— its flames had spread;
Our Citadels blazed all night.

Now the iron's rusted, on the heath
And in Dyar Morkk— there stirred no life:
There the Murk lay— in night and day
And dark things silent crept beneath.

O' Farewell, to hearth and hall!
Though death may follow— our kin may fall
We must away— ere fall of dusk
Far under the Himmseg— to low-ways deep—

The longer she sang, trying to modify the tune on the fly, the more soundless the tavern grew until all she could hear was quiet sobs.

“… Was it that bad?” Gwen stopped, her face so red as to radiate scarlet from chin to ear. “If so, I am sorry for killing the mirth.”

“Yer making me eyes mourn, Ancestors’ beard,” Hanmoul bawled, clearly overwhelmed by both alcohol and emotion. “Aye, the deep, the DEEP! I know, I know. We’ve got ter fin' our way back through the blasted Murk. It's the Dwarven thing to do. Aye, yer Gods— O' Ancestors…”

“Are you sure yer, not a Dwarf?” Grimgal was drooling snot and tears from every conceivable orifice. “How else can you harken after Deepholm?”

The other Dwarves, those still conscious, collectively sighed. Somewhere, another Iron Born cried himself to sleep.

“A righteous Skūld.” Hanmoul wiped away something from his face. “If that tune had come out of the lips of a Deepdowner Runesinger, I wouldnae be stunned, but from you, a Human lass? What can an old Dwarf say?”

“You could clarify if we’re still drinking…” Gwen’s eyes swept across the half-hundred bottles, glasses, and steins, not to mention the mountain of Dwarven carcasses snoring beneath the tables.

“Nae lass, it's yer win.” Hanmoul tried to stand. For an awkward second, he looked down at his feet as though surprised to find them there. “Bürumm's beard… I cannae seem to move my feet.”

“Commandrumm, that’s my feet,” Grimgal, who sat beside her commander, informed him with great solemnity. “Yours are buried between Thorke and Tordok.”

“Ah. Right you are.”

The Commandrumm kicked away his junior officers. “I should show you to your quarters.”

Gwen pointed to the half-bottle of Maotai still left. “Not finishing up?”

“Nae wannae explode,” Hanmoul growled. “Do yer mind if I gift what’s left to my teacher? Yer got no more, yer said?”

“Not for a while, no. It’s all yours.”

Hanmoul nodded, stowing the bottle. “Right then lass— let me show yer how our folk relax after a stiff stout!”

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

The Guild District.

The Rotary Guild, Guest Quarters.

Gwen regarded Ollie’s comatose, rag-doll body, as well as the freshly laid out Hanmoul.

According to the Commandrumm's last lucid moments, orders had been given to ready the facilities for her use, including the communal bathroom, the lounge, the meeting room, and the steam bath, a must-try local speciality.

"Ah, boys," Gwen mused to herself.

Once Hanmoul and Ollie were placed side by side and on their side to prevent choking on their vomit, she was finally in the mood to take in the sights. Prominently, she was given a room with a view. From the vista offered by the stained-crystal bay-window, Gwen saw that they were high up in the Guild Hall, in one of its side towers. Below, she could just make out the city, and in the distance, its all-enveloping stone barrier.

How like our cities, she considered the déjà vu— where they had Shielding Stations, the Dwarves had Rune-etched Walls.

The Dwarven outpost, as Hanmoul had foretold, was split into four districts, with the Guildhall, the Ancestor’s Hall, the Golem Hangers, the Hammer Guard’s Barracks and other administration buildings at its centre. To the north sat the Gate of Kazhul, housing the Clans and their keeps. The east and west held the manufactoriums, while the spillage to the south was home to the factories and foundries. There, in the low-rising buildings, the vast majority of the Dwarven labourer-citizens eked out a living.

Thanks to the floor to ceiling “Wall”, the vista of the citadel appeared miniaturised, like one of those extensive model train-sets the English love to collect. Though she was in the “centre” of town, the loci of the citadel sat like a sunnyside egg with the government buildings rising like the yolk while the eggwhite spilt into the dark. The difference, Gwen conceived as her eyes studied the pin-points of light, was that the Dwarves utilised vertical space, even ceiling space, in their city planning.

Where the horizontal plane constrained humanities' cities, the vertical space of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth utilised every stalactite and stalagmite. Reinforced by runic warding and transmuted stone, these grew into natural apartments. Likewise, to service these population centres, track-lined ring-roads spiralled throughout the citadel’s interior, making her eyes dizzy.

_Khunk! Khunk! Khunk! Khunk!_

A continuous, unceasing drone permeated the air, punctuated by the sound of a six-storey tall hydraulic hammer in the Craftsmen’s quarter. To Gwen, whose body-clock informed her that it was ten PM at most, there was no discernible way to tell night from day. No change in lighting, sound, or the perpetual industry suggested that there were sessions for rest and recuperation.

She tore herself away from the organised chaos.

Gone was her booze-stained combat armour, the victim of many a quaffing from a dozen Dwarves hoping to see her make-out with the grimy floor. She had won the drinking contest thanks to Almudj’s blessing, though the price of excess was a bone-weary soreness that came from overtaxing her organs.

“The steam bath…” Gwen pulled out the access Runes Hanmoul had gifted her before he passed out. Water wasn’t a plentiful resource in the Murk, not because it wasn’t everywhere, but because the Dwarves tended to prioritise industry over all else, leaving little fresh water for things like private showers. Instead, communal bathhouses akin to Sino Onsens pockmarked the residential districts.

The Guild Hall’s quasi-magical steam bath, according to Grimgal, was one of the best facilities in the Citadel. Most importantly, there were no other guests, meaning she had the facility to herself, or to share with Ollie if she so desired.

After a few twists and turns through the winding corridors, Gwen reached her objective. Scented acacia framed the entrance, a rare material in a land without natural light— showing the investment the Guild had put into making visitors feel well-loved.

Gwen ducked under the doorway, finding herself in a long sandstone corridor dipping into the earth. Once past the warded threshold, the narrow space exponentially expanded to reveal multiple tiers of geometric baths covered in blankets of rolling mist. To her left and right, tastefully stone-shaped, were alcoves that served as private change rooms, made to appear out of sight when inside the bath.

Happy that Grimgal's advice rang true, Gwen disengaged her Shen-teī suit, then peeled the outfit from her sticky body like a second skin. Materialising a muslin towel, she stepped out of her undergarments, then gave herself a Prestidigitation to ensure she didn’t pollute the bath.

Gingerly, filling her nostrils with nourishing steam, she walked up the stone steps, then descended into the deepest pool at the apex of the cascade.

Once the water kissed her waist, she melted.

“Mother of God, I should bring Elvia here…”

The Dwarves' trademark recreation utilised no mortal bathwater. The liquid was dense, almost gelatious, allowing her to sink into luxury. Once the bath was past her shoulders, Gwen felt as though returned to the womb. Additionally, the mist soothed her sore throat and dry nostrils, making her want to spread her limbs and just let it all go.

“I should build one of these in London…”

Gradually, every knot in her muscles unwound, bringing forth the shower’s Zen’s lesser-known cousin, the bathing Zen.

“Jorumm.” Her Translation Stone did its best with invoking the throaty invocation. Near the ceiling, the hexagonal crystal rods dimmed.

Smothered by the mellow “Murk”, Gwen slowly sunk into the water, circulating Essence until she began to in-breathe, drinking the wealth of mana offered by the pool.

Held aloft in the bobbing, buoyant liquid, she made mental bookmarks for the expatriate craftsmen she desired from Hanmoul, ideally a dozen or more, working on rotation to prevent the Dwarves from feeling homesick. Applications for cultural exchange could have to be made through the Tower— ideally requested by Lady Grey. Additionally, Shielding Resonators for London’s Stations had to be commissioned, then affixed to her employees to prevent spontaneous combustion.

She also desired to barter with the Dwarves, possibly through the creation of a trading station. From the looks of their love for Jadeite and Maotai, perhaps an exchange of luxury goods was possible with the help of Marong and Mayuree and the House of M.

And while she had Hanmoul's hospitality, investigations into the transferability of Dwarven Magi-tech such as their Scrying Engines, Communication gadgetry, and semi-autonomous Golems would take priority. Likewise, if the Dwarves had a streamlined production process she could appropriate, she wasn't going to be shy in pushing Hanmoul's people.

As for the Tower's request, she would compose a wonderfully detailed report— on trade, and luxury goods, and the potential boons of establishing a permanent trading port that would include military assets like Golems.

After that, she would return to London. First, she would have to visit the isle to ensure that Elvia and her operation was running smoothly and that Wally and Mathias had taken care of business. Assuming all went well, she had a few more days to spend with Elvia, maybe visit the London Museum, or see what passed for theatre in this world.

During this time, she would also have to track down Walken and Dominic, though the latter depended on her new crew of Machinists.

After that would come the finale. On NYE, they could watch the parade while sitting somewhere suitably elevated, such as the spire of one of London’s dozen bridges, to watch the fireworks and count down the hours. If at all possible, she would like to borrow an LRM device to contact Gunther, Alesia, her Opa, and her family in China.

What would Uncle Jun think of her exploits?
Had Percy learnt any new spells?
When would Petra get to London?

_— SHUURK!_

The sound of the hermetic seal sucking shut stirred Gwen from her half-slumber. Very quietly, she brought her head above the water, all the while adjusting her eyes with Almudj’s Essence for low-light vision.

There was a Dwarf— female by the shape of her heavy-set hips, inching toward the bath. When the woman did not react to her presence, Gwen realised the rolling steam must have obfuscated her body.

Before she could decide if a polite cough was in order, the Dwarf woman stepped into the tub with a delightful moan. Gwen smiled to herself, knowing well the bliss they both shared.

From her higher vantage, she could see that the Dwarven woman possessed skin like pale milk, flawless and aristocratic, not at all what she had imagined of the stout folk. Her hair as well, caught in the dim golden light, were flaming orange— not the auburn-scarlet Alesia sported, but apricot fading to honey, hanging just below her waist.

And her bosoms— Gwen’s nostrils flared. Even Yue would be impressed.

Into one of the shallowest pools, the woman sat, then profoundly inhaled and exhaled, as though attempting to purge all her worries from her lungs.

Once her intruder was suitably relaxed, Gwen made her move.

“… Hello,” she said in Dwarven.

The woman froze.

A welling of ultra-dense mana suffused the woman’s eyes, turning her irises brilliant citrine. The purity of the Earthen energy was such that, Gwen couldn’t help but respond with a mana-rush of her own, preparing for sudden combat engendered by panic and fear.

With great deliberation, two pairs of glowing eyes in the mist faced one another.

Gwen responded by emerging from the water, one hand raised and the other covering her unobtrusive shame.

The Dwarven woman parted the mist by swatting the air. It was impossible to tell the woman's age, though she did possess a delicate mien with large eyes and a Roman nose, made imperfect by a weak chin.

“I was here first,” Gwen said softly. “If you must know. I am a guest of the Commandrumm.”

“… I know,” the woman replied, appearing to make up her mind. Coolly, she lowered her mana-charged hands. “My apologies for the intrusion.”

“Not at all.” Gwen remained still. “Shall I leave?”

“… no.” The woman shook her head. “The fault is mine. Do stay, Surfacer.”

At a loss for conversation, a stony silence accompanied the gentle flowing of water.

“… the steam there is the hottest in the room,” the Dwarven woman asked, attempting to dispel the awkwardness. “How are you not fainting or feeling ill?”

“I’ve got a good constitution,” Gwen explained. She had thought the water perfect for relaxing her Caliban-drained muscles. “Quite the sigh you had. Long day?”

“I wonder." The woman stiffness visibly mellowed. "Often, it feels as though the Vigil of Varekan-Kül never ends.”

“Are you a noble?” From her skin and her hair, Gwen could guess that this was not a Dwarf who engaged in manual labour. That and the guest’s steam room had wards that granted exclusive access, meaning she had to be somebody. “Sorry, I have been rude. My name is Gwen Song, a Human Magus. I hail from London.”

“Hilda,” the woman replied after some hesitation.

“Nice to meet you, Hilda.”

“The same.”

“… do you mind if I dim the lights?” Hilda asked. “The lumen rods don’t agree with my eyes.”

“Go ahead.”

“Jorukka—“

The lights winked out.

“… sorry, can you see?”

“Would you believe me if I said I could?”

“A surfacer who can see in the dark?” the woman scoffed. “What am I holding up?”

“The Sign of the Thrice—“

“— Sorry." Hilda's skin flushed peach and scarlet. "I believe you.”

Gwen delivered a good-humoured snort, putting the matter to rest.

Now acquainted, the duo enjoyed the bubbling silence, soaking their bones in the mineral-rich springs.

“Gwen, where do you call home?” Hilda’s voice drifted through the dark.

“A place far, far from here, called Australia.”

“Your home. What’s it like?”

“What, Australia?”

“Yes.”

“Well's there are millions of us. We live in cities of glass and concrete that reach out for the skies, staked into the earth like swords. In some places, Humans rule supreme. Elsewhere, we’re food for whatever Magical Monsters that make it past the Shielding Walls.”

“The land, I mean. What’s it like?”

“Ah—“ Gwen's tone grew homesick. “Australia is an old and ancient country.”

“Big?”

“Beyond all concept of size. It’s the wide brown land, stretching from horizon to horizon.”

“Strange words. I don’t know what that means, I am afraid…”

Gwen wondered if she could translate her nostalgia into more relatable terms.

“Well,” she searched her memory for something appropriate, locating her answer in the verse of a fellow expatriate homesick for the land of the boxing Kangaroo. "I come from a sunburnt country, a land of sweeping plains, full of rugged mountain ranges, droughts and flooding rains…”

Hilda closed her eyes.

"... an opal-hearted country, land of the rainbow gold. Though the Murk may hold all splendours, if ever I should encounter a Drop Bear, I know to what country, my Contingency Ring will fly.”

“I can see it now.” Hilda opened her eyes, cooing happily. “So that’s your home, a place of opals, precious stones, and Drop Bears.”

“Yes.” Gwen supposed that was good enough.

“You’re very good with your Dwarven.”

“It’s the Translation Stone,” Gwen explained. “A gift from my late Master. So far, it's doing a bang-up job.”

“Then it must be you in the Guild's Tavern…” Hilda’s voice grew pregnant with emotion. “I am told that you sang a song about Deepholm to the Commandrumm and his men.”

“Ah…” Gwen now realised why Hilda had asked her about 'home' in the first place. “Yes, I did.”

“Could you… sing it for me?”

Now that she was completely sober, singing an appropriated, plagiarised-song adapted from Tolkien’s original epic seemed utterly cringe-worthy.

“Please?” Hilda’s voice quivered.

“Okay, but don’t laugh..”

"I won't."

"Okay, let me warm up..." Gwen obliged as best as she could, beginning with the “Misty Mountains Cold”. After a few rounds of the Chorus, she got into the mood, eventually ending with a rousing verse of “and Low-ways deep”.

“… I don’t understand,” Hilda’s voice quivered with emotion. “Why you can vocalise what so many of our kin fail to comprehend.”

“Which is?”

“The desire to return home. Every stone cycle, we push and pull into the Murk, but every time, once we discover new seams or hollows, the Guild stops to mine the place. Each time, they bring the lode here— not to Dwarfholm, but the Citadel.”

“That’s Dwarven nature though.” Gwen could sympathise with Hilda’s frustration. “What’s wrong with the Red Citadel?”

“It’s so close to the Surface, for one. ”

“I don't think that's the problem?” Gwen refuted Hilda's claim. “What's 'too close?' Too close for raising a family? Finding a career? Eke out a living? Put food in their bellies? Money in their pockets?”

When Hilda remained silent, Gwen continued. “Folk are folk, Hildy, anywhere you find them. They’ll stay as long as there’s employment, bread, and the occasional circus. Home is where the hearth is, right? And the hearth is where you raise your family. Give a Dwarf a stiff drink, a pickaxe, a bag of precious minerals and a forge to call home, and he’ll stay put. Humans are the same, no matter the skin colour, the creed or the culture.”

“… I see.” Her companion grew contemplative.

Have I upset the aristocrat with a teeth-jarring truth-nugget? Gwen felt a bout of paranoia. “Hilda?”

Clang! Clang!

There was a polite knock on the sealed door.

“Thank you for the company,” the woman replied, suddenly displacing the bath. Glorious in her nudity, she made for the nook. “Apologies Surfacer. I must return to my duties.”

"Sure, it was nice meeting you."

There was the rustling of cloth, the donning of armour; then the silhouette was gone without a backward glance.

“Hmm…” Gwen muttered to herself. “Should have gotten her last name.”


The next day, a refreshed Hanmoul, buoyed by the Essence from Sen-sen, took Gwen and the hung-over Ollie around the Citadel on the Vularm transports, riding the mechanical caterpillars throughout the four districts. The entire journey, Ollie remained tight-lipped, utilising every ounce of will to stay respectable.

The Citadel, perhaps due to its vertical space, was deceptively compact, taking up little more space than the central Business District in Shanghai. From rim to rim, the largest dome stretched over twenty kilometres, sans the stalactites, with the furthermost edge an ever-expanding pockmark of unfinished construction eating into the mountain's interior.

In the Craftsmen's quarter, at her behest, she met a group of potential future employees in the form of Runesmiths and Tunesmiths, the Dwarven variation of Manufactorium Mages. A Runesmith specialised in the inscription of Glyphs, the foundation of Dwarven magic, while a Tuner, Gwen surmised, was akin to a mechatronic-engineer. Naturally, it took both specialisations to empower the constructs that turned the cog of the Dwarven industry. Upon further enquiry, those having attained mastery of both forms of Runecraft were called "Engineseer", or the antiquated title of "Mötorserumm", one who communes with machines. Other titles and professions existed as well, though the Machinists she wished to hire would hail from the principle ranks of Dwarven professionals.

Likewise, within the Craftsmen's Quarter, Gwen observed a strict hierarchy. The younger, bright-eyed Dwarves coming from notable Clans made up the bulk of the apprentice-tier craftsmen, asking after their Masters like ducklings. Once deemed sufficiently skilled, the next tier was the attainment of a "Journeymen" licence. The problem was that with the Dyar Morkk out of commission, there was no real "journey" to be had. As such, graduates generally apprenticed for another decade or so, emerging as mechanics capable of independent, unsupervised labour.

As a sizeable Dwarven stronghold, the Peak thankfully retained its share of Masters and Grand Masters of the craft. According to Hanmoul, the smaller enclaves cut off by the Murk had no such luck, meaning eventually, without the unlikely emergence of an anomalously talented individual, crafts and innovations stagnated forever.

Out of necessity, therefore, Hanmoul explained, Craftsmen were paramount in influence and respect in the Murk. Warriors like himself were hailed as heroes but paled in comparison to a Grandmaster. An Engineseer's work could power the entire city's fleet of Golems, or expand the city's arable food-shafts three-fold as a result of a new crop or an energy-efficient way to maintain the hydroponic systems.

Perceptive as always, Gwen steered the conversation toward the Deepdowners.

"Aye, yer ken. For the same reason, the Deepdowners eh held in high esteem. As Deepholm's elite, they exist at the apex of both knowledge and talent."

When Gwen asked if Hanmoul used the word "Talent" as the Human's do, citing her dual-elements, the Commandrumm nodded.

"Those deemed with 'talent' inherit their gifts from the Seven Ancestors," Hanmoul explained as they strode down the open avenues of the Craft Quarter. There were workshops as far as the eye could see, though much to Gwen's disappointment, the shopkeepers cared little for items suitable for Humans Mages. Most sold ready-made parts, such as Mana Engines, or a Flux Capacitor, or something that looked like a vehicle battery, or Spellsword blades, or parts for other Workshop's creations. "Rarely ay one of us Murk-folk borne blessed. It happens much mair frequently in the awld Clans, especially in Deepholm."

"You said all of you could Stoneshape to some degree." Gwen clattered alongside the Iron Born in her Mary Janes. Clad in her Magus mantle, she looked every inch the Cambridge-graduated sorceress she imitated. The Dwarves, Ollie explained, saw the ermine-lined robe as equivalent to the attire of a Master, if not in craft or skill, then at least in terms of power and influence. "Ergo, all Dwarves are talented in Earthen-magic?"

"The difference ay enormous." Hanmoul nodded. "We're scions of the Earth Mother, after all, and the Plane is mighty vast. Maybe I can demonstrate…"

The Dwarf looked around the shopfronts, then picked up a detached rod of iron. Holding the rusty pole in front of Gwen, he twisted the metal until it formed the shape of a pretzel. "There. A small gift from Bürumm."

Gwen hefted the iron pretzel with both hands. If she had the Yinglong's Draconic Essence, perhaps she could have managed to twist the metal. Presently, however, the rod remained un-malleable.

"Amazing." Gwen returned the sample. "I think I am starting to understand why we haven't 'stolen' much else from your people."

What she meant was that in all the Workshops she had visited, there were particular skills, talents, methods and applications unbefitting the one-mould-fits-all practice of production preferred by human industries. The rare Human Mage may mimic the Dwarve's magic, but the masses couldn't possibly achieve the same tier of expertise.

For this reason, most of the workshops were akin to mid-sized outfitters crafting custom parts for high-octane racers. The majority of the craftsmen were employed by the Guild, which served as a central body for commissions. Others worked as individual contractors, with certain specialists attaining an essential status. The scale and size of the operations were far below Gwen's expectations but made sense when considering that the Citadel held half-a-million Dwarves at best, barely the size of a mid-range Human metropolis.

Gwen received a second confirmation at the Mana Engine workshop ran by Master Rostrum Luggcrann, the supplier for Hanmoul's Striders. While she watched in silence, Gwen bore witness to the Dwarf sticking his hand, unprotected, into a bubbling vat of heated metal, moulding the engine frame not through precision machinery, but the mind. Components that would have required CAD software, machine beds and CNC cutters in her world had all been bypassed by intuition and "Talent".

An additional factor, Ollie reminded Gwen as she pondered the nature of Dwarven industry, was that Dwarves lived long lives— almost four-times an NoM's and twice that of a fully provisioned Mage. Sans industrial accidents, the Craftsmen were seldom in danger, meaning most Apprentices could hope to reach the stage of a Master in their second century. The Citadel's premier Grand Master of Runes, Master Grouzumin Zur-Himlegg, was in his fourth century and kept hale enough to drink two-century-old peers under the table.

For lunch, the trio stopped at an artisanal street for food. Though more than half of the cramped boulevard consisted of craft-beer and spirt-mixers, dozens of families had taken up the enterprise of improving Dwarven cuisine.

"Meat Smokers?" Gwen was surprised to find, of all things, a Journeyman chef engaged in the act of smoking an enormous side of Mud-land Iguana. "And hickory too!"

"Aye. We have got a keen interest for certain things on the Surface world," Hanmoul confessed. "Especially when it comes to scran. Stone-bread is…"

The Commandrumm made a face that suggested he wished he still had all of his original molars.

As Demi-folk with creation origins rooted in the Elemental Plane of Earth, the Dwarves could subsist on native produce, such as the lichen and fungi that proliferated in the Murk. When ground down and baked, the product was a nigh indigestible pane de "stone". When appropriately stowed, the bread kept indefinitely, growing more inedible with time, so much that one look at an old loaf was enough to curb all hunger.

When the Murk folk had first turned to the surface for quality of life improvements, one was the ever-present hydroponic systems that had replaced the moss and lichen harvests of yore. Culinary pursuits by renegade cooks had even introduced the nouveau profession of "Chef"— one that was met with considerable success in citadels all over Dwarf-land.

Once the lizard was greasing their insides, the tour continued.

Throughout the way, Gwen paid explicit attention to a particular technology she wished to appropriate for her operations— a Dwarven Magitech known as Echo or "repeater" Glyphs.

At her behest, Hanmoul took the pair to tour the Avenue of Cunning Artificers, a section of the Western Craftsmen's Quarter that specialised in Rune-tuning, magical accessories and machine-components.

The Workshop they chose to visit was owned by Braem Yufir-Flaskthane, a lady-crafter with a century of experience under her considerable girth.

"You're after old tech pioneered by Grand Master Khazül-Dal Bhordodd, of Deepholm." The boisterous Tuner was happy to entertain Gwen's acute curiosity. "Of course, the proviso is that yer's got a lode of Taveir to spare…"

From a storage box with indefinite dimensions, Braem materialised two nondescript looking crystals. Each was inscribed with complex Glyphs in Dwarven Runescript. Tapping a few invisible Glyphs only she could see, the artificer activated the left-most crystal, lighting up a pattern of Runes. A split-second later, a corresponding set of Runes glowed on the adjacent gem.

"The more refined the crystal, the more clarified the pulse, the greater the distance."

"How rare are these Taveir Crystals?"

"Rarer than Mithril in these parts." Braem's words made her wince. "The motherlode's in Deepholm. In the old days, we could order Vularm-trams of the stuff to be delivered. Now? We're substituting whatever we can scrap."

"Which is?"

"Creature Cores." The Master Tuner shrugged. "Inconsistent as anything, yer ken. But it's the best a Tuner can do under the circumstances."

"How so?"

"Tier, Element, clarity, battle-damage, supply, ye name it." The crafter shrugged. "O how I yearn for the days when we could receive a crate of two hundred identical stones from the same lode…"

Gwen took notes, committing the knowledge to memory.

According to their verbose Tuner, the Taveir crystal's unique properties were empowered by resonator Glyphs. By likewise inscribing Creature Cores, a "poor Dwarf's" sympathetic resonance could be achieved across distance and space, potentially even Planes. The problem was consistency, for each pair was unique.

In this manner, the Dwarves maintained their equivalent of Divination Towers. To Gwen, the kit was akin to a magical form of Morse Code. The difference that was a skilled operator could add a near-infinite level of complexity, pending skill and materials. Additionally, paired with specially made equipment, it was possible to transmute the resonance into voice and vision.

The problem for Gwen, alas, was that "D-Tech" was highly dependent on Dwarven artisans. Whether or not a human manufactorium could reproduce the same effect remained anyone's guess. For her ambitions, therefore, D-Tech held both strength and weaknesses. The boon being she could have an exclusive, difficult to replicate operation— while the bane was that her supply-chain was highly dependent on volatile, inter-racial politics.

But it wasn't as though she lacked countermeasures.

Potentially, the technical hurdle could be lowered if say, a Dragon Prince were to supply quality Cores from Nagaland, Kachin and Manipur or Huangshan. Likewise, she needn't begin with voice or vision. Texting would suffice for phase one. Hell, a Pager system would work.

Later, she could commission Magisters to unravel or appropriate the tech. It wasn't as though Dwarven-magic specialists did not exist. Even Petra confessed that the progenitor of her Spellcubes sourced their inspiration from Dwarven Runic Magic.

When she proposed purchasing the Magi-tech, however, the Master Tuner broke into a high-pitched, snorting laugh.

"Fool lass! Yer grasping at the Phantom of Thul-Dâr! Hahaha…"

"The Guild can supply you with Echo Beacons," Hanmoul explained, a little red-faced. "But the Guild of Artificers cannot teach you the Glyphs or the Runes. Whatever tech that belongs to, and is derived from, the grand teachings of the Ancestors belong to Deepholm. Only the Council of Seven can authorise such an audacious transaction."

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"Could I make a petition?" Gwen smiled, thinking of Ruxin's hoard. How many more HDMs had now accumulated from the Tonglv project? "I can be very convincing."

Hanmoul politely coughed.

"We've had scant contact with Deepholm since the Murk became flooded," the Commandrumm said. "You won't even be able to make a petition, lass."

"There's no one who can authorise a barter for the betterment of the Citadel?" Gwen extended her enquiry.

"No one would dare unless yer count the Deepdowners trapped here with us." Hanmoul shook his head. "Braem's right, though. There's no graspin' for Thul-Dâr's Phantoms. It would take a supreme act to move their stone hearts."

"Maybe if yer cod clear the way to Deepholm." The Master Tuner laughed at the Surfacers' expense. "Then one of them could just be desperate enough to shoulder the reprimand and the responsibility of hawk'n the Ancestor's Craft."

"You would have to convince our Thane as well. Without Deepdowner support, he won't act either." Hanmoul gestured to the gate, under which sat the Keep, a fortress-within-a-fortress that housed Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth's elected leader, the foremost Dwarf among the Clans. "It donnae be Vadam."

"But you can lend me personnel as well as sell me ready-made goods?"

"That the Guild can manage on its own, och aye." Hanmoul nodded. "We traded with humans before. Yer should cont yer luck that despite the grudge between our folk, there was nae directive from Deepholm to cut commerce. It won't be easy. First, you would have to convince the caravaneers. Most of them haven't ventured out in decades, much less traversed the surface. They're staying thrang just keeping the surrounding settlements supplied."

Gwen looked at Ollie, who nodded back that Hanmoul was telling the truth.

"How interesting," she muttered. "Right then. Shall we visit the lower regions?"

Gwen could see that Hanmoul was ambivalent about her desire to see the Dwarven equivalent of the slums, but relented after Gwen explained that she wanted to see all of the city, not just the prosperous parts. What Gwen withheld from the Iron Born was that how a culture valued the most vulnerable was a key determinant for market viability. Her's wasn't a metric for morality; instead, she was taught to structure a business around a society's strata. In countries where corruption wasn't so much a disease but natural gut-fauna, bribes were an investment expense. In nations where the Rule of Law held sway, agencies took their cut, but also provided guidelines and assurances. When in the past, she had advised for an Australian mining firm looking to expand in Bangladesh, half the expense usually for environmental protection had fattened the local councilmen. What was legal and what was ethical were entirely separate matters. In the holistic pursuit of profit, altruism was a privilege.

When their multi-segmented Vularm approached the working-class district called the Foundry, she immediately had flashbacks of Blackheath. She even felt a shiver when they stepped into the smog-filled suburb, where endless storeys of favela-structures made up the cavern's walls.

As before, Gwen became the immediate centre of attention. The Dwarven Citadel wasn't small by any means, but it was compact, which meant rumours spread like an aftershock. Anyone who kept their ear to the ground knew of the Human Sorceress who had consumed a Shale Wyrm. All who now laid eyes on the giantess wondered if she brought destruction or salvation.

To Gwen's studied eyes, the workers' conditions were leagues improved to what she had seen in Burma, and certainly better than the treatment of the dock labourers on the isle. For one, the teams of Dwarves manning the sky-scraper foundries all wore codified uniforms with protective Runes to shield them from the heat. There was OSHA, certainly, and the workers also appeared, at least on the surface, to be hale and enthusiastic about their work. If she had to present the atmosphere in familiar terms, she would cite case-studies of pre-Reagan Steel Belt. Whether as a result of propaganda or culture, the workers here had pride in their work and understood the essential nature of their labour.

"How's their upward mobility?" Gwen waved at the workers, who averted her eyes.

"They move well enough." Hanmoul pointed to the carts and pulleys powered by thrumming mana engines.

"... I mean their career mobility."

"Aye..."

When she looked to her companion, Hanmoul remarked with sagacity that such was the difference between those who lived by the work of hands besides those with craft and talent, one may be comparing dirt and Mithril.

"Nevermind."

"If yer mean better jobs, we recruit Guards from here." The Commandrumm nodded back to the workers. "Some talents aren't gifted by the Ancestor's blood."

"Like?"

"Like riding the Golems." Hanmoul grinned.

"That's true…" Gwen fell silent. She recalled hearing that the American IIUC teams used NoMs as pilots for their custom-made Iron Golems. As someone who came from the working class, she knew not to underestimate dedication driven by a desperate desire to escape mediocrity. As for the central continent, Hanmoul likely referred to the Bavarian Clans, who had not only worked but lived alongside the Human settlements in lower Germany. "You don't use autonomous Golems?"

"Machine Souls are Vadam!" Hanmoul lowered his voice; his skin flushed two shades darker. "The Ancestors have forbidden such a thing!"

"Right, right." Gwen quickly changed the subject.

The tour of the Foundry District took the rest of the afternoon. The group furthermore visited the mine shafts, as well as a system of ventilators that connected to the outside world. These, Gwen guessed correctly, were the source of the giant mana-plumes that she had twice almost flown into.

Supper involved more roasted richness. This time, Gwen recognised the sickly-rich bread underneath the whole-animal roast as the infamous stone-bread. Despite soaking in saturated fat and smoke-cooked for up to ten hours, the discus bread's nutritional value remained immutable.

Following another round of riotous quaffing, one from which Ollie abstained, the Mages retired to their quarters.

Nearing the witching hour, Gwen informed Ollie of her plans for the steam bath, leaving her Praelector red-faced and pale-lipped at the jocular invitation. This time, she checked that the chamber was unoccupied before stepping into the all-enveloping waters.

Comfortable in the liquid-womb of the mana-rich water, she spent some time absorbing the sights of the day.

Foremost of all, she desired the Dwarven technology known as the Echo Beacons, as well as the Runic Glyphs that made the "signal repeaters" possible. By that same measure, she wasn't so naive to think that she would maintain a monopoly on Dwarven-tech for long. Once her profits came in, the technology behind the Towers would undoubtedly be copied and imitated. But— she wasn't worried. Her plans for Project Legion did not crutch on patented technology, but instead the arcane system she would devise with the help of data-tech, NoM employees, the House of M's Centurion program, and Gunther and Lady Grey's word with the Tower.

The implementation of a seemingly unique Magi-tech system, therefore, would leave a Shoggoth-sized red-herring for her future competitors. Without a doubt, they would misplace their methodologies, resulting in investments both futile and fruitless.

After which, she could snap up cheap assets like freshly picked legumes.

Then there was the matter of the Machinists, of whom she desired a dozen, split between Runesmiths and Tuners. Hanmoul had said that hiring a Master was possible through short-lease. The contract would last a stone-cycle, a geo-synchronised measurement closely matching the Gregorian calendar. Additionally, she was confident that among the isle, there were Human tinkerers skilled enough to absorb enough of Dwarven knowledge to maintain the machines once their stout tutors inevitably returned to their Citadel.

Tomorrow was their third day in the Guild. Hanmoul had promised a careful look at the lands surrounding the Dwarven Bastion, as well as a gander at the different types of Golems in the Hammer Guard's armoury. Gwen had rolled her eyes when Ollie made the request but allowed the Praelector the freedom of making his bed. She had half a mind to pass Hanmoul a note under the table, but then again, Ollie was right in that the Dwarves were Demi-humans and not something like an oppositional Human nation. Should the inconsequential matter escalate, what would happen to her plans for Evee and Legion? Did that make her a bad friend and a worse partner? She chose not to dwell on the hypocrisy.

_SHURRRK—_

The sucking sound of the pressurised door opening and closing announced the arrival of a late-night bather.

Gwen had wondered if her companion would return, and to her delight, she did.

"Magus Song?" The voice called out in the dark.

"Hildy. I am happy you've returned." In consideration of her new friend, she had dimmed the lights to their lowest setting.

"And so I have." From Hilda's tone, the Dwarven noblewoman had been expecting her as well. "Shall we continue our conversation? I have since grown curious about the surface. Can you tell me more about the profession known as Adventurers? And thank you for the jadeite. As you have surmised, we are indeed interested in its many properties."

"Of course." Gwen parted the steam with a wave of her hand. "But first, would you like to meet my Familiars? They're simply adorable."

The next morning, against all the odds and to Ollie's complete surprise, their tour of the hydroponic farms and mining pits proceeded without encountering a single Magical Creature for Gwen to devour. The lack of action was so unanticipated that, by the end of the four-hour route, the unmitigated tension had exhausted the Praelector.

Gwen, conversely, appeared deep in thought since the patrol began.

When Ollie asked what she was worried about, the sorceress simply replied that she was thinking about how to best approach Whurforlüm about her request.

As usual, Ollie offered advice based on humility and delicacy.

"No matter how much you desire funds for Elvia," the Praelector proposed with great understanding. "Don't offend. Know your limits."

"And what limit is that?" Gwen gave her companion the strangest look.

"… ten thousand HDMs?" Ollie scratched his head. The Illusionist was doing that a lot in recent days, so much that Gwen could see his hair thinning in real-time. "I am sure they have vast reserves of it leftover from the pre-Tide days."

HDMs? Gwen restrained herself from patting Ollie like a puppy.

Now elucidated by her midnight tuition, Gwen understood that the enclaves used human currency because of an unexpected schism following the Beast Tide. It all began pre-Dragon, with Humanities' Spellcraft Revolution. Against the advice of the Deepdowners, many of the Murk Citadels chose to trade with Humans, greatly accelerating the development of Spellcraft while enormously enriching themselves. Post-Dragon, cut off and geologically displaced from Deepholm, the enclaves either shut themselves away or opened up new avenues of trade with their Surfacer neighbours.

Prior, Dwarven currency, consisting principally of gold, Elementium, Adamantium, and precious metals like Mithril and True Silver, were minted exclusively by the Masters of the Iron Vault in Deepholm. In the decade that followed the Murk's spread, Thanes of various enclaves diluted their coins, resulting in economic chaos among the Clans. Following the near-collapse of the Murk's currency, as a compromise, the surface Clans agreed to switch to Human HDMs. It was a sound choice, as many Citadels lacking in resources now relied on Overland trade for raw materials. Concurrently, as Humans had little to no interest in expanding underground, the young race made perfect trading partners thanks to their greed for elemental minerals. In some places such as Bavaria, the two tribes even shared common racial enemies in the form of Green Skins and Magical Monsters that traversed the Overland and the Murk.

Their present enclave, Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth, was a regional power wealthy enough to minimise contact with the Humans after the perceived betrayal of trust. It's current Guild Master wished to test the waters of tentative trading— while the conservative faction headed by the Deepdowners were dead-set against being tainted by the surface.

It was a tug-of-war as old as time.

In their exchange, her bathing buddy had advised that the conservative Clans were deeply ingrained in the teachings of the Deepdowners, believing Dwarf-kind diminished by the disconnect between Deepholm and the Murk. For many of the White Beards, the quintessence of Dwarvishness lay in completing one's pilgrimage to the origin city to kiss the sarcophagi at the bases of the Seven Shrines of the Ancestors. For many of the Citadel's craftsmen, they still recalled the golden halls of Deepholm, its glimmering galleries adorned with jewels the size of Dragon eggs, and the monuments of Grand Masters adorned with plated Mithril. To the true Dwarf, not having touched the Blackened Forge of Gul-Zūh or inhaled the bitter air surrounding Nörn-Zur's Crucible made one deficient. If a smith never laid eyes on the original artifice of Haj-Zül, then how would they measure their craft? If a Tuner had never been dazzled by the ten-thousand scripts of Varekan-Kül, how would they know mastery?

It was only the young like Grimgal and Tordok who thought the stories of Deepholm a fool's errand.

Gwen had nodded in turn after Hilda unravelled the intricacies of Dwarven lore. Against all the odds, she sympathised with the zeitgeist of Hilda's lost people. Like the Biblical Magi of old, having followed the Northern Star and seen the divine body of Christ in Bethlehem, how could the pilgrims return to their countries in peace? What riches, what pleasures, what palaces could bring them peace of mind when they had witnessed the Nazarene cooing for milk? Without Deepholm, the learned Dwarves of the Murk were lambs without Shepards, living in guilt every day they grew diverted from their objective. Conversely, as the young struggled to understand their elder's obsession, the diaspora only grew. It was no wonder that Hanmoul's love of the surface and the deep made him a little schizophrenic.

To open up Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth, thereby, Gwen would first have to convince those whose modus was to delve deeper towards the low-ways. In the Murk, progress upwards had to be precipitated by advancement downwards.

In turn, Gwen had informed her bathing buddy that few things moved humanity like unmitigated profit. If the Citadel had made little meaningful progress on its own in the last three decades, why not seek external aid? Given enough incentive, legions of Adventurers would flood the Murk to harvest the Dwarves' foes and open new byways. So long as the residents of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth were willing to accept expatriates in their midst, the potential for cooperation was limitless. In truth, what had the Dwarves to lose? It wasn't as though Humans could inhabit the Murk; the claustrophobia alone would drive her kind mad.

Her companion said nothing, but Gwen could see the bolts spinning into place behind Hilda's eyes.

By the night's end, the noblewoman still hadn't informed Gwen of her true identity. Gwen remained mum, knowing better than to demand something her helpful tutor refused to give freely. Already, Hildy had told her plenty— enough for her to drive a good bargain with the Guild Master and to ensure that she had plenty of Dwarves manning the printing press.

For now, that was enough.
After all, not even Rome was transmuted in a day.


Gwen stood regal as a Tudor Rose in the sunken amphitheatre, garbed in ivory and carmine, possessing a poise befitting a virgin queen.

Directly overhead, positioned just so that they could still look down on the petitioner, sat the Grand Council of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth. To her right, appearing with the air of a funeral, sat a trio of iron-clad Deepdowners in their all-enveloping armour, attended by a train of sycophants. To her left sat the Clan Heads, representing the common interest of the citizens. Finally, directly ahead, Whurforlüm Ironførge, Master of the Rotary Guild, surveyed the proceedings.

Earlier, Hanmoul Bronzeborn, Commandrumm of the Hammer Guard, the Iron Born scion of Bürumm-Dal Irøngut, had appraised his case for satisfying the Debt of Haj-Zül. In its aftermath, Gwen registered her demands.

"… in turn, I wish to obtain the aid of my brother-in-arms for my industrial endeavours. MY petition shall be satisfied with a staff of no less than twelve technicians split among Tuners and Runesmiths, including one Alchemist, lead by a Master, to travel with me to London for the duration of one Stone Cycle. Between our Adventurers and your Technicians, there shall be mutual benefit and common gain."

"AND they won't work for free. All employees shall receive an attractive stipend," Gwen continued with relish. "In minerals, in HDMs, in knowledge if they so desire, or the freedom to journey to Bavaria and back."

The Guild Master, Whurforlüm "Wilhelm" Ironførge, nodded encouragingly. The Clan heads, appearing as a cluster of beards, held various expressions from uncertainty to disdain to ambivalence. The Deepdowners were unreadable thanks to their masks, though Gwen could sense their flesh-flensing stares just the same.

"My last petition, as Commandrumm Hanmoul has noted, is for the Magitech Enchantment known as the Echoing Glyph to be supplied to my firm, 'Legion' Proprietary Limited, as an exclusive patent secured by London Tower."

A nervous ripple spread from left to right.
One of the Deepdowners growled, sounding like a seismic rumble.

"AHEM—" An uptown Dwarf with a beard the size of a broom made his displeasure known, then rose from the semi-circle rows of the amphitheatre.

"Magus Song." The Dwarf made a show of drawing eyes from around the room. "I must object."

Gwen acknowledged her "objector" by relenting the floor. She was not surprised that the Deepdowners had nominated a noble to kneecap her request. If Hilda hadn't warned her, she would now be furious that the Dwarves were undercutting Hanmoul's obligations. As the noblewoman had said, the Deepdowners' faction loathed even a single mote of Earthen Mana escaping the earth. Opposing her attempt to bring Humans in, or to bring Dwarves out, came as naturally to them as breathing.

Gwen studied the fine-bearded Dwarf. From what she had seen of the Dwarves' frugal fashion, her present opponent was excessively-dressed for the part. His beard, for one, was bound in what looked like Mithril bands, and the Dwarf's hands were encrusted with enchanted jewels. Making his way up the dais, the Dwarf lord stopped as soon as he gained the height advantage.

A politician; Gwen recognised the Walken-esque sneer.

"As we ur among Clan, fowk an' friends, Ay shall speak candidly."

Her bullshit senses tingled. The bastard had come with a speech! Gwen quickly glanced at Ollie. Her Praelector was already sweating buckets from her earlier proclamations. Ollie was a scholar, a student, a primrose of fantastic breeding, but one of Ravenport's finest he was not.

Around the amphitheatre, a murmur of agreement met the nobleman, making Gwen suspect more than a few were conservative plants.

"Ye all ken my name— Brugal Brumdahr." The Dwarf pointed his considerable chin down toward Gwen's general direction. "Mine Clan has been the theme of honour's tongue since the time of Haj-Zül Brumdahr, frae whose loins we ur issued. Ay dunnae think there is a better Iron Born to speak of the Debt and the honour of repayment other than Ay. If any of ye in this hall ken themselves moor suited tae speak for the Clans, then dear friends, make your voice knoon..."

The rhetorical question met with silence. Gwen sought out the Guild Master with her eyes. Up top, the master craftsmen seemed content to see the drama play out.

"Aye, we agree, then," Brugal continued. "Under our law, as in our LORE, the debt between Haj-Zül Brumdahr to Bürumm-Dal woz a matter of rivalry, friendship— or loove, if the Matrons have their say—"

The Clan Heads laughed.

"— Aye, Bürumm-Dal's admiration and love, was the source of his Debt of life. Yet, to call what we owe this mercenary, this free-lancer, this hired Goorumm from the Overland the Debt of Haj-Zül— it pains me. The honour of our home, the honour of Clan Brumdahr, has never been so diminished! The Debt is something we rejoice in, and yit, when news reached me lugs that we are sending our wee jimmies and Masters of the Rune to Lundun? To that blighted, lidless place? I cood nae sit idle, mah friends."

The barely veiled insult sent a touch of heat to kiss Gwen's cheeks. More than her pride, however, she felt for Hanmoul. Already, the Commandrumm's face was scarlet, like a trodden-on Displacer Beast, his beard was sticking end-on-end.

"Dunnae look at me so peevish, Hanmoul. Yer know I honour the Hammer Guard and yer battle-kin. But yer gotter ken, me man, as yer was valorous, so I supported yer. But as yer trade our kin to the Overlander, I must oppose ye. Aye, yer saved our fellow Clansmen— Just last night, I quaffed to yer health! But now, Commandrumm, I see yer ambition has out-grown the boundaries of yer duty; and so I must put yer back in yer Golem, lad."

"Giltho—"

"—Hanmoul, let me finish," Brugal's voice grew hypnotic. He turned away from Hanmoul and instead faced the assembling of Clan Heads seated here and there around the upper quadrant of the amphitheatre. "As yer can see, the Commandrumm aye offended. BUT is anyone here equally vexed that I wish tae preserve our purity? Our culture? Our doctrine? LOOK! Gaze upon the visage of our Lore Keepers, and see how they seethe! Who dares say that ay acted out of turn? Who can say Brugal am wrong? Misguided ye art, Hanmoul, we know yer yearning for the surface lad— but upward is not dae way."

Hanmoul choked as the noblemen dragged his petition through the Murk, too upset to compose a rebuttal. Gwen could see that the Commandrumm was a fighter, not a debater.

"What say ye, Witch? Did yer think our kind so innocent as to allow yer tae abscond with our knowledge?"

"Abscond?" her lips split to form a forced smile. Without the beard to go with the grin; however, she wasn't sure if the Dwarves could be sufficiently titillated. "You, Ser, must be unaware of the contributions I have made to your esteemed city. The Wyrm? The Trolls? Was Commandrumm Hanmoul so lacking in charisma that you feel personally insulted by his achievements?"

"Dunnae speak of Hanmoul ter me, lass. He is one of our own. Yer Mageocracy harkens after our Golems and our Mithril. Do tell, Witch, what do ye intend to do with our craftsmen? Excavate our secrets with yer Mind Magic?"

"I do object!" Ollie raised a hand. "Sir Dwarf, you mistake my sister's purpose. She's after Crystals, nothing more!"

"Then why not ask for Crystals? The human lust for HDMs is well-known."

Gwen gave Ollie a withering look, then took a deep breath. Brugal put on a good show, she had to admit; but she was no stranger to smarmy snakes in business suits. The self-proclaimed descendent of Haj-Zül whats-his-name talked a good game, but little did the Dwarf know he was now in the big leagues.

"Are you an artificer or a warrior yourself, esteemed Sir?" She tested the waters.

"Do yer mock me, Magus?" The Dwarf's brows knitted.

Gwen's sultry lips formed a thin red line. With her eagle-eyes, she could see that Brugal's hands had not seen a day of labour. She felt sorry for Hanmoul. How disappointing it was that not even the Dwarve's meritocratic society could escape the malaise of inherited wealth.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Ser Brumdahr." She feigned ignorance. "But I fear you have misread me from the beginning. Such a misconception is unbecoming of a Clan Lord."

This time, it was the Brugal's beard that bristled.

"Your worries were apt, Ser," Gwen observed, then she addressed the entire assembly, including the Deepdowners. If the barrel-shaped lawyer wished to play the rat, Gwen mulled darkly; then she would play the piper.

"Friends, Dwarves, Fellows of the Murk; I humbly beg for a minute more of your time."

The Clan Heads maintained a polite silence. The Guild Master shifted in his seat, while the Deepdowners sat unmoved.

"I understand Ser Brugal's many insecurities. They are well-founded, for Ser Brumdahr is the theme of honour's tongue, and indeed, so are all of our present company. However, if Ser Brumdahr wishes to speak ill of my dear battle-mate, Commandrumm Hanmoul, then I too, shall throw in my gauntlet."

Together with her pantomime, she opened the tap on Almudj's Essence, arresting her viewers with supernatural, newfound confidence.

"When we first met, Ser Bronzeborn was fighting for his life. Not for his gain, nor for honour or glory. Thanklessly, he was protecting the ventilation systems that lead from the surface down to the heart of your city. The gallant engine of his Rockcrusher had been torn apart by a Brutaliser, ripped limb from limb, bleeding liquid-mana and blue-green coolant over the linen snow. One bite from the Troll and Hanmoul would have perished. Oh, when I found him, my friends! The Commandrumm bled from every pore; his courage had congealed against his armour in strands of coagulant gore! And YET he carried on!"

Gwen paused, taking a step so that she rose a little up the dais, matching Brugal's gaze. "Was this ambition? Was he fighting for the LOVE of Himmseg? Or was it Dwarven dogma?"

Brugal's expression grew worrisome. "Even a tongue of True Silver won't—"

"Ser Brumdahr!" Gwen spun without warning, turning on Brugal like a viper. "Ser! I am EIGHTEEN— a 'wee' lass. A True Silver Tongue? For shame, Ser! Is mine a face of cunning? But then again, I can't refute your claim. Unlike YOU, I am NOT the theme of honour's tongue."

Before the Dwarf could retort, she raised her voice once more, this time weaving a spot of Ventriloquism so that her suppressed emotions reverberated across the amphitheatre.

"When I met Ser Bronzeborn again, it was at this very Citadel. At its gate, a toothy horror with a dozen tongues hailing straight from the deepest, darkest depth had found its way into your abode. There, the guards informed us that the Wyrm had Dwarf-napped your kin! Your Clansmen! Your family and citizens! For egg-fodder! For WORMS MEAT!"

Her audience flinched as her irises glowed, circulating a dazzling play of colours. "Naturally, possessing no desire to risk my life, I shrugged. I am a greedy, conniving Human Sorceress. I just wanted to be let into the Citadel and stake my claim—"

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"BUT— Ser Bronzeborn wouldn't have it! He was an avatar of Dwarfdom! Naive and altruistic! He wanted to help without the backup of the Rockcrushers! He arrested my wrists— like so, and looked me in the eye and said 'Lass, my kin aye down there.' I asked him what was in it for me, and he said to me, 'Whatever yer desire, Human, from mah beard to me bones.'"

Hanmoul stared with his mouth half-open, likely wondering if the Jäger Bombes addled their collective memory.

"I was moved."

Suddenly, without warning, Gwen took a step upward so that she now rose above Brugal. "But I digress. What do I know? I am not like Ser Brumdahr over yonder, the bloody theme of honour's tongue, whistling, whistling away like a leaking steam-vent."

The noble blinked.

"BRUGAL!" Gwen suddenly spat, a spot of spittle striking the Dwarf like a bolt of lightning. "When we were neck-deep in Wyrm-spit and up to our crotch in Copper Worms, where were you and your honourable men?"

A chuckle broke out from behind the row of Clan Heads. Someone was enjoying the spectacle. On the central platform, Whurforlüm twirled the gavel in between his fingers, fighting back a smile.

Brugal Brumdahr took a step back, only now realising he was seized in the jaws of a proverbial Wyrm.

"Ser Bronzbeard risked his life and the life of his men to bring back the bodies of your kin so that their Spirits could be consigned to the Stone," Gwen drew out the timbre of emotion in her voice. "But what would he know? He's not like you, Milord Brumdahr. He's not the theme of bloody honour's tongue."

Her cadence picked up.

"When we brought those poor Dwarves back to the gate, we spoke to the families as their husbands, wives, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters lay there, cold and unmoving." Gwen implored the Clan Heads, taking another step so that she towered above them, matching the Guild Master's platform with the help of her heels. "Were you among them?"

She leaned down to deliver the coup de grâce.

"What did you do for them? Brugal?"
"Blame Hanmoul? Did a Wyrm eat your conscience?"
"Was this the Commandrumm's lauded love for the surface?"
"If Hanmoul's a turncoat, then what are you?"

"I-insolence!" Brugal's face had grown to encompass the likeness of a cornered mole-rat. "Yer— ye—"

"I think you should sit down." Gwen patted the Dwarf on the shoulder. "You're not yourself, Lord Brumdahr."

To achieve the desired effect, she momentarily flooded her conduits with Void. Borrowing from the exercise she had learned from Ayxin, Gwen focused her intent until Brugal visibly lost his balance. Then, with a kind, helping hand, she steered him toward his seat.

Slowly, for visual effect, Gwen straightened her spine. "Anyone else got—"

WHOMP!

The assembly, with exception to the Guild Master and Gwen, collectively flinched.

One of the Deepdowners rose to his considerable height, standing a whole head taller than the rest in their custom, hermetically sealed armour.

"ARROGANCE!" A booming voice, projected as though through a loud hailer, deafened the room. "ALL IS VANITY."

"Keeper Muirrigg!" The Guild Master, as Gwen's bathing buddy had predicted, came to her aid as soon as the Deepdowners breached their custodial duty. "Your opinion is appreciated but not needed, Ser. As per the Ancestor's teachings, the Keepers of Lore shall not interfere with the ruling of a Citadel."

"I AM SAVING YOU FROM YOURSELVES." The Deepdowner had a voice like gravel. "THIS FEMALE, CAN YOU NOT TASTE THE DEATH ON HER SKIN? SHE IS VADAM, A WALKING CALAM—."

Gwen felt her lips twitch.

"BAH! Ay have had just aboot enough fer this!" Hanmoul stepped in front of her, his hand half-drawing his Spellsword. Gwen could see that her impassioned defence had ignited the Commandrumm's berserker-blood, as was expected of a scion of Irøngut. "Scorning the Debt of Haj-Zül! Insulting mine battle-mate! That es proper Dwarven now, AYE?"

"Both of you! Calm yourselves!" Whurforlüm slammed the table with a miniature war hammer. "Your distemper shames us all!"

"THE SURFACER INVITES OUR DOOM," the Deepdowner persisted. A swirl of unadulterated Earthen mana flooded the space where the man stood. Gwen knew not how Dwarven Magic worked, but what she sensed was no less than a tier 5 Transmutation.

"CALI!" Gwen conjured Caliban, materialising in the middle of the amphitheatre the living embodiment of the Deepdowner's dread. Whurforlüm stayed the guards with a wave of his hand; a few of the Clan Heads reached for their wands, though none chose to act. Behind the Deepdowner, their entourage made a show of rattling mailed gloves and magical implements.

"If I may speak?" Gwen's Clarion Call shook the room while Caliban soaked the attention like a sponge.

"SHAA! SHAA!"

"As I said earlier." She pointed to her serpent. "There has been a miscommunication. If you allow me to finish without interruption, I shall ratify all concerns. If you remain unsatisfied after, I shall leave and never return. But if you deny me, then I shall exact my price with interest."

"Gwen!" Ollie appeared entangled in a nightmare. "P-put away Caliban now!"

"Ollie." Gwen placed a hand on her Praelector's shoulders. "Sit down and keep Ser Brumdahr company. He's looking faint."

Confused and shaken as to why Gwen reprimanded his perfectly sensible advice, the Praelector did as told.

"Now." Gwen returned to her captive audience. "You accuse me of wanting to steal your precious Dwarven Golems. I have no idea where you even got this idea. I don't need your Golems, be it the Striders, the Rockcrushers, or the Irongrinders because of a simple fact—"

Before the audience could react, rippling waves of nauseating feed-back flooded the chamber. Caliban began to moult, its carapace growing grotesque as her Familiar bloated. From the size of three Dwarves standing head-to-toe, it grew and grew, filling the spacious amphitheatre until the enormous council-chamber felt claustrophobic.

The Dwarves, captive in their elevated seats, reared back as Caliban continued to expand.

Unlike the Wyrm whose Core Caliban had consumed, the Void Wyrm was a horrifying thing, possessing more mouth than any other physiological apparatus. When her Familiar finally finished its bloated metamorphosis, leaving the Void Sorceress covered in a sheen of cold sweat, it stood thirty meters from end to end, possessing enough tentacles to pluck the whole assembly into its maw.

"G-GUARDS!" The Deepdowner hollered— a reasonable reaction.

"HOLD!" Whurforlüm thankfully rescinded the Deepdowner's demand. Gwen fought down the heebie-jeebies wrecking her chest. She could act out because last night, Hanmoul had gifted the Sen-infused Maotai to his teacher, curing the old Dwarf of his rheumatism. It was an unseen debt, and now the Guild Master was using the encounter to repay her unsolicited favour. When the old Dwarf met her eyes, she knew that now and in the future, her insolence would be tolerated just once. "Magus Song, I believe you've made your point."

"Your monster is no match for our Balefire Dreadnaughts!" Brumdahr growled from beside Ollie.

"Perhaps," Whurforlüm pronounced mockingly from up on high. "But will you consign your Spirit to the Ancestors to empower it, or will a younger kin volunteer? The theme of honour's tongue, indeed!"

"Whurforlüm! You would side with a Surfacer?"

"I do not have 'sides' Brugal," Whurforlüm's voice carried a tone of retribution. "You wear away our patience, boy."

Brugal swallowed his next words. Behind him, the table of Clan Heads suddenly found great interest in staring at their lap. The Noble caste may shout at the warriors or holler at the Overlanders, but an Engineseer's words, and a Grand Master's at that, carried supreme weight.

"Caliban, return!" Gwen quickly withdrew the Void mana pumping into Caliban, though there was no salvaging the spent vitality. With a whine, her Void Wyrm shrivelled, then disappeared. Her complexion paled. Where the Big Bird form was demanding but efficient, the Wyrm form was sheer gluttony.

"Just so we're clear," Gwen walked down the granite tier and stepped carefully into the middle of the amphitheatre. "I don't need your HDMs."

_THUNK!_

She dropped a crate worth at minimum five-thousand, splattering the lowly seated audience with Cali-goo. Instantly, the atmosphere grew thick.

_THUNK!_
 _THUNK! THUNK!_
 _THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!_

The vapour grew so dense as to paint the cold stone, affecting a luminous hue.

"There is… ten, twenty more stacks in the piggy," Gwen made a show of walking around the stockpile flashing her Storage Ring. "And countless more lodes are resting beneath Manipur, Kachin and Nagaland, awaiting my beck and call."

Elevated on the steps, Ollie and Brugal sat beside one another, both with their nostrils flaring, sucking in the mana-rich fog. The Praelector's eyes were bloodshot, while the Dwarven noble's hypertension made his fingers tremble.

"So you see." Gwen brushed a sticky strand of Caliban's mucus from her Magus' mantle. "I bring you neither doom nor gloom."

To the Guild Master, she bowed her head. "To Midlord Ironførge and the Rotary Guild, I bring the winds of change to dispel the air of stagnancy that has shrouded Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth for three decades."

Then, she faced the Clan Head sitting like ducks in a semi-circle row. "To you, my lords— I am an investment, one that will bring your people and your Citadel unfathomable fortunes."

Finally, she turned to the Deepdowners. "And to my friends of the deep, you denizens of Deepholm. I promise hope, hearth and home, down below the Misty Mountains cold…"

"NAE—" The Deepdowner stood, no longer willing to let her do as she pleased. The Runes on his armour blazed red, orange and ochre even as Gwen readied her double-glazed mana shield. Had she failed? Gwen cursed internally. Maybe the HDMs were too much.

_CLUNK!_
The Dwarf stumbled.

A second Deepdowner, the one who had sat beside the gravel-voiced gruff, struck the first so hard that his helmet almost cracked.

"Argh!" To Gwen's surprise, the stricken Deepdowner, rather than retaliate, retreated a step before dropping to one knee. "A-Apologies, Lord Engineseer."

Gwen raised an arched brow. An Engineseer and a Deepdowner? The leader of the trio of fishbowl-wannabes must be gifted indeed. More curious was the fact that even among Deepdowners there existed such a difference in prestige. Hilda had given the impression that the folk-below were a monastic order of Lore Keepers.

As the leader of the Deepdowners rose, the entourage behind her shrunk away, either bowing or falling to one knee. From the patterns on the master-crafted armour, Gwen recognised the individual. She had seen this very Deepdowner coming into the Citadel observing her from the parapets.

"As Master Whurforlüm has said, it is not our role to interfere." A pleasant, melodious female voice reverberated through the chamber, one that was acutely familiar to Gwen's ears. "Well said, Magus Song."

Gwen blinked. She recognised the voice, she realised, though she had been banking that her bather-companion was either the Thane of the Citadel or at worst, a wife or daughter. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined that she could charm a Deepdowner while tits-up in a sauna. "Strewth… Hildy?"

"Your gift of gab is almost as pleasant as the Ancestor Scald, Billelynn Møsvian." Hilda's projected voice grew mirthful. "You have my vote, Sorceress. I'll be watching and waiting."

"Mistress…" Hilda's Deepdowner attendant rose in surprise. "The Human—"

"Ebren, another complaint and you will be joining the craftsmen we're lending to Miss Song. Imagine that, brother, strolling in Himmseg under a cavern without a ceiling."

At his mistress' rebuke, Ebren broke like a rusted factory spring. His containment suit seemed to shrink as the Dwarf within deflated.

"Hilda!" Gwen called after the Deepdowner, stepping out of Caliban's muck. "Can we have a word?"

What she wanted to know was if their encounter had been serendipity, or if the Deepdowner had sought her out.

"In time, we shall speak again in Dyar Morkk's vaulted corridors." Hilda was already half-way down the hall. In a moment, her entourage enclosed around the Deepdowner, cutting off the sight of Hilda's lumbering armour. "I would be disappointed, Magus Song, if that day does not come to pass. You bluster well, but I hope your actions speak louder."

"Gwen, what's happening?" Ollie watched his fingers jitter while he circulated mana to bring the feeling back into his toes. Up ahead, Gwen rode in a separate Strider with Hanmoul while Ollie himself sat next to a grinning Grimgal. Since leaving Red Peak, he had wondered how he would explain the occurrences to Lady Grey, and what Peterhouse would think of their newest position as a noted ally of the Dwarves.

In their sockets, his eyeballs felt heavy and swollen. There was an indescribable ache in his belly.

Why hadn't Lady Loftus told him that Gwen was the heiress to a Dragon's hoard? That she carried more HDMs on her person than the ancestral vault of Baronettes? If only the lady would laugh and tell him that Gwen was, in reality, a polymorphic Dragon playing silly buggers in the mortal world. And that speech she gave! The way she whipped the Dwarven noble until the poor sod's face imprinted in the granite, the way she peeled back his 'honour' until the man was stark naked and shivering in the limelight of mockery and laughter…

Ollie shivered.

Could he, a second son from the hills, really steer this Dragoness toward propriety? Was it possible for a man to tame a Displacer Beast? Can a Cabal of Wizards herd Drakes? What if she thought him too fussy and decided to put him through the same crucible? Would there be enough blood left in his shame-wrung body to keep his heart beating?

"You just keep doing your job, Ollie," Gwen's Message came back with a hint of mirth. "I think we did rather well, don't you think? New trade route, new allies, new staff, a whole region opened up for adventuring. All in a day's work, eh?"

"Please don't say 'we'."

"Don't be shy, Ollie. I couldn't have done it without you."

"No-no-no," Ollie moaned. The fluttering in his diaphragm was getting worse. He felt sick.

"You were my moral support, you know; we're like a... dynamic duo. I knew you had my back."

"Please…"

"Lady Grey will be so pleased."

"Gwen, I am begging you…"

"You're my guy, Oz."

Ollie groaned, vexing Grimgal, who disliked men who couldn't keep their liquor, or their nerve.

"Stone bread trouble?" she asked with a hint of sarcasm. "It goes down hard and comes out like a high-grit grinder. Is your bung—"

Grimgal's passenger shook his head, hugged his knees in the cramped cabin, then stared out at the woodlands swishing by as the Striders pounded through the trail. Ollie Edwards, Magus and Praelector of Peterhouse, had been homesick for London since the first day they drank Dwarven Rum. Now, he wished he had stowed a bottle away to drink away his consciousness.