With Mathias tailing at a distance, Gwen and Evia strolled through Cliveden's extensive grounds, eventually arriving at the rosarium. Elvia paced beside her companion as they passed each floral archway, made shy by the suggestive Grecian statues. With each step, she could sense her friend delving into a deeper deliberation of her aborted duel.

What was Gwen feeling? Elvia wondered. She could see from the knitting of Gwen's brow that her friend was no longer enjoying herself. If anything, the way Gwen wetted her lips every so often indicated that some nefarious plot fomented in her friend's mind.

Was Gwen's humiliation so great? Elvia wondered. At the pavilion, Gwen had not appeared nearly so afflicted. Desperately, she wanted to offer a word of wisdom regarding House of Holland. Unfortunately, Elvia had no idea where Exeter even existed.

"Mattie?" She turned to their resident expert. Knights were made to study the peerage.

"Yes, Lady Elvia—" Mathias walked a few steps closer.

"What can you tell us of the Exeters?"

Mathias appeared sympathetic as well. If anything, Elvia could see that her Knight was confused by Gwen's tight-lipped passivity. But then again, Elvia supposed. Mathias did not know Gwen as she did. All Mattie could see was a firebrand sorceress with powers beyond her ken, eating Trolls and befriending Dwarves. Elvia, however, had seen Gwen wearing all of her multifaceted facades.

"Exeter is located East of Dartmoor and west of Devon. In the Frontier of Exeter, located on the River Exe. It's the traditional seat of power for the Hollands."

"Are they a powerful clan?"

"They are." Mathias nodded. "Equal in dignity and history with House Ravenport, though not so involved in politics. The House of Holland is well known for producing rare bloodlines. An ancient House, their lineage can be linked to Henry the Fifth."

"I see…" Elvia turned to her companion to check if the information was any help. "Gwen, are you feeling alright?"

"I am fine, Evee." Her friend's voice was calm and collected. "I was just affirming how far I've overshot my tangent."

Both Elvia and Mathias gave their companion questioning looks.

"I believe I've done a little TOO much since arriving in London." Gwen tucked her hair, allowing the light from a lumen globe to catch in her eyes. "It's a wonder that, thus far, without context or background knowledge, I haven't run headfirst into a wall. It's a bad habit, I am afraid, grasping at opportunities like that. Think of it, Evee— I overleapt Heathrow, then confronted Mycroft, shared Hall with Ollie, communed with Lady Loftus. Then after that, I went to Wales and fought Trolls, saved Dwarves…"

Gwen rattled off a list of events so packed that in concert, even Elvia found her friend's ten-day continuity incredible.

"… almost all spontaneous and off the cuff." Gwen winced. "I don't mean to say I regret any of it, but today, facing that idiot? It awoke me to just how haphazardly I've been forging ahead."

"I do envy your achievements," Mathias confessed, then loudly exhaled. "Though I wonder, Miss Song, for one possessing the power, why did you allow yourself to be humiliated?"

"Was I humiliated?" Gwen grinned back. "Or perhaps, allow me to subvert your enquiry. Should I have humiliated the Exeter twins, at a party hosted by Lady Astor? Could I emerge an overall victor?"

Mathias swallowed. "You would have floored them with your Void Bird, I presume. But then of course…"

"Comes the endless, ceaseless retribution." Gwen shrugged her shoulders. "If China has taught me anything, folk like Edward Poins are a special feature of any society built on inheritance. The geography changes, the landscape changes, but some things remain immutable. I am a Frontier girl, and they're blue-blooded nobles; no impression will change their minds. If even in a socialist country, these self-same fools sprout like mushrooms, then what hope do I have in an Empire where blood holds sway? To prove them wrong, to subjugate them, nothing short of total power will do."

Mathias visibly squirmed at Gwen's seditious sentiments.

Elvia watched as Gwen touched her hand to a blooming rose, cut the base with a mote of Void, then smoothed out the spiked stem in the same fashion. The demonstration showed excellent control over so volatile an element, something the old Gwen would have never managed.

"Evee, for you." Her companion struck the bloom rose behind Elvia's ear. "It's lovely here, why don't we let the Spirits out for some air?"

Elvia agreed, then conjured Kiki; who patiently waited while its mistress produced a jadeite container housing Sen-sen. For fear of desirous eyes, the girls had decided to keep the Draconic Ginseng well shielded in a party were megalomaniacs were as common as the canapè.

"Kiki!" The floral Spirit pulled at her companion. "K!"

"Sen?" Sen-sen yawned.

It took a jolt of restorative energy from Elvia to revive the dormant Sen-sen, who then rushed off with Kiki to speak to the roses.

"Ariel, Caliban—" Gwen released her Familiars as well, with strict orders that Cali should under no circumstances consume any part of Lady Astor's ensorceled rosebushes.

"EE-EE!"

"Shaa!"

With great gusto, the Familiars chased one another through the rosarium. With a glance, Elvia willed Mathias to linger elsewhere. Once she was alone with Gwen, surrounded by a delicate redolence, she made themselves comfortable on a Woodshaped bench.

"Roses in December, blooming among the snow," Gwen remarked with a snort. "Too rich for my blood."

Elvia exhaled mist as she leaned on the sorceress' padded shoulder. "Gwennie, don't say that."

"I think it needs to be said," her friend insisted. "Everyone's been overtly polite so far, and it's created a false facade of London for me. Think about it, Evee— Lady Grey was the definition of courtesy, Lady Astor, up until the incident, was a thoughtful host. Even my nemesis, Ravenport, kept our bickering civil. I think Mattie's not so bad once you get to know him. Ollie's alright, and Dominic's a charmer. Hell, even Hanmoul was a vision of respect compared to what we saw today."

Elvia did her best to read Gwen's ambivalent expression.

"What I've come to acknowledge," Gwen explained, drawing her closer. "Is that an invisible stratum will always separate the folk here. Look at how the nobles treat each other. Lady Astor's rich and famous, right? Even so, the Hollands made fun of me in the middle of a party she hosted, even after she said I was an especially important guest. When they interrupted my duel— that's a big no, no, Evee— no one intervened. I even heard laughter from some of the blue-bloods outside. The guy was a total wanker, yet, Lady Astor's guests humoured the boneless-chook wrangler. They were laughing at both of us, Evee— out of lark for me, out of fear for Poins."

Gwen continued. "I've taken my share of Mages by now, and I can tell the brothers aren't just walking egos. I can't guess how skilled they are unless I fight one for real, probably until one of us maws the other. But I've sensed the same confidence in others as well, though not nearly so full of volatility— Prince Inti, for example, or Uncle Jun before he gets worked up. These are folk who have taken a lot of lives callously; you saw what they did to that poor Bugbear. They are what I don't want to become."

Gwen then sighed, which made Elvia unhappy. In a way, she felt personally responsible. It was her desire that compelled them to come to Lady Astor's party. They could have spent Christmas camped outside Westminster to listen to the choir or take a pleasure cruise down the Thames. Instead, they came to Cliveden because she couldn't really say no to Lady Astor's expectations, and now her friend was hurt.

"I am so sorry."

"Hold up— there's nothing to be sorry about." Gwen caught a lock of her hair when she bowed, tucking loose strands back in place. "I reckon tonight was a good showing, Evee. I needed the perspective before I got on with business in London. Your invitation has saved us, I'd say. Can you conceive of the shit show that could happen if I dumped crystals into the printing press without realising the extent to which irrational arseholes ruled London as well? Big o' asses that could crap all over us at a moment's notice?"

Elvia grimaced. For one so gifted in gab, Gwen often revelled in her working-class origins.

"Hahaha… sorry," Gwen snickered. "Anyway, at no point did I intend to fight that swirling ball of compressed narcissism. I need to find and enlist Walken soon. That old snake will know how to navigate all of this, not to mention digging a big-ass dunny-pit."

DING!

The abrupt Message Glyph made Elvia flinch. Who would call Gwen on Christmas Eve? Who did she even know in London?

"Yes?" Gwen kept the channel open and public.

"Gwen." The voice on the other end belonged to Ollie Edwards. "Sorry for the late call, but the matter is urgent. You and I have been invited by Hanmoul Bronzeborn to tour the Rotary Guild. We are scheduled to visit from the 25th to the 27th. Lady Grey has authorised our attendance, meaning we are to leave as soon as possible, ideally at first light. The Dwarves can be particular about punctuality."

"I see." Gwen gave Elvia a look that spoke volumes of their earlier conversation. "Thanks, Ollie, I am in Cliveden at the moment, does that help?"

"Can you fly to Merthyr Tydfil? I am catching a Teleport first thing in the morning." Ollie's voice brimmed with excitement. "This is an important milestone, Gwen. We'll be the first Humans to enter the Red Citadel in almost a decade outside of politics. Please don't be late. I need to speak to you as soon as you get here."

"Gotcha," Gwen replied chirpily. "See you in Merthyr Tydfil then?"

"Will do."

The Message died.

"Speak of the devil." Gwen shrugged at her friend. "See? I told you I was overcommitted. My timetable is bursting at the seams. I made all this time for you, and now I've squandered it."

Elvia knew that Hanmoul's invitation was not one that could be turned down. If Gwen refused to go, the insult would cause a diplomatic incident. The fallout would make Edward Poins' dickery appear a childish tantrum.

"You have my support, whatever you choose," she promised. "Do you have to go now?"

"I'd rather not trouble Lady Astor for a Teleportation Circle," Gwen said. "How about this? Let's enjoy ourselves a little more. Then, I shall head for Merthyr Tydfil. Mattie?"

"Yes, Miss Song?"

"Can you see Evee safely home?"

"I will. I shall."

"And while I am away, you'll still have to go with Elvia to the isle. Wally should have things in hand, but they need a bigger presence than maids, an ex-Military Mage and two dozen dogs. I'll leave Evee a few thousand HDMs as a contingency if supplies are low. Make sure you keep a close eye on things."

The Knight inclined his head.

"I'll do my best as well," Elvia promised in turn. The Isle was Gwen's domain, and her friend trusted her enough to leave it to her care. The folk of the isle had just seen hope in the face of a custodian who cared about their welfare, and she would very much like to keep it that way. Even now, thinking of their happy faces, she felt a peculiar heat ignite inside her bosoms.

"Alright then." Gwen readjusted the flower in her hair. "Let's take a stroll, Evee. It's not every day blooming roses surround a girl in winter. Tell me, where do you see the isle in a few years?"

Before the party's departure, Emily, one of three Head Maids of Cliveden, visited Lady Astor's notable guests, conspiratorially proffering up a scented card "for Miss Song's eyes only."

Nonplussed, Gwen offered to share the Message. Her companion, however, was adamant that if Lady Astor desired a private conversation with Gwen, she would have no part of it.

"Please return safely," Elvia pleaded. "No more adventures."

"I'll do my best. If you're worried, there should be Divi-signals near Merthyr Tydfil," Gwen assured her friend. "Though probably not inside the Red Citadel, but we'll see. I'll bring back some Lumen-pics, assuming we can take pictures."

At first light, Gwen took to the air to orientate her bearings before blasting off toward Ystradfellte, using Oxford's distant silhouette as a landmark, aiming for the fog-ridden River Severn.

Once her trajectory was assured, she pitched a shield to stifle the buffeting air, then opened the card from Lady Astor.

An illusory projection instantly sprang into place as the ingredients empowering its magical ink ignited, dispensing a scent of roses.

"Gwen— is Elvia with you?" Lady Astor's beaming face announced. "No matter, she may attend if she so desires— Elven illusion-ink is costly, so please excuse my brevity."

"Foremostly, Miss Song, I would like to offer an apology for the events of tonight. I was, I am sorry to say, wholly aware that Edward Poins and his brother, Benedict, would be present— and that it was out of morbid curiosity that I had anticipated your friction."

Gwen bit her tongue. At least the Lady was honest.

"Please don't take their ill-humour too seriously. The twins are notorious enough that their actions should not tarnish your reputation. Rest assured, your refusal to participate in their bear-baiting has left a good impression on both myself and the Middle Faction. Exeter, as you can imagine, often antagonises our cause. Nonetheless, I shall repay your upset with a show of goodwill. Next cycle, the Telegraph's articles shall lean in your favour."

"And naturally, in the future, you are welcome to visit Cliveden and make use of its grounds. If Elvia wishes to raise funds or build on the fame of her Charity, you shall have my full support."

Gwen allowed a coy smile to touch her lips. If she could tap into Lady Astor's network, then she would take two Poins at once.

"Ah yes, one more favour. I am led to understand that Maxine, your housemistress, is keeping tabs on your performance. I shall deliver a Message to your patron and inform her of the happenings at Cliveden. Finally, I wish you luck in the Murk— remember, stay away from the Deepdowners!"

So Lucy Astor knew that she was visiting to the Dwarven city? The Lady must have friends in high places, or at least Arcane Eyes all over the gardens to pick up on something so private. If so, was that last bit of encouragement an "advice"? Or was it a warning that as she, like Mycroft Ravenport, could make her life in London exceedingly interesting?

Gingerly, she stowed the card. Such considerations were for later. Now, Gwen had to focus on getting to Merthyr Tydfil without getting lost in the damned fog.

Ollie Edwards audibly ground his teeth when his sorceress appeared, not in the air, but inside Hanmoul's Strider. Beside him, Magister Hanford delivered a good-natured snort.

"Would you believe I got lost, ahaha…" Gwen laughed off her awkwardness. "Flew straight to the mountain like last time. I saw Hanmoul and his team making his way down, so I followed them."

"Lass almost flew into the vents." Hanmoul leapt from the Strider's capsule, landing on the cobblestone with a thunk before he longingly stretched his back. "Ancestor's cogs! I'll have ter adjust the inertia dampeners."

"It was a bit bumpy." Ollie's House-sister mirrored Hanmoul's groan as she performed a vertical downward dog against the Strider, making Ollie's stomach tingle. "Not much vertical space in there."

"Yer can flitter until we reach the outskirts," Hanmoul advised. "After that, yer'll have ter crowd the Strider til we reach the Rotary Guild."

"Naw." Gwen wavered the offer, shaking loose her limbs. "Well, Ollie, shall we?"

"Gwen, I need to speak to you in private." Ollie felt out of breath. "Commandrumm, do you mind?"

"Not at all, I'll take a gander around town if ye don't mind."

"Do help yourself," Magister Hanford, who had risen early to welcome the return of their resident Omni-Mage, bade them be at ease. "The villagers have been instructed. Business is booming. Try our ginger sours?"

The Tower's representative struck a thumb toward the crowded main street, where dozens of sticky-beakers had stopped to gawk at the three Dwarven Striders parked outside the inn. Compared to before Gwen's Purge, the town positively bustled with activity. Without Trolls eating the prospectors, raw crystals and ore by the truckload were hauled from the Red Gulch, racing the restoration of the deep tunnels by their original inhabitants.

"Gwen, this way…" Ollie retreated into the inn.

Gwen followed, hailing an appreciative Hanford along the way.

Once inside, Ollie initiated a silent Message exchange.

"Gwen. I asked you to meet up with me first."

"I know," Gwen agreed. "Sorry, Ollie, it sort of just happened."

The Praelector scratched his scalp, then handed over a data slate. "Here, a quest from the Shard."

"A Quest, from London Tower?!" Gwen was incredulous. She wasn't even a ranked member, and she certainly hadn't received a stipend. Was this a War Mage thing?

"Just read it."

Gwen scrolled through the letter.

"... It says to compose a comprehensive report on our opinion of the Dwarves' war potential, including Golem units, types of Golems, their standing military, and other objects or places of interest, such as the leadership of the Guild."

"Yes."

"Holy shit, Ollie." Gwen endured a pang of guilt. "Are we spies?"

"We're Mages," Ollie reminded her. "We do what's required."

"Aren't we're being invited as a gesture of goodwill?"

"Not really," Ollie refuted her claim. "You're being invited as payment for saving Hanmoul, something the Dwarves call the Debt of Haj-Zül. I am your attachè— since the Commandrumm knows me by name and we are House siblings, which in their terms, makes us family of sorts."

"I don't know…"

"Just keep an eye out, I'll do the reporting if you're not willing."

"Can't we come clean to Hanmoul about this?" Gwen reread the data slate. The quest awarded a minimum of 300 CCs, with more to come pending on the value of their information, and if their data could be ascertained. "Can I ask Hanmoul straight up if a girl could take a gander at his armoury? For evaluating future treaties, that sort of thing?"

"Are you looking to sabotage the Tower's request?"

"Alright, alright..." Gwen felt ambivalent. Hanmoul seemed a good bloke. That they were going to double-cross the Dwarves' genuine intentions sat wrong with her. Espionage was a necessity, she knew, but she didn't like it one bit. "Jesus, Ollie, I thought you're one of the good guys."

"What does virtue have to do with this? You and I are foremost Humans, then citizens of the Empire, then members of Cambridge, Peterhouse—" Ollie's tone grew firm. "You'll be a Magister one day. How do you think that works? The Shard signs a certificate stating it's fine with you doing whatever? The Tower's support comes with commissioned requests every few months."

Gwen was beginning to understand why Gunther had put off his Magisterhood for so long.

"Besides, I'd imagine Cabal No. IV already has data on the Dwarves defences. We're merely verifying and cross-correlating existing data."

"If you say so." Gwen stowed the slate in her ring.

"The Tower says so," Ollie assured her. "How's your memory?"

"Very good, actually," Gwen said. "It's not eidetic, but if I concentrate, I can recall most details with perfect clarity."

"Good." Ollie stood to straighten his robes. The Praelector was in his officious Cambridge field-garbs, which meant he wore a half-shoulder sash of scarlet silk over his bible-black double-breasted blazer. An ermine-fur hood hung from his back, affixed to his breast by a golden badge minted with Peterhouse's golden stripes in gules. "I've brought your sash and your badge."

"I am not even a student yet." Gwen opened the box and marvelled at the luxurious attire.

"Well, these are a Magus' icons. Start getting used to it," Ollie declared. "You've been given provisional honours by the College. The Tower has also permitted the unorthodox promotion for this special occasion. We're on a diplomatic mission, so to speak."

"Very well." Gwen wasn't one to say no to free titles. Sliding the sash overhead, she observed with pleasure as the quasi-magical attire repositioned itself so that it covered her with a cropped-cloak down to the hips. Asymmetrically, her other shoulder sported a scarlet sash and the red-gold emblem. The colour was mildly jarring against her white armour, but the overall effect was unexpectedly handsome. "Oh, this is nice."

"Of course. It's all made in-house by our Sister-Enchanters at Lucy Cavendish," Ollie boasted with relish. "May we proceed?"

"Let's rollout." Gwen tugged at her new attire.

Outside, they waited another twenty minutes for Hanmoul. When the Iron Born returned, he seemed well pleased.

"Got the lads some Overland souvenirs." The Dwarf flashed a blocky looking Storage Ring. "Ya ready to ride, lass?"

"Ready as ever." Gwen made her way to Hanmoul's Strider, ensuring that Ollie had to ride with an assistant. "Commandrumm, lead the way!"

As before, Gwen hugged her knees and curled into a ball while the Strider Beast crashed through the snow, its multi-limbed mechanism churning up clumps of clod and ice. As Hanmoul had promised, the ride was smoother once the dampeners were adjusted, saving her skull the danger of getting intimate with the canopy.

Watching Hanmoul steer the beast was a marvel in itself. The Iron Born cranked knobs and levers with the expertise of one commanding living limbs. Between the Dwarf's legs, a multi-layered set of pedals allowed the driver control of the mechanical beast.

"Lassie, have ye got some knife-ear blood in ya?" Hanmoul asked suddenly. "For a female, yer taller than yer mate, skinny as a strider, an' yer fuller than a mana tank."

"I am taller than most," Gwen replied, unsure of how to explain her stolen VMI. "Won the bloodline lottery, I guess. Are Dwarves more homogenous?"

"Always," Hanmoul grunted. "We like things to be measurable and orderly. You'll see when we getter the Citadel. Ay buildings tend to follow the Ancestors' Scales, as do our constructs. There's nothing quite like the sight of a hundred Hammer Guard standing in a row— not a centimetre out of place."

"You use METRIC units for measurement?" Gwen was surprised to hear Hanmoul's choice of diction.

"Yer mean YERS use it? The Ancestors' Scales belongs to us— you Humans 'borrowed' it," Hanmoul complained, then broke into a hearty laugh. "Aye, lass, weren't ya ever taught that yer Empire plagiarised our arithmetic?"

"I am afraid not…" Gwen confessed. Who in Blackwattle would bother teaching her about the origins of the International Metric System? She didn't even know the history behind the Imperial Spellcraft system.

"Am nae surprised." Hanmoul pulled on a lever. With a hiss, the Strider accelerated. "As ay lore tells it, the Seven Ancestors each left our folk with the knowledge ta measure one of the Seven Constants of the Underworld— length, mass, time, current, temperature, luminosity, and substance. From this, the Deep Dwarves derived the know-how to control machines, create Golems, build our cities, and fend off the Murk. You'll see their monuments soon enough; every city begins with the path ay the Journeymen."

"Wow, you live and learn."

"Ain't it?" Hanmoul appeared pleased by her open-mindedness. "Now, when we enter the city, yer'll be our official guests— the first Humans to step into the Citadel in decades. Ya're welcome to ask onie questions yer like, but yer mustn't touch anything— especially others ay our kin."

"Oh?" Gwen's lips form an O. "Biosecurity?"

"Ha!" Hanmoul barked with a coarse laugh. "No, lass. Religion."

"R-religion?" Gwen's nostrils shot out twin streams of air. "Truly?"

"Aye, the Murk's been volatile in recent years. Reclamation isnae gonnae as smoothly as the Deepdowners hud hoped. We've got dozens of the buggers stuck with us up in the Murk, they're desperate to git back down ter the deep dark, but nae luck, eh?"

"I am not sure I fully understand." Gwen tried to picture their conversation. "So, there are three strata to the Dwarven world? Something called the Murk; then a place called the Deep-Dark? I take the last one is the surface?"

"Ye're a speedy one." Hanmoul applauded her comprehension. "Aye, the surface, or 'Himmseg', isn't something our kin are keen on, mostly because there are foes aplenty apart from Humans and knife-ears. Underneath the earth, where there's still light, dae's the Murk. Deeper, rooted in caverns that stretch as far as the Elemental Plane, exist a network of low-ways connecting the Dwarven cities of old called the 'Dyar Morkk'. Say, yer've nay heard o' this, lass? I'd thought it's common knowledge even fer Overlanders?"

"That's privileged information for me since I am not from around here," Gwen explained. "I am afraid you're chosen a bumpkin for a friend, Hanmoul."

"Haha… then I wish all humans are bumpkins like yee—" Hanmoul remarked, then quickly added. "Though I hope they nae as handy with that wicked magic. The Murk's choked full of chaos as it is."

"Troubles at home?"

"Aye, big trouble, same with you Humans." Hanmoul was so forthcoming that Gwen couldn't help wondering if straight-shooting was a Dwarven trait or just the Commandrumm. "Back during what you folks called the Beast Tide, most of the low-ways collapsed, filling wi' monsters an' Magical Beasts. Now, fer the last three decades, we've bin tryin' tae re-link the Murk and the Dyar Morkk. Nae luck though, it's twisting the Deepdowners' something proper."

"So these Deepdowners… are they priests?"

"Nae, not like that— they're keepers of knowledge. I suppose." Hanmoul's voice took on an edge. "We need them to bless the Forge and the Manufactoriums. Without their secret arts, we Murk Dwarves willie have stout trouble maintaining our cities. If yer sees one, whatever you do, don't touch 'em. You'll recognise them by their armour. They're distinctive."

After the talk of Deepdowners, Hanmoul's appetite for conversation appeared to wither. For the next hour, both lass and Commandrumm travelled in silence, lulled by the rhythmic churning of the Strider Beast's pistons.

A little sleep-deprived, Gwen found her mind drifting in and out of hazy catnaps until a mail-gloved hand patted her knees. Snorting loudly, she pulled herself away from the thrall of Hypnos.

"Did yer have a good nap, Lass?"

"Whoa…" She looked up.

The whole ground was vibrating.

God knew how many tons of snow slid from a lifting plank of impossibly large metal, slowly rising from the floor of a cresting hill. Gouts of steam hissed every which way, misting her surroundings so that a proper bearing was impossible to apprehend.

From below the elevated plank, two dozen humanoid machines that Gwen recognised as the Hammer Guards in Golem Armour marched out from the dark to flank the three Striders crawling into the iron maw of the mountain. As Hanmoul had advertised, apart from their disuniform weapons, the line up was not an inch out of place.

As the Stride Beasts clanked into the interior, there was a brief moment when daylight persisted, then, abruptly, the glimmering snow disappeared, plunging the world into a dim-darkness.

"Let yer eyes adjust." Hanmoul popped the canopy. "Ah— unburnt liquid Crystal, the smell of home."

Gwen made do with Almudj's Essence. Her viridescent irises glowed momentarily rainbow, allowing her pupils to expand like a feline's.

"Wow…" Gwen gasped at the descending architecture. "I— I am in awe."

Hanmoul puffed out his chest. Below, the Hammer Guards saluted as one.

"Aye Lass, welcome to Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth."

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


The entrance to Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth loomed in every sense of the word, inducing a sense of breathlessness as the Striders stalked down the incline, minuscule amid an enormous avenue paved with dark granite, lined on either side by towering monuments of the “Seven Ancestors”.

The statues themselves bore the semblance of medieval metallurgists, depicting imposingly bearded Dwarven men. The foremost had the look of a warrior, being half-clad in plate mail, carrying an arcane measuring device in his dominant hand, while his offhand rested on the pommel of an enormous war hammer. The others were similarly positioned, each holding instruments signifying knowledge in one hand, while the other held weapons that symbolised martial prowess.

“Hanmoul, can I ask you an audacious question?” Gwen inquired carefully.

“Sure,” her driver replied, piloting one-handed.

“Are any of the Ancestors women?”

Hanmoul gave her a strange look. On the Commandrumm's face, a pair of finger-thick brows knitted, conjoining into a single, furry worm.

“Sorry…” Gwen apologised, realising that perhaps, she had stepped on a cultural Warding Glyph.

“O' coorse there's wimmin among them…” Hanmoul snorted when she attempted to walk back her question. “What ya think, our babes are carved from boulders?”

Gwen had indeed wondered if Dwarves were hewn from stone. After all, in areas affluent with Elemental Mana, creatures sprang out of rocks, or water, or from whatever corresponding Plane they usually hailed. Sometimes, from the chaos of the immaterial elements, obscene and strange creatures such as Chimeras came into being all on their own.

“If so.” Gwen wiggled her brows, studying Hanmoul intently. “Which Ancestor is, er… the less bearded sex?”

“Dunno.” Hanmoul shrugged.

“You don’t know?”

“Not a cog.” Hanmoul laughed. “The Clan Matrons like it that way. Who’s ter say any of the Ancestors can’t be wimmin? Maybe more than one? Maybe all of them?”

“I haven’t seen any women yet,” Gwen mentioned casually.

"Want me to get one of the lads to pop her armour?"

Gwen's brain throbbed at the poorly translated gender pronouns.

"I assume I'll see a Dwarven lassie eventually?"

“Since yer a wee lassie yerself, sure—” Hanmoul replied with good humour. “No luck fer Ollie though. Aye, I’ve seen how that lad looks at ye. He’s a willie one, that Ollie.”

Gwen grinned. “Ollie, eh? I suppose.”

“Ooo, I see em looking. I reckon that lad likes wot he sees.”

“I know, I know. Are you married, Hanmoul?”

“Now that's an audacious question!” Hanmoul's waist-length beard masked his expression. “Nae lass, old Hanmoul’s a bachelor.”

“Truly?! Surely, for someone in such a high position…”

“The Rite of Nogazen is all politics.” Hanmoul wiggled his moustache. “It’s best for the Commandrumm of the Hammer Guards not to be political. Besides, I've got cousins by the dozen.”

“I'll take your word for it.” Gwen returned her attention to the outside world. “Goodness, how deep are we going?”

“Boot a kilometre down is where Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth’s main gate lies.” Hanmoul pointed to a vague structure in the darkness ahead, made visible by lumen globes leading up to an enormous keep. “Of course, we won’t be going through the Gate of Kazhul, but our Strider's bay. I am sorry to say, lass, you’re a guest of the Guild, not a dignitary visiting the Thane.”

“That’s fine with me,” Gwen reassured her host. “I am honoured just to be here.”

On approach, Gwen did her best to internalise the operatic, Dwarven architecture in familiar terms. From a broad base, the grand gates of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth stood a dozen storeys tall, taking advantage of an impossibly large cavern system hollowed out by its Demi-human denizens. Nearer the understructure, she judged the aesthetic to be neo-brutalist, consisting of overlapping, herringbone grids. Higher up, upon closer inspection with her Essence-empowered vision, she realised that the herringbone pattern consisted of incalculable arrays of stairs forming a teeth-like array of battlements.

The facade of the keep itself was a curious mix of art-deco and neo-brutalism, crossed with the grandeur found in neo-classical capital buildings. Holding up the multi-storey, hundred-meter deep gate, soaring buttresses the size of skyscrapers held the cavern’s expansive roof aloft, each adorned with low-poly countenances taken from Dwarven lore.

_TSSS!_

Hanmoul cranked a shaft, then pivoted the Strider hard-right. Accompanied by the thunking of the Hammer Guard’s uniform boots, Gwen’s entourage guided their guest away from the city’s principal entrance.

Once diverted from the avenue, the spacious cavern gave way to multi-storey tunnels marked by low-hanging lumen globes. These had the look of service over commemoration, for Gwen could see the oil stains, burns, and the occasional missing slab as their procession thundered through the Transmuted passageway that hinted at a less than peaceful history.

“How do your people construct all of this?” Gwen indicated to the criss-crossing passages, reminding her of subway tunnels. “Do Dwarves have Mages as well?”

“All Dwarves can meld stone in one degree or another,” Hanmoul answered. "For construction, we Murk Dwarves use specialist Golems. Our tunnellers can bore out a new shaft in a matter of days, assuming the earth permits. To achieve structural stability, we utilise our Artificers, Machinists and Engineers, and of course, we seek guidance from those with rarer talents, such as the Stone Speakers."

“And that would be the Deepdowners?”

“Not always, but aye, the Deepdowners produce the most accomplished Unrol Spakrumm. They are, after all, handpicked by the Ancestors, selected from wee lads to be custodians of our most sacred lore.”

Gwen wanted to say that the arrangement sounded awfully like the human nobles monopolising education, but kept her opinion to herself. Why should she be surprised that, other than humans, Demi-humans also built artificial social strata based on withholding essential knowledge poignant to the survival of the species?

To scoff would be hypocritical. In London, how many Humans could Awaken to become Mages? How many Mages graduated high school? How many graduates completed a tertiary education? And how many in places like Oxbridge? At the very least, Hanmoul and his Murk Dwarves seem to run their cities independent of their worshipped cousins.

_CLUNK—!_ Hanmoul stomped a pedal into submission, filling the upper cavity of the tunnel with unspent miasma.

The service tunnel ended at a guard post carved out from a single block of stone rising from floor to ceiling. With her Detect Magic active, Gwen could see that the gate positively crawled with runic wards.

Yanking a lever, Hanmoul popped the canopy, revealing himself and his Void Mage cargo.

“Kumdael Hillbrook! Why is that gate nae lowered?” Hanmoul hollered at the guard just peeking out over the teeth-like battlements. “I’ve got important guests!”

"Commandrumm!” A dozen heads appeared like the final stage of a Wack-a-Dwarf carnival game, half of whom wore miner’s helmets with directional lumen globes. “Trouble in sector seven-three-three, Ser! We’ve got a breach in Shaft five! At the new farm, Ser!”

“Am gain fur half-a-day, and yer got britches?” Hanmoul growled. “Where’s Stonehammer?”

“The foreman's taken a crew o’ Crusher down Shaft nine ter plug a leak, Ser, got a swarm of Vannsk Sjekkliag loose in eight-two. Outpost eight-two and six-one are also occupied.”

“What’s a van-nesk-sklag?” Gwen waited for a lull in the conversation before asking. To her left, she could see Ollie crawling out of the Strider to straighten out his spine.

“A type of Water Elemental,” Hanmoul explained offhandedly. “Nae a big threat, usually. Troublesome though, if they get powerful enough, they can flood the whole shaft.”

The Commandrumm punched a few Glyphs invisible to Gwen’s eye. A burst of steam and mana miasma hissed from the Strider’s rear, then a platform lowered, revealing an empty suit of what Gwen recognised as Dwarven Golem Armour.

“Protocol is not to open the guard post until the Murk's monsters clear,” Hanmoul said sombrely. “Not to admit strangers, at least. My apologies lass, I am ashamed to say you may have to wait—“

“I’ll come with you,” Gwen interrupted Hanmoul before Ollie could get a word in edgewise. “We’re friends, aren’t we? What’s a dozen Trolls between mates?”

“Meites?” Hanmoul’s beard rustled.

“It means we’re war buddies.” Gwen quickly appended her vernacular. “Ollie, you coming?”

The Praelector sighed. “Yes, Gwen.”

“Good man.” Gwen gave the tired-looking Illusionist a thumbs up.

Thankfully, Hanmoul wasn’t the squeamish or indecisive type. Without hesitation, he barked orders for his Hammer Guards to form up, then stepped into the empty suit of Golem Armour.

Now that Gwen could see the suit up close, she could begin to appreciate why the Magisters marvelled at the Dwarve's signature mechanised infantry. The interior, so far as she could tell, was alive with Glyphs, etched onto velvety leather crawling with Mandalas. The suit itself resembled a beetle-like exoskeleton, adding enough elevation to Hanmoul that, when equipped, he matched her height. The exterior of the armour consisted of mould-injected interlocking plates that reminded Gwen of archaic dive-suits. As wide as it was tall, the lumbering, hunch-backed Golem armour sported a Spellsword under the wrist of each massive gauntlet, one of which possessed an articulate hand, while the other held a tool-attachment that resembled a drill. Alone, a suited operator could be impervious to lower-tier creatures, as a squad, five units could hunt monsters that would occupy a Mageflight.

Once occupied, the armour’s hermetic seals slid into place. It’s mana-engine roared, spewing cobalt jets of mana-exhaust from two cyclonic vents below the rear shoulder.

“Squad One, yer with me,” Hanmoul hollered. “Squad Two, yer guarding our guests.”

“No need.” Gwen raised a hand. “Ariel! Caliban!”

"EE!"
"Shaa!"

While the Hammer Guards cleared some space for her Familiars, she completed another set of spells. “Hound Pack! Blood Hound!”

Eight Void Dogs plus "Buck" slinked into existence.

“… Squad Two, form up on me.” Hanmoul nodded. “Lass, we gonnae go a wee bit fast.”

“I’ll keep up.” Gwen switched over to Lightning. “Flight! Arcane Sight!”

“Mage Armour! Mirror Image!” Ollie buffed up a little himself. When Gwen addressed the four Ollies standing side by side, her House-brother answered as a sheepish quartet. “I am not a combatant like you, Gwen. I’ll do what I can as support…”

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Hanmoul nodded, his movement fully articulated through the full-faced visor caste in the visage of a war-like Ancestor.

_CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!_

As one, the Hammer Guards marched in lockstep. At first, the Dwarfs’ speed was as Gwen had anticipated, slow and ponderous. Gradually, the procession upped the pace so that the assembly stormed forward with the momentum of a freight train. A tunnel-length later, the troop of Dwarves was moving faster than Gwen could run, and it was only because of Flight that Gwen and Ollie could keep up.

“There isn’t a troop transport we could take?” Gwen Messaged Hanmoul as the Commandrumm opened the way. “Surely you can’t be running from one fire to the next. What about the Rockcrusher suits?”

“The shafts are unstable and narrow, far too unpredictable for us to send a Crusher or a Vularm. If there's a breach, it usually means somethings' happened to the Repelling Wards.”

“A caterpillar?” Gwen caught the strange translation of Vularm.

“Segmented, multi-limbed transports with carriages.”

“Don’t tell me our people stole the design for trams from your folk as well.”

“Could very well be.” Hanmoul’s voice sounded deeper from inside the Golem plating.

"So, what are we expecting?"

"The farm lost contact a few hours back. It happens, our Echo Glyph nodes bleed intae the Planes an' the signal goes unanswered."

Nodding, Gwen made a note to investigate the Dwarven variation of Divination Towers. For now, she had poignant questions that needed answers.

"Did your men delve too greedily and too deeply, thereby disturbing something large, fiery and angry?"

“Nae, Murk Dwarf donnae dig that deep, we mine for ore and groan our scran in the Murk, just belaw the surface. The resources are soond, but danger and reward come in twain. The richer the seam, the nastier beasties it attracts.”

“Oh." Gwen felt almost disappointed. "What manner of monsters do you get here, in the Murk, I mean?”

“Yer’ve seen the Red Knobs and the Trollies.” Hanmoul slowed the cadence of his men’s sure-footed march. Perhaps by design or through something like an internal gyroscope, the cumbersome armour was surprisingly agile while moving through the increasing non-uniform tunnel. “But our grudge with the Scarred King is ancient history. The war is seasonal. On the other cog, monsters of the Murk obey no such tradition. There’s an evil intelligence lying belaw, lurking in the deep dark, sending out its feelers to taste our defences, ambush our caravans, or massacre our outposts.”

“Intelligence, as in...” Gwen wondered if she should mention the Elder Gods. Perhaps Nyarlathotep had a hankering for Dwarf? "Ancient things?"

“Mayhap,” Hanmoul replied evasively. “We Murk-dwellers don’t rightly ken fer sure. The Deepdowners say that something awoke in the deep dark when the Black Dragon stirred three cycles ago. Others say that they dug too deep and angered something long entombed in the Elemental Plane of Earth. In the end, all we ken is that monsters appear throughout the Murk, disrupting our trade and our passages. Every time we exterminate a warren or pit a nest ter fire, two seem ter sprin' up.”

“Sounds like the surface,” Gwen remarked. “Our biggest problem is probably the Mermen. They breed fast, have fish for brains, and invade our cities at every opportunity.”

“We too get Mermen where there are large bodies of water,” Hanmoul said as he slowed his pace. “Muck-men, we call them—

The Commandrumm raised a fist.

"—Alright lads, scouting formation. Tordrum, Grimgal, take the lead.”

The troop of Golem Armours plinked and whined as their mana-jets cooled. Hanmoul's soldiers had arrived at a network of newly bored tunnels extending every which way, including up and down. Gwen had a strange feeling that if she were to get lost in these passageways, she might very well transform into the tourist in Lovecraft’s “The Beast in the Cave”.

“You may use my dogs.” Gwen fought down her fear of orienteering in the dark, then offered the faceless, salivating head of Buck, whose jaw took up almost forty per cent of its body length. “If you recall, they’re rather resilient.”

Hanmoul raised a fist. “Yer our guest. Allow my men to protect you when we find the beasties.”

“Gwen, please let the Commandrumm do his job.” The chorus of Ollies begged her from the back.

Gwen nodded. She drew Buck, Ariel and Caliban around herself, but willed the pack to take up an unobtrusive perimeter. Unlike her new friends, the dogs were consumables.

Tordrum and Grimgal received the nod from their Commandrumm and moved out, their Golem plates thrumming as they lowered their profiles. The Hammer Guards appeared identical, with the only discernible difference being the numeric markings on their shoulder pauldrons.

“Ariel, Invisible Familiar,” Gwen incanted the spell under her breath. “Move up and keep an eye out.”

“Ee!” the Kirin replied though their Empathic Link.

“Deploy the Krawluroz Eyre,” Hanmoul commanded.

Up ahead, the two Hammer Guards moved their hands across the wall, materialising from their Storage Rings half-a-dozen spider-constructs. With a clang, wound-up sprockets sprang into gear, after which the palm-sized crawlers scattered like lemmings.

“You have drones?” Gwen was beyond impressed. How did that even work? She had seen no real indication that advanced electronics existed in her present world, much less AI. There were no modern creature comforts, not even in the six-figured, palatial sedans used by the state.

“Imbued Machines, not male bees,” Hanmoul carefully explained, as one might to a slow novice. “The Eyre is a type of Golem. They're made to be very irritating.”

Just as Gwen was about to ask how exactly the mechanical spiders hoped to be irritating, one of them began to unleash an ungodly wail, all the while blasting beams of light in a shotgun pattern directly ahead.

“Contact!” Hanmoul barked into his suit's communication device. “Two O’Clock, three hostiles, large size!”

With complete obliviousness, the drones charged forward, skittering across the walls, the floor and even across the ceiling. One of them ran straight into what Gwen supposed as a large boulder, then exploded into globules of slime with the luminesce properties of Faery Fire.

“KARRAK!” Said bounder fell from the ceiling, striking the ground with a bone-throbbing thud. For a moment, Gwen wondered if she had finally encountered a Drop Bear.

“HOOKA AZKHORN!” Hanmoul hollered something about a "horror" with hooks, then ordered his men for ranged engagement. “Penetrator Spells! On my mark— Karaad!”

Mana engines whirled into life, as did the protruding Spellblades. A near oppressive volume of Elemental Earth filled the tunnel; then the Dwarves fired their payloads.

_THUNK— THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!_

The stone-like creature unfurled itself just in time to take a dozen metallic bolts to the chest. The majority was deflected by its carapace, though three shards thankfully overcame their target's resilience.

“KARR-GARRGGGH—!” The monstrosity stumbled backwards, vomiting up black blood.

A chimaera? Gwen’s glowing eyes focused on the creature’s physiology. The Hooka was a turtle, a leatherback of some sort standing on two stumpy hind legs. Up top, its forearms were twin scything claws the size of Ollie. Remarkably, its head resembled that of a drake crossed with the likeness of a snapping turtle.

With one swing, the armoured horror broke off the spines embedded in its body. Its bloodshot eyes rolled in its sockets, filling with rage. With a grunt, its head lowered, readying a charge.

_C-CRASH!_

Two more half-painted horrors landed from the murky height of the cavern, triggered by the light and sound.

“Gilthok!” Hanmoul swore. "Pin those down!"

“Need help?” Gwen’s dogs were already whining. Not far, Caliban was salivating at the seams.

“No, not that,” Hanmoul growled. “If Hookas are guarding the entrance, I donnae 'ave much hope we’ll be finding the farmin' team in one piece.”

“Oh.” Gwen grimaced.

“KARRAK!” The injured horror began its charge.

“Tordrum, Grimgal! Slow 'em down! The rest— FOCUS FIRE!”

The leading Hammer Guards spell-shaped the ground just in front of the creature as it charged, warping the floor so that the monstrosity reared off-balance, running head-first into the wall. Meanwhile, a mixed volley of magma, steel, and pure force struck the horror’s armoured hide, burying it in an avalanche of spellfire.

“KARRAK!” The remaining two horrors, now fully unfurled, began their charge.

“AXES AT THE READY!” Hanmoul barked. “Torrigg! Banmur! To the fore!”

Gwen was happy to leave the fight to the Dwarves, but even she could see that one unlucky swipe from one of these king-crab looking turtle-demons would peel the armour from her new mates like a bowie knife popping a chilli can. If she was to do something, anything, now was the time.

“Ariel! Chain Lightning!”

Her spell manifested in the nick of time, with Ariel positioned just so above the scythe-clawed fiends. With a mighty “EE!”, the tunnels came alive with hysterical electricity, bouncing from horror to horror, the spell's potent energies maintained by Ariel’s unparalleled access to the Quasi-Elemental Plane of Lightning.

“GAOK—“ On its third retina-searing revolution, the channelled lightning turned the embedded spikes still sticking from the wounded horror’s chest into molten slag. Its eyeballs exploded in a burst of bubbling, milk-white juices while smoke spewed from the creature’s beak.

Its remaining companions took far less damage but were stunned long enough for the lightning to singe their hide.

“Buck! Caliban, Onslaught!”

Her contingent of Void-hounds surged forth as a dark tide, silently slobbering as they converged on the horrors. “Sorry, Hanmoul, better safe than sorry.”

“Lower your swords!” Hanmoul halted his troops in response to Gwen’s creatures swarming past the howling Golem-plated warriors.

Buck was the fastest among them, making no sound but the splatter of gooey drool leaking from its enormous mouth. It bit into one of the horror’s claws and hung on, corroding the creature's resistance. The other deerhounds followed suit, swarming over their enemies so that momentarily, two writhing mounds slick with dark oil was all the Dwarves could make out.

Caliban, resembling a great black spider drone, arrived just in time as the larger of the two horrors broke free. A corroded limb threw two of Gwen’s dogs from its back with such force that one brained itself against the rough-hewn cavern.

“SHAA—!” Caliban repaid the insult with a blur of forelimbs, each a segmented spear glimmering darkly with motes of Void. Soundlessly, it tore into the horror’s chest, puncturing the turtle-demon from neck to the chops.

“KARRAK!” The horror pushed forward while Caliban’s legs were still fast-stuck inside its body, uncaring that an eight-foot spider was dicing its innards. As one, Gwen’s dogs retreated while spider and horror embraced like lovers.

“Consume!” Gwen agreed that if the Hooka Azhorn had a death-wish, then she would oblige. Additionally, assuming there was a bigger foe than these walking harvesters for enemies, she would need the life-force.

By now, through borrowed vitality, her damaged dogs had recovered. All nine then piled onto the remaining horror, tearing and ripping at the armoured beast to disassemble it piece by piece. The horror’s response was to enrage itself into a frenzy of blurring claws and gnashing beak, splattering the walls with deerhounds.

Gwen shook off the slivers of ice that haunted her innards whenever vitality fled from her body. Caliban was now devouring the horror wholesale. What was interesting to see, she noted cooly, was that the monsters were fearless. Usually, when mundane creatures encountered her Void beasts, their first reaction was an existential fear that paralysed muscle and sinew. These fiends fought her monsters tooth-and-nail.

“Ancestor’s Cogs…” Hanmoul held his men at bay while Gwen’s creatures finished up. Caliban burped just once after swallowing an adversary twice its size and dozens of times its weight, then proceeded to scatter the dogs so that he could finish the ravaged remains of their final foe. “Yer a true terror, lass.”

“All in a day’s work,” Gwen replied sweetly, circulating both Essence and Mana. If Caliban’s happy mewling was correct, there was likely going to be a significant volume of vitality incoming. “I need to meditate, do you mind if I rest at the back?”

“I insist.” Hanmoul’s tone was stoic.

Gwen retreated beside an ambivalent Ollie.

“You should have let the Dwarves handle it themselves.”

“I wouldn’t want us to return to base sans a member of our entourage. Do you think we'll be in the mood to tour the city after that.”

Ollie sighed.

“Anyway.” Gwen batted her long lashes. “Could my Praelector conjure up some privacy for his House-sister?”

Ollie blinked, his eyes growing wide and his face turning scarlet. “Aren't you wearing… the er… magical intimates?”

“Not for that, ya dirty dope!” Gwen berated her House-brother. “I need to manage my vitality feedback! If you got something, do it now, else I am going to use Void Shield.”

“Will you be immobilised during this… feedback?”

“I should be able to walk it off.”

Ollie exhaled. “Dissonant Blur!”

Gwen’s form instantly grew hazy and indistinct.

“Nice,” her voice replied from the general vicinity. “I should pick this up for myself. I’ll tell you when to dispel it.”

“I am gonnae to need a stiff bevvy efter this.”

Hanmoul swore when they found their first suit of shattered Golem Armour. Like an opened can of pear, the interlocking carapace had parted at the seams. Near the back, a rent as wide as Gwen’s thighs exposed the cobalt coolant, which had erupted with such pressure that the wall became pock-marked with caustic reactions.

Presently, Gwen's former entourage was assembled in a shaft that didn’t so much resemble a mine, but a vertical hydroponic farm. Though ravaged, Gwen could make out the lattice-climbing legumes being fed a diet of nutrient-rich solutions, neatly arranged in an endless array of parallel aqueducts. Up top, near the ceiling, the levitating lumen globes had been crushed, casting the tunnel into pitch-blackness.

“More of those Hooka things?”

“A Shale Wyrm, by the looks of it.” Hanmoul's grimness matched the low rumble of his armour. With a finger, he pulled a length of silk-like saliva from the emptied armour. “Looks like its brooding.”

“Wyrm as in…” Gwen mimed a wingless drake swimming through the rocks.

“Aye lass, but not what you’re thinking.” Hanmoul clambered back into his armour. “This time of year, the eruption of Earthen mana is strong near the Red Peak. Just as we rush ter harvest the crystal growth, the Wyrm’s come ter spawn, and just sae happens, it’s found a warren full of scran.”

“Is it related to those Hooka things we fought earlier?”

“An elder Wyrm will use lesser creatures as servants in return for scraps and protection,” Hanmoul explained. “As for the Wyrm itself, it hails from the Elemental Plane of Earth.”

“Sapient?”

“Not intelligent like you and I, but capable of reason, aye.” Hanmoul placed a hand over the empty suit of Golem Armour. A second later, the shattered armour rested in the Commandrumm's Storage Ring. “They’ve more instinct than reason. Eyeless, foo ay teeth an' scrabblin' claw, mair worm than wyrm.”

"We'll follow you."

"Aye, we need to follow the trail." Hanmoul’s mana engine roared into action. “There should be four more Hammer Guards, including their Foreman, as well as two dozen labourers. We'll neeta brin' buck their armour if naething else.”

Gwen straightened her back. With the lumen globes gone and the hydroponics smashed up, the darkness seemed to stretch on forever. Acutely, she made herself aware that this was the world of the Dwarves, a place of fortresses, tunnels and shafts embedded in subterranean strata, choked full of danger far different from the surface. Up there, in her world, there was space to run, room to flee, an open sky full of possibilities provided one’s enemy wasn’t a flock of Furies or a pissed off Dragon. Here in the Murk, every confrontation was the survival of the fittest. Every engagement was a fight to the death for what little space nature or labour could carve out.

From the darkness, her dogs slinked into view, each as sleek as missiles, appearing in the dim like malevolent drops of semi-solid crude. In the dark, her invisible Caliban reported a mass of delicious vitality existing some distance from their entry point.

“Don’t worry Hanmoul.” She patted the thrumming armour, careful to avoid the vents. “We’ll find your mates, or we’ll find the Wyrm. And with any luck, we’ll find both.”


"Commandrumm, we're nae gonnae wait fer the Rockcrushers?" one of Hanmoul's Iron Borns sent over a discrete line on the comms.

"Nae lad, we've got the lassie here lending us a hand," his superior replied. "Besides, it'll take another two hours for a squad of Wyrm-hunters ter get to us. Where dae yer think that'll leave the survivors? There are twinti Dwarves in that farm, Tordok. You're gonnae answer ter their Clan elders?"

"Nae, Ser…"

"Donnae think so." Hanmoul raised an armoured fist. "Squad Halt. Set up a perimeter patrol."

"I believe our objective is just up ahead." Beside the Commandrum, the human sorceress appeared to focus on something out of sight. "Yes, Cali tastes something fairly substantial, about six Striders arranged end-to-end. Sounds about right?"

"Aye, that's our brooder." Hanmoul was now sure that including their helpful artillery was the right choice. "Can ya see any of our kin?"

"There's close to two hundred motes of life in that tunnel," Gwen translated what Hanmoul supposed was a vision from her Void Familiar. "How do you want to proceed?"

"Normally, I donne say we britch from below." Hanmoul pondered their present condition. "However, I have it on good authority that Shale Wyrms possess the ability to sense tremors."

"Hyper-sensitive to light and sound?" The sorceress' face lit up.

"Only to subterranean vibrations," Hanmoul said. "We've used sonic attacks against them before, and lightning, and fire. The Wyrm nae donne have eyes. Like most Draconids, they're very resistant against all elements and near-impervious against lesser physical attacks."

"And you're positive that the Wyrm is draconic?"

"Aye. Tis a mongrel of sorts. Thar be True Wyrms living in the Elemental Plane of Earth. I would presume the Shale Wyrm aye an offspring, or perhaps a creature morphed by Essence."

"Breath attack?"

"Ay believe so."

"Can it speak Draconic?"

"Yer ken Draconic?"

"I can translate it… " Gwen tapped the back of her neck.

"I donnae think ye can talk it down."

"Well." The sorceress appeared full of confidence. "As long as it's running on Dragon juice, I think we're good with non-diplomatic solutions."

"How sae?" Hanmoul raised a bushy brow. The lassie was good at shaving Trolls down to a ramrod, but this was a creature he and his men would take hours to exhaust! If half of his armoured units survived the operation and only one man perished, Hanmoul would have counted himself lucky.

"You'll see." The sorceress cracked her knuckles, then stroked her eyeless black dog. "Trust me, Hanmoul. That Wyrm's as good as worms meat."

"... There are spherical things, here, about two dozen of them— the same area, assuming those cocoon things are NOT eggs, should be your men. As with before, there are some strange formations here and here… so they're likely those subterranean Drop Bears we encountered, not to mention swarms of these worms with copper-coloured beaks..."

The Commandrumm plotted out the assault based on what Gwen termed "Ariel VR". Unfortunately, due to the hostages, they could not flood the tunnel with noxious gas or open up with a Maelstrom. What they could do, however, was to have Gwen's Familiars distract the enemy so that Hanmoul and his men could retrieve as many of the "storage cocoons" as possible.

Ollie raised a hand. "I do believe that I can conjure enough Phantasmal Force to double, or triple our forces."

"Aye, but the Wyrm sees through tremor, how good's yer ghosts?"

Ollie scratched his chin. "I could throw in some Mimic and Auditory Hallucinations, magnify the effect with Haunt."

"I have no idea what that means," Gwen declared for the Dwarve's benefit. "Ollie, can you explain in laymen terms the implications of those spells?"

Realising his error, Ollie patiently obliged. Phantasmal Force allowed him to create mock-visages of the Golem units. Mimic could, as the name suggests, mime the sound of the Golem's tangible qualities, including the vibration they made in transit. Auditory Hallucination, comparatively, directly affected simple creatures, being effective across an enormous range and coverage. Haunt was a single target spell that afflicted the target with hallucinations and phantom enemies, inducing sensory confusion or self-harm.

"Sweet." Gwen gestured to her twin Hound Pack, totalling eighteen individuals in obsidian and cobalt. The Lightning dogs, after her encounter with the Wolfhounds at the isle, now appeared closer to their terrestrial cousins. "How many Phantoms can you manage?"

"About three…" Ollie craned his neck proudly. "And I can manage six other layers concurrently."

Ollie's response reminded her of Tao. Sure, her cousin was stacking low tier spells, but in a way, the wannabe gangsta was a terrific Illusionist. Smiling secretly to herself, she wondered if Ollie and Tao would get along like a Wall of Fire.

"Alright, let's go with Mimic and Phantom then," she stated. "Hanmoul, you need to trust me on this. If that Wyrm has an ounce of Draconic in him, it'll stick to Cali like Gogo on Phelara."

The team wasn't sure what the analogy meant but made ready for the rescue operation, materialising runic melee implements from piston-hammers, chain-axes to whirling drills. Meanwhile, Gwen called Caliban into position.

"Make sure you get its attention," Gwen empathically commanded her Familiar to take whatever vitality it needed.

Just outside the cavern where the Wyrm brooded, Caliban began to bloat.

Gwen ordered her dogs into place. Post Caliban, they would be the first wave, followed shortly by a mixture of real and illusory Dwarven rescuers. Ollie had promised that at full throttle, he could guarantee an hour of faultless operation, more than enough time for their allies to flee with their targets.

"Ancestors' protect us," Hanmoul whispered what Gwen supposed was a Dwarven prayer. "May Nörn-Zur's Dousing Rod guide us to the motherlode."

There were many species of Shale Wyrms, pending on its elemental-genus and Draconic-origins. Prior to its exogenous metamorphosis, the creatures were said to be Earthen Worms living deep in the Elemental Plane of Earth, eyeless, blind, all-consuming but hardly malevolent.

However, once polluted by the Essence of the Great Wyrms leaking from the Unformed Land, the Earthen Worms began to change. First, they grew larger, more aggressive, becoming voracious. An Earthen Wyrm began its career by consuming other worms in its vicinity, collating what little Essence its unevolved cousins had gathered unto themselves in the manner of Dragons. Then, by moving further afield, it found other prey. Little by little, intelligence engendered from its non-existent brain, growing ever more ill-disposed until one day, it became aware of its life-long pursuit— to metamorph into a True Wyrm.

Rarely, one such creature ventured too far through the Elemental Plane of Earth. It struck a fracture where the fabric of reality has worn thin and found itself in the Prime Material Plane.

Suddenly cut off from the presence of its progenitor, the creatures grew slowly insane as their existential dogma grew futile, leaving them with little more purpose than to consume and procreate. In that regard, like most Planar annelids, the Earthen Wyrm reverted back to baser instincts, engendering eggs using its own hermaphroditic body to be brooded in nodes rich with mana.

And so it was that this particular flotsam of the protean Planar tides, having found such a place, cowed the natives, then made its lair in a seam abundant with food.

Here, it would breed, soaking its stone eggs in mana. Then it would watch as its young devour the morsels it had collected along the way, starting with prey, then finishing with its enslaved allies.

"SHAA! SHAA!"

The sleeping Wyrm stirred before the sound could reach its hyper-sensitive follicles. When its proboscis tasted the air, the Wyrm's diluted Draconic blood ignited as though sulphur struck by lightning, rippling its carapaces from fanged snout to barbed tail.

Without understanding, the Wyrm's Essence-addled brain burned with agitation. Such resentment coursed through its bloated body that milk-white mucus poured from its pores, smothering its surroundings with strands of viscous silk.

A moment later, a creature stomped into the domain of its tremor-sensitive bristles.

The Shale Wyrm had never seen a bird before, but that did not prevent it from acknowledging acutely ancestral memories demanding its foe's demise.

"KE-KE—!" The Wyrm bared its four pairs of fangs, each set embedded within the other. Its organ gurgled and gnashed, brought to bear by the blessing of the Great Wyrms. Distending its neck, pulling back every muscle in its throat, the Shale Wyrm compressed the dozen acid glans hidden in its fleshy cavities, compressing its potent payload.

"GLUBLURRRGH!" Elemental Earth and Water, mixed with Essence and the creature's secretions, vomited forth as a blue-green sludge.

"SHAA!" Its avian assailant covered itself with both wings, shielding its face and body.

In the aftermath, the Shale Wyrm panted, its great, glistening frame undulating as it absorbed the surrounding mana, turning fields of brittle crystals into lightless dust.

Sulfurous gas rose from the granite flagstones as the all-melting compound slid from the bird's crow-coat, eating the floor in great mouthfuls.

"SHAA!" The creature continued its advance. Its wings unfurled to reveal a mouth that rivalled the Shale Wyrm's flesh-flaying apparatus. Below its crow-black feathers, a white pair of claws, so discordant against its sleek body, stalked forward with dreadful purpose.

Rising to the challenge, the Shale Wyrm uncoiled itself, segment by armoured segment.

"Ke-ke-ke—"

Numberless symbiotic scavengers and parasitic hangers-on jolted awake at the behest of their usurping sovereign. With a growl more "Akch!" than throaty howl, it willed its dominated allies to expend themselves against the invader.

"Harath!" Hanmoul gave the order.

Over forty Golem-units rushed headlong into the cavern, following the pitter-patter of Gwen's streaming hounds. At the threshold of the cavern, a chaotic line of scavengers, everything from swarms of elementals like the parrot-beaked Copper Slugs to a family of menacing Hookas met the trespassers.

Grouped by themselves, Hanmoul would not have found the monsters to be insurmountable. Be it the iron-eating swarmers with their acidic breath, or the Hookas with their ambush, the Magical Monsters of the Murk had individual territories and quirks. Low in intelligence, these beasts were rarely a match for the organised Dwarves, who conducted monthly Purges to push from the Murk toward the Dyar Morkk, the low-ways. Indeed, only when commanded by a higher being to not fight among themselves did the tier of danger offered by the Murk multiplied.

The dim cavern grew suddenly bright with firelight.

A portion of the illusory Hammer Guards opened fire, while others dashed forward with no regard for their safety. The sorceress' conjured beasties performed just as admirably, splitting into streams to flank the monsters in their midst, sowing confusion.

"Tordrum, take Squad One left and start retrieving the cocoons. Grimgal! Take a right, you and Squad Two are with me!"

"Aye, Commandrumm!"

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

A rolling wave of corrosive gas, lime-green and glowing with supercharged mana, rolled over the lair's invaders.

"UP YER ELEMENTAL RESISTS!" Hanmoul punched-in the Glyph combination. "Keep moving even if yer legs melt!"

Up ahead, the lass' Big Bird survived the enveloping acid without so much as a step backwards. With a "Shaa!", it battered away the stone-melting sludge, then continued its march toward the Wyrm.

The Wyrm itself was as Hanmoul had feared, an escaped denizen from the deeper parts of the Elemental Plane of Earth. It was an adult, at minimum the size of a ten-carriage Vularm, stretching from cavern floor to ceiling.

How was the girl's bird, which was a quarter its size, hoping to defeat such a beast? Hanmoul wondered.

Or perhaps that wasn't the point, Hanmoul contemplated the match-up. Was the girl offering her Familiar as a selfless distraction so that, given the operative time frame, Hanmoul's men could pull as many cocooned eggs from the lair as possible? And, the Ancestors' willing, would find his kin still possessing the breath of life?

"KE-KE!"
"Shaa!"

The Wyrm was wily. Flanking the Big Bird, it attacked with all four-sets of diamond-hard mandibles from the flank, while up above, its tail was poised to strike with an envenomed, spear-tipped barb.

"Girlie!" Hanmoul warned his companion even as the corroding fog sent up warming flares all over his diagnostic panel.

"Void Sphere!"

Hanmoul needn't have worried. An eruption of dark matter spewed forth as though a tenebrous capsule of ink, consuming the tip of the tail, followed shortly by a secondary nova. In the spell's passing, there was no explosion nor conflagration, not even a shockwave. There was only the eroded stump of what had been a tail, fountaining jets of oily, aubergine ichor.

In totality, the spell had removed but a finger from the Wyrm's mass. In practice, the Wyrm had been disarmed.

"SHAA!" The bird took flight.

Hanmoul didn't know much about birds, but from the mass of the house-sized avian horror, it should not have been able to lift into the air, at least not without reinventing Gul-Zūh's Law of Mass. Instead, the creature's muscles and ligaments make a mockery of physics. With a thunderclap of dark wings, it lifted itself above the Wyrm, forcing the creature's momentum-filled strike to pass harmlessly below.

Then the Big Bird landed.

A pair of white hands, slender and feminine, closed in around a segment of the Wyrm's torso, one against its spine, assuming it had one, and the other nearer to the base of its neck.

Hanmoul quaked, all rational thought momentarily fled his mind. As the creatures met in melee, Hanmoul forgot about the Copper Slugs gnawing at his armour's thigh and swarming over his men, both real and imaginary.

_CRUNCH!_

Hanmoul winced, suddenly filled with compassion for the Wyrm.

As had been done to the Trollies of Scarred Peak, the Big Bird's finger-claws first deformed the Wyrm's carapace, then rendered its soft-flesh into oozing clay.

"KAKAKAKA—" The Wyrm thrashed madly, perhaps in disbelief that it would be bested so quickly and so totally. Once again, writhing, twisting and turning, it opened its maw, glans at the ready, then smothered the bird with sulphuric acid.

The Big Bird simply did not give a krummp.

Hanmoul soberly forced himself to refocus on the task at hand. With a three-score of expertly-timed strikes from his chain-axe, he hewed at the Copper Slug's joints until the carapace gave way. Crushing the soft flesh with his mechanised, mana-charged fist, the Commandrumm then pushed through the acid fog to arrive at the brooding site.

Already, his men were hewing at the base of the cocoons, spell-shaping the granite to free their attached cargo. Locating an egg himself, Hanmoul set to work, mindful that not a dozen meters away, a terror bird was shredding a Vularm— carriage by squirming carriage.

"Buck! Take the Hooka on the right! Astro, retreat, then help carry the cocoons!"

Via Ariel's eyes, Gwen surveyed the battlefield, feeling every bit the all-seeing player of a real-time strategy game.

Ollie stood a meter away, refreshing the Invisibility on her armour while maintaining his Phantasmic Force, concurrently confusing the swarms with hallucinations. The young man was already one mana potion down and panting, though his face flushed with excitement.

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"Ariel, get ready…" Gwen waited for the monsters to converged on the fleeing Dwarven armour before pushing Almudj's Essence into her conduits. "Ball Lightning!"

"EE-EE!"

Where the interior of the cavern had glowed with fire and magma, it now grew hysterically bright as orbs of sizzling, viridescent electricity expanded amidst the pursuing swarm.

One by one, the Dwarves retreated with their cargos, some cradling two eggs, others having three cocoons chained together as a bouncing, skittering train.

"Invisibility—" Ollie obliged once more, an expert in Spellcraft but inexpert when it came to the art of war. He was also clad in the second-tier illusion staple, though as an ally, Gwen could make out a faded outline, as though her House-brother had become incorporeal. "Gwen, are we retreating now?"

"Sif!" Her blood was up. Who would retreat when their gamble paid off? The Wyrm was well-pollinated with Draconic Essence, and as one who had experienced the prowess of the Big Birds against Golos, she possessed not an ounce of worry that Caliban would not emerge with a new form. "Retreat? We're finishing this!"

"But you said…"

"I told him to trust me— whoa—" Gwen shuddered as vitality fled from her body, making her momentarily blank out. "Sorry, that had quite the kick—and he's right to do so. Cali will win, and we will reclaim this part of the mines for our allies."

Unable to refute her claim, Gwen's companion returned his gaze to the titanic struggle between bird and worm while Gwen returned hers to the general chaos of the battlefield.

"Chain Lightning!" She loved the fact that thanks to Ollie's illusions, and with Ariel acting as her portable turret, the enemy was wholly unaware of her lightning blasts' origins. "Invisible Familiar!"

"EE!" Ariel too enjoyed itself.

Like shooting Gobs in a terraformed pit, electricity arched between Ariel's sixteen pointed stag horns before sharing the Evocation favourite with the masses, ripping through the Hookas, liquifying a dozen Copper Worms, then circling again to ravage the foe anew.

"SHAA!" A cry of triumph echoed.

Caliban, missing feathers here and there, sans half the digits on its hands as well as a mortal segment of its neck, had removed enough Wyrm flesh to expose the Wyrm's sacred component— its Creature Core.

"Consume!" Gwen's heart pounded against her throat. "Cali! Do it now!"

Perhaps realising that the end was nigh, the Wyrm reverted to its lesser instincts. From every inch of its quivering flesh, a silky, viscous ooze erupted forth, making itself slick and slippery. Caliban's peeled, tooth-lined maw struck the creature's flank, only to come away frustrated, catching a throat-full of slime.

Gwen felt her understanding of Magic Creatures and their defence mechanisms fully renewed. All that vitality she poured forth, all that Void matter, and the mitigating offset was the power of Vaseline?! Nature does find a way!

"Fuck me. Cali, keep it pinned! Ariel! Lightning Bolt!"

Her alternative efforts were likewise disappointed by the Wyrm's primordial defences.

"Void Seeker!"

Her discus consumed itself about half-a-meter into the creature's flank, barely enough to slice off its lest rotund segment. Caliban made another attempt, but not only was it slipping on great gobs of slime from chin to chest, but its fingers were also losing grip.

_Ding!_

Hanmoul's Message pinged. "Yer desiring to hunt the Wyrm?"

"YES!" Gwen hollered back. "Any ideas?"

"Don't you worry, Lass," Hanmoul's reply was full of confidence, as well as a hint of relief. "We'll keep it contained. Alright, lads! Let's turn up the heat for the lassies' cockie! Dragonbreath! Give it all yer got!"

Those of the Hammer Guards still retrieving the cocoons rushed past Ollie and Gwen, while others returning to the fray fired up both Spellswords. Beginning with Hanmoul, the Dwarves poured gouts of fire toward the slimy, shimmering Wyrm.

If anything, Gwen supposed, Dwarves would know how to temper a forge. Instantly, the temperature in the cavern shot up. The smothering slime dried up within a matter of seconds, becoming flaky and crusty. As for the great Wyrm itself, it writhed and turned, seeking an escape, only to be battered back by Caliban using its wings and its whip-like neck.

More and more Dwarves joined with their flamers, their mana-engines glowing blue-hot as the liquid crystal blew out. The air grew so hot that the cavern's stones sizzled while its inhabitants baked.

Ollie erected his Mage Shield, while Gwen found herself surprisingly resilient against the arcane fire. Her Lightning dogs seemed to largely ignore the heat, while her Void hounds skulked like murky skeletons among the wavering air.

The surviving swarms that fed on the Shale Wyrm's waste fled, while what remained of the family of Hookas perished under renewed volleys of iron-wrought spikes, impaled against stone hot enough to cook their insides.

The Wyrm made a wild dash against the granite floor, shaping the stone, seeking a way out. Unfortunately for their otherworldly invader, its fount of slime was no longer sustainable in its immediate environment. Even as it attempted to bore a new hole, the Dwarves sealed its exit with stone shaping spells fired from their Spellswords.

Caliban descended, breaking through the crispy, smouldering silk to tear away chunks of bruised and battered flesh. Where the blistering slime grew exposed to the searing heat, it quickly solidified, losing all viscosity.

At long last, goaded by a madcap Gwen howling "Consume! CONSUME!" Caliban enclosed the creature's Core with its tentacled maw, severing the Wyrm's heart from its Tyrian-veined arteries in a single tug, painting the Dwarves below with an arc of bubbling purple blood.

"SHAA!"

Rousing cheers went up as the Hammer Guards bathed in ankle-deep gore.

"Good work, Cali!" Gwen poured what vitality she had left into Caliban, restoring her fiend's battle-weary body. No doubt she would soon be deep in meditation, the intensity of which nothing short of a Void Shield would keep decent. From her present vantage, all that was left was to grind down the remaining foes. Caliban was, after all, full-fluffed and choked full of vitality, brimming with battle lust in its most aggressive form.

"Cali, Ariel, Buck, Astro, Ollie— clean up the rest." She fought off the shivers even as her limbs grew ice-cold. "Mummy's going to take a breather."

Gwen emerged refreshed and hale from her meditation, having Prestidigitated her armour while in seclusion. When her Void Shield faded from view, she found herself surrounded by a wall of metal standing shoulder-to-shoulder.

"They wanted to defend you while you were meditating," Ollie quickly explained.

Gwen gave her audience an appreciative nod. "Hanmoul?"

"Over there." Ollie's expression did not posses expectant joy, nor a look of burgeoning hope.

Bowing their heads slightly, the Iron Born Dwarves clanked aside in their cumbersome battlesuits. Further down the corridor, she could see Hanmoul and the others, flanked by his sergeants. Presently, the Dwarves were at the tail end of their egg-sorting labour. As she approached, she couldn't help but notice that the tunnel's walls were bruised with ichor in lurid, crimson shades.

That and beside the group, there were rows of Dwarven bodies caked in slime. There were three dozen in all, all of whom laid perfectly still.

"Shit…" Gwen muttered.

"We didn't know, but the Wyrm's venom takes life while preserving the flesh," Hanmoul announced for her benefit. "I am truly sorry, lass. You did all of this for nothing."

CRUNCH!

One of the armoured Dwarves cracked open the last cocoon. Once the content revealed itself to be the rock-like egg belonging to their kin-slayer. Swiftly, the Hammer Guard smashed into the egg, splatting embryo across the wall, then set the yolk aflame with gouts of orange magma from his Spellsword.

"That's all of them." The Iron Born saluted.

"I am sorry too, Hanmoul." Gwen walked through the rows of grey-faced cadavers. There were Dwarves both young and old, some with beards just reaching their neck, others as long as their waist. There were women as well, with fine whiskers and less prominent noses and jawbones and a certain softness to the brows. All of whom now laid side by side, still slick with the enzyme from the Wyrm's digestive systems.

Dearly, Gwen wished that she had an Evee to cuddle.

"Caliban…"

Her Void snake, now docile, communicated that there were no discernible motes of vitality to be consumed.

"We're grateful, lass," Hanmoul assured her, as if afraid of her displeasure. "Truly."

"I know." Gwen fought down the cold invasion of disappointment. She had genuinely hoped that they would find someone, anyone, alive and well. If even one individual survived, then any effort would have been worthwhile.

"We shall consign their bodies to their Clans."

"That's good to hear."

"The Clans will be in your debt..."

"That was not my intention." Gwen shook her head. Her intention had been two-fold. One, she wanted to bring back Hanmoul's kin alive. As for her secondary purpose, it was the selfish curiosity of wanting to pit Caliban against a Draconic foe.

"I've called for escorts and transports," Hanmoul continued. "We'll be entering through the Gate of Kazhul, sorceress. By my word, ye shall receive a proper welcome."

"You don't have to." Gwen wondered if her modesty was feigned even as the words left her mouth. She had desired the Dwarves' favour, that much was self-evident. They had access to technology and expertise that she could not beg from London, not with the nobles barring her way. "Hanmoul, I said we're mates, and if you see me as a mate, we don't need ceremony or repayment for offering a helping hand. If Ollie got nabbed, would you have aided me in his retrieval?"

Ollie gave her a strange look, demanding to know if her analogy involved extracting his blue-veined corpse from the gut of a shredded Wyrm.

"Nae, lass." Hanmoul wasn't in the mood for debates of modesty. "I'll not have yer slink into the city like a thief, not after what yer've done for us in aw home. The Clans will ken what you did and why yer're here."

Gwen could only nod, lamenting the murdered mirth that should have followed a thorough victory.

Up close, the Gate of Kazhul was twice the size and grandeur.

In her mind, Gwen always imagined that a hero's welcome set in a world of high fantasy would involve rose petals, trumpets, clarions, tapestries and adoring fans lining the battlements tossing streamers.

Instead, she walked beside Hanmoul, leading a train of grey-faced cadavers through the solemn halls embedded within the keep, watched by the lantern-like eyes of the Citadel's citizens.

Inside, she was in no mood to marvel at the architecture, the stained-crystal murals, the monolithic statues of Dwarven warriors holding up the ceiling. Instead, she was met with the despairing howls of families as they emerged from Citadel's depth to claim the dead.

Gwen stood and studied the gathered crowd while they watched her in turn. The citizens, as far as she could tell, were dressed in a variety of garbs closely resembling medieval tunics but adorned with gadgets and tools. Physiologically, the Demi-human folk known as Dwarves were essentially stout Humans, with the males being barrel-chested and rotund, while the females were thick-thighed and generously bosomed. There was an overt preference for unisex leather gloves, as well as knee-high boots, and far more uniformity than what one would expect in a Human enclave.

Hanmoul walked among those unfortunate enough to have to step up from the crowd to claim a body, patting shoulders and offering kind words here and there. Once identified, the segmented, self-propelled dollies used to transport the bodies followed the claimants, presumably taking the corpses to the Clan's abode to be returned to the Plane of Earth.

"Gwen— heads up." Ollie's silent Message bloomed beside her ear.

As prescribed, she looked up.

There, standing behind the keep's art-deco parapet, was a troop of black-clad Dwarves looking straight out of dystopian science fiction. Their leader was the one to whom Ollie referred, for the Dwarf was clad from head to toe in bound cloth and forge-pressed plating. The mask reminded Gwen of Daft Punk's signature helmets, while around the man's torso, form-fitting runic plating glowed faintly with warding magic. The Dwarf's arms were likewise covered in what looked like holy scripts, ending in a pair of overlarge gauntlets half-hidden in long, pontifical sleeves.

A Deepdowner, Gwen recognised the unusual look. Those who loathed the surface, and who considered anything outside the deep dark Vadam.

Their eyes met, or rather, she met the helmet's reflective exterior.

"Don't stare." Ollie coughed. "Remember what Hanmoul said."

And what Lady Astor had forewarned, Gwen cautioned herself as she returned her attention to the grieving parents, siblings, Clanmates, mentors and friends. The scene was touching, but she had seen it all before. Were such displays of human suffering no longer sufficiently woeful? She wondered, or was it because there was no Elvia here to ground her to reality, to put the proper emotions in place?

Cart by cart, the bodies were claimed until only one remained.

"A Clanless…" Hanmoul shook his head. "We get them sometimes, survivors from another enclave."

"What happens to him?"

"We'll consign him to the fire in the Hall of Names."

With the last body gone, Gwen breathed out.

"Let us return to the Rotary Guild." Hanmoul's expression remained sombre. "We've done well today, thanks to you. Woe for the dead, but joy for the living. And so the Great Cog turns..."

If Gwen had to describe the journey from the gate down to the imposing fortress known as the Rotary Guild, she would expound on the time she walked through Blackheath wearing a minidress. And like the residents of that down-and-out suburb, the Dwarves here did not shy away from a good gander.

As before, walking beside Hanmoul, she felt like an animal in a gilded cage being paraded through the avenue, attracting the eyes of men, women and children alike. Ollie followed, possibly making himself less conspicuous with his illusions, leaving her to take the brunt of the Citadel's attention.

Now and then, she waved back as would a friendly celebrity. Her audience's response was to shy away, cover their children's eyes, or gave her the Sign of the Thrice-jammed Cog. Such was the intensity of the half-kilometre journey from the gate to the guild that she felt exhausted despite the newly usurped vitality.

At the guild itself, Gwen and Ollie were ushered into an amphitheatre carved from the bedrock. The building had the look of a town hall, with its centre consisting of six monolithic pillars inscribed with Dwarven runes. There, not seated in the six-seat dais but standing on the stage to await her grace, stood Hanmoul's superior, the Master of the Rotary Guild.

"Miss Song, Magus Edwards," the Guild Master, much to the Human's surprise, spoke perfect British English. "Welcome to our humble abode."

"It's a pleasure to be here." Gwen bowed from the waist. "Thank you for satisfying my selfish request."

"Lord Engineseer." Ollie appeared to have studied the Murk Dwarf's hierarchy. "Though you know us already, allow me to introduce us still. Here is Magus Gwen Song of Peterhouse, Cambridge, War Mage of London and my House-sister. Please refer to this one as Magus Ollie Edwards, also of Peterhouse, Cambridge, London Tower. We are beyond grateful for your reception."

"No need." The Guild Master hand-waved the humans' simulated modesty. "From what our man tells us, you have been instrumental in aiding Hanmoul yet again! Young one, you now owe Miss Song a great deal."

"I shall endeavour to satisfy Haj-Zül's Debt," Hanmoul assured his Guild Master. A name that Gwen now understood as one of the Seven Ancestors; one who had repaid a debt with such magnificence that the tale had grown into a cultural aspiration. "First, allow me to introduce the Chief Engineseer of Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth, Whurforlüm Ironførge, First of his Clan, First of the Citadel Council, Lord Librarian, White Beard, and my teacher."

"Hanmoul is too high-strung," the Guild Master scoffed at the breathless range of titles. "You may call me Whurforlüm, though I have given myself a Human name as well— Wilhelm."

"Lord Ironførge," Ollie genuflected once more.

"Milord Wilhelm." Gwen grinned at the portly old Dwarf. Unless she ignored the big white beard, the belly, the expansive, smiling face and the hale, rosy cheeks, it was impossible not to see Santa Claus.

"I am sure you are eager to tour the city, and indeed, make certain requests of Hanmoul," the Guild Master accounted benevolently. "I understand that a difficult battle had taken place. You must be exhausted and hungry."

"There's no need—" Ollie continued to play the diplomat.

"I could eat," Gwen confessed. Her candidness was well-founded. Draining vitality made one exceptionally hungry. Restoring it did nothing for the feeling of fullness, nor accounted for an empty belly.

"Then I am well pleased." The old Dwarf indicated to the exit. "Go and enjoy a banquet in your honour, walk the city with Hanmoul, think deeply of what you wish from us, then return here on the last day of your visitation. If I judge your demands acceptable, the Citadel will do its utmost to fulfil our side of the debt."

Gwen felt most agreeable, finding the old Dwarf the most pleasant fellow she had come across in a long time. If all Dwarves could be negotiated with like the Guild Master, she saw no reason why some manner of burgeoning trade couldn't be established between the races.

"Hanmoul, do show our guests to the Great Hall. You and your Hammer Guards have done well."

Hanmoul did not at all appear pleased by the praise. "No one was saved, Ser."

"Yet, the bodies of our kin have been returned to the Hearth of their Ancestors. None have become fat for the Wyrm. Who to thank for that, but your Legion and our guests?"

"... Thank you Ser," Hanmoul conceded. "I shall serve our people better from now on."

The Guild Master patted his student on the head, then directed his guests to the door. "Do enjoy yourselves, young Humans, but beware the potency of our beverages. Overlanders such as yourselves have required healing in the past due to reckless indulgence. It would certainly not do for our honoured guests to teleport back their Citadel!"

Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth.

The Guild District.

The Nut and Cog Rotary Tavern.

As a culinary light-weight, Ollie paled at the Dwarven tavern-feast presented to the two guests. Piled three-stack high, the small mountain of foodstuffs consisted of creatures, legumes and root vegetable he had never seen or heard. The most salient was an enormous platter consisting of a horned iguana roasted throughout and stuffed with a mixture of unnamable herbs in fat-soaked Dwarf bread. Next was a plate of golden carapaced beetles, each a handspan in length, boiled then seasoned with milk-butter from God knews what source. Nearer Gwen sat potentially a pheasant, but more likely a flightless raptor of sorts, steaming famously on a plate of grease-strewn rhizomes.

Then there were apple tarts.

And six types of mead.
And sixteen types of beer.
And seven types of cider.
And a grain-brewed something the Translation Stone forewarned as "Everclear".

And Ollie would have kept well away from the sauce bottle had he not been bombarded by requests from the Hammer Guard to pour one out for the fallen. Compelled by circumstance, the Praelector chose mead— and was down and out half a stein later.

"A round fer our Sorceress!" Sergeant Tordrum raised his tankard. "Two mugs, for saving us twice over!"

Without waiting, the Dwarf sculled the first, then took up the other. He managed half-way before he had to belch, a foppish act that drew boos and jeers from his peers.

"Wellie, YOO bloody scullie the Black Stout if yer so hale!" the Sergeant sputtered mead all over his beard. "Come on, do yer Ancestors proud!"

Gwen gave the mead a polite sip to ensure that it was to her taste. Hanmoul had said that the sticky brew was made from honey; though from what "honey" the Commandrumm had declined to clarify.

"I'll take you up on that." She stood with a stein in one hand. Tilting her head back, Gwen slammed down the sickly-sweet concoction without so much as a wrinkle of her brow.

First, there was silence— then a roaring cheer shook the roof as a dozen tankard hammered the table.

"Another!"

Grimgal, who turned out to be a ladette rather than a lad, handed her a brimming pewter mug.

With a flourish and a mote of circulating Essence, Gwen drank half the mug, paused for effect, then finished the rest. Taking a cue from her Chinese adventures, she overturned the stein to show that not a drop remained.

"Gwen! Gwen! Gwen!"
"That Human lass sure can drink!"
"Ach! By me beard! She might be a Dwarf in disguise!"

"Gwen, are you alright?" Hanmoul was sweating from every pore. The Commandrumm knew well the effects of Dwarven alcohol on the teetotaling Humans. What if the sorceress expired? Could their physicians heal a Human?

"I am feeling GREAT!" Gwen felt a flush of warmth flooding her innards, indicating that for the first time in a long time, she was beginning to hit that lauded drinker's high. "Who's next?"

"The Commandrumm!" Grimgal grabbed a clay bottle from under the table. "I've got an heirloom bottle of Everclear..."

"GRIMGAL!" Hanmoul slammed the table with a balled fist. "Yer trying to kill our guest, ya daft wrench?"

"Hold up. I am game." Gwen could already feel her Essence at work, detoxifying her blood at such an alarming rate. "What's the damage?"

"Stormbreaker Everclear." Grimgal's smile was full of teeth. "It'll be a real test. Our Commandrumm's a Berumm Fest Octobrumm champion; he can outdrink any Dwarf under the table, man or woman."

"I was a lad of fifty then!" Hanmoul protested. "Don't expect me to do that now. Argh, my poor liver..."

"Jesus," Gwen remarked, studying the Dwarf from head to toe. Outside of his armour and uniform, Hanmoul looked like Gary Oldman as a lumberjack. "How old are ya now?"

"A hundred and two."

"Holy shit." Gwen cackled. "How old are the rest of ya?"

"Seventy-four."
"Fifty-nine."
"Hundred and Twenty!"
"Tordok's the young 'un— he's forty-nine."
"Nae old enough ter drink, but old enough ter pilot."

To settle her nerves, Gwen reached for the bottle of Everclear, uncorked the cap, then took a generous swig. The taste was akin to high-proof absinthe. Slowly, the liquid seared her gullet like a line of fire.

She belched. Her eyes watered.

A thundering outburst exploded across the tavern. Even Dwarves not affiliated with the Hammer Guards were now joining in on the action.

"Fer your information. I am EIGHTEEN!" Gwen called out, finally feeling the buzz. "HOW'S THAT, OLD MAN HANMOUL?"

The tavern grew silent.

"Gilthok!" Hanmoul grumbled.

"Ahahaha…" Grimgal snorted so hard she choked on a bit of yam. "Ya sure pick em young, Commandrumm. She can't be drinking with us!"

"Don't know about that." Young Tordok growled. "I wasn't yet fifty, and yer all made me piss ma-self. Me mum had to drag ay carcass home to face the Ancestors."

"She's a Human adult!" Hanmoul assured his men. "Fine. Gwen, pass it here."

"Hold up." Gwen was abuzz with inspiration. Unbidden, she felt the engendering of a beautiful epiphany. Thanks to the Everclear coursing through her blood, her thoughts were free-flowing and without inhibition. "I've got just the thing!"

From her ring, she retrieved the final bottle of Maotai that she had stowed. The lamb's fat jadeite flask caused a stir among the Dwarves, who marvelled at the intricately carved bottle made from a mineral rarely seen in this part of the world.

With a deft hand, she uncorked the bottle.

"Wot is that?"
"The scent…"
"LASS! Bring me a fresh mug!"

"And a spot of the special sauce…" Gwen giggled, grinning like a demon, like a maniac alchemist, she materialised the rare whiskers she had harvested from Sen-sen, then deposited the lot into the fragrant sorghum-brew. In a set of crisp jade thimbles, she poured until the crystal liquid formed a brimming meniscus. "There!"

"What is that?" Hanmoul licked his lips.

"It's Soma, Ambrosia, the Drink of Gods," Gwen boasted. "One glass, and you'll be taking a holiday in heaven."

"Bah!"
"Human brew taste like water!"
"It looks like water!" The other Dwarves jeered.

Gwen gave them the Sign of the Thrice-jammed Cog. "Commandrumm?"

The two very carefully raised their drinks— Gwen with the rest of the Stormbreaker, and Hanmoul with her doctored Maotai.

Hanmoul leaned in, allowed the cup to touch his lips, then in one gulp emptied the contents.

"ARRGHK!" the Commandrumm suddenly stood.

"Wot is it, Commandrumm?"
"Did the lass poison ya?"

"ANCESTOR'S COGS!" Hanmoul's face turned communist red. His pupils rapidly dilated as his body filled with righteous fire in the form of unadulterated vitality gathered from a Mythic being so powerful as to permeate a plot of land ten times the size of the Red Citadel. "WOT IS THIS? THERE'S SOMETHING IN ME BLOOD!"

"Hundred-year sorghum distilled with five-hundred-year Draconic Essence." Gwen's nonchalance froze the life-blood of all who awaited to share a drink with the sorceress. "Trust me, mate, for an old war dog like you, this sauce will do yer good…"