The remainder of the journey to Lochtagh was harrowing. Early on Franco had worried how they were going to explain the present circumstance of their party to the guards; two bloodied and battled dwarves, two emotionally strained gnomes and a human woman with a roll of orange velvet in place of a shirt. But over the previous day of travel they had not found one farm or village that remained inhabited. The final stretch of road approaching the stone walls of Lochtagh was a colonnade of arrows jutting out of the ground and large, bearded corpses left to the scavengers. Franco gave a short blessing to Kyrja when he saw the iron and oak of the city gates was intact. Though not for a lack of scratches and splinters.

“The Väahn attacked here?” Kherrin asked, incredulously. “They’ve never attacked Lochtagh. Never been so bold. It’s too far from the sea. Where were the soldiers?”

“South and west, at the border” Franco spat. Just in case.

“I confess,” said Kherrin “I’d always thought it an indulgence; stone walls for a town this size. I suppose I was wrong.”

Franco knew his friend had the right of it. He’d seen enough charred remains of villages and farmhouses to last him a lifetime. He didn’t want to dwell on the conflagration the Väahn would have made of Lochtagh.

As they approached the gate, Franco felt the eyes watching from the battlements before he saw them. No bows were even half-drawn, though.

We can’t be the first survivors from a raid come here for safety. And I don’t reckon the guards are worried about the Väahn being tactful.

From the barbican, a helmeted head arose. “Who goes there?”

Who does he bloody think.

“Survivors” called Kherrin. “We seek shelter from the Väahn.”

“The gate is damaged. We can’t open it for just anybody.”

So that’s how it is.

Franco let a hand slide under his jerkin, to the inner-pocket where he kept several chrysoprase rocks and a small sapphire; the reward for bringing Lyla back alive. Originally it had been substantially more, but Franco could only bring himself to take half the reward seeing as the gnomes had lost everything too. Of what he had kept, half of that he had given to Mag. It seemed she needed it more than he did. Kherrin didn’t seem too bothered by three quarters of the reward being given away; he was too enamoured with his new axe.

Fucking, Ruth.

Franco was waiting to see if any of the others would offer their precious stones up as a bribe before he did.

I may as well spend them on this. With all the farms abandoned, I doubt any of the refugees will be in the mood for buying precious stones. Ye can’t eat sapphires.

Fortunately, after an explosion of colourful language from Kherrin and one of the guards muttering something about “the dwarves” a small postern gate was unbarricaded and briefly opened. The picture inside the town was just as bleak; families with despondent, empty faces sitting in the streets around what possessions they had salvaged, butchers and bakeries with nothing to sell, every wagon or carriage confiscated and used to block or barricade something or other. A good many of those bleak faces shot hard, accusing glances at the two dwarves. Everyone who lived this close to Caghdun knew of the garrisons there; a veritable army of strong dwarves, all well-trained and well-equipped. He could feel the question that bubbled up at the sight of them; “Where were you?” Franco didn’t have an answer. Still, they asked everyone with the energy to listen if they had seen anyone matching the descriptions of the missing from the caravan, but the effort was wasted. Trying to find one survivor in that town was like trying to find one coal in a furnace.

Lochtagh was a town used to travellers, but not one of its several inns had a room or even a hayloft to spare. After seeing Mellbert offer an emerald in exchange for a meal and a place to stay, one ambitious local offered to feed and put up the five of them in his house for the night. With no other options in sight, Mellbert agreed, and the five of them feasted on watered-down soup and slept uncomfortably on the floor of a hovel. Franco, Kherrin and Mag agreed to set a watch on the gnome’s shire horse. Not that Franco thought lowly of the people of Lochtagh.

It’s as my Da told me: when the stomach growls the brain listens.

Dear Jerre,

In response to the question posed in your last letter, I’m afraid I have no answer. Nobody in the whole bloody city seems to know why the dwarves haven’t marched east to come to the aid of their neighbours. It seems crazed, now that trade through Bardun’s Gate has come to a complete standstill. Naturally everyone has their own theory.

A number of dwarves tell me it has to do with the neighbours in question. The last time the dwarves left the mountain, they were assisting the small nation directly to the east, Bressex. A close ally, and one through which all merchants had to pass through to reach Caghdun. Bressex exists no longer, of course. Like many before it was swallowed by the Altoman Empire.

Some believe the Archon does not trust his new neighbours. A great number tell me the Altoman Empire is large enough to protect itself, and shouldn’t rely upon the dwarves for help. Some say the Archon is concerned any move to aid Altome could be perceived as allegiance, and does not want to risk antagonising the Kingdom of Aren to the west. Others worry marching the dwarves onto Altoman territory could be perceived as an act of war. One dwarf I spoke with was all but certain it is because the Kingdom of Aren is actually paying the Archon not to send the dwarves to the aid of Aren’s enemy.

As for what I think? I think politics has become an obstacle; and now the most simple solution to a serious problem has become twisted into something confusing and downright feckless.

Letter to a friend – Renold Yers

“Why do ye think Mag didn’t want to join us?” Kherrin had also lost his horse during the fight with the Väahn, and was walking alongside Franco. Whether it had ran away or been eaten, Franco could not say.

“Is it any surprise? The shite she waded through. My thinking is; she’d be happier if she never saw us again. I reckon she’s going to leave Lochtagh as soon as she can and never look back.”

“But we saved her.”

“Aye, we did. And she weren’t the sort o’ lass that wants saving.”

“She’d rather be left to the Väahn?”

“O’course not. I’m saying, she’d rather not need to be saved in the first place. If the Väahn captured you and then a big strong dwarf came along and saved ye, wouldn’t ye feel just a little emasculated?”

Confusion dictated Kherrin’s expression. “Can women feel emasculated?”

“The masculine ones can, aye.”

“Still, if I had to choose between being emasculated or being kept by Väahn for the rest of my natural life, I know which I’d pick.”

“I know which I’d pick too. Doesn’t make it an easier medicine to take.”

“I suppose it doesn’t, aye.”

Mellbert Fairmill coughed exaggeratedly. The two dwarves looked up, to see Lyla on the horse and on the verge of tears. Bloody fool I am, thought Franco, walking on in silence. All the poor lass has been through. Kherrin had come to a similar conclusion, Franco decided, as his friend walked on with his lips pursed and his eyes firmly on the ground.

The men guarding the gate back at Lochtagh had stared in disbelief when Kherrin had told them they would be leaving. It seemed an obvious solution; to flee to the safety of the Dwarven mountain-city of Caghdun, but apparently they were the first to try. The hike to the entrance took most of a day, and none had dared be outside of the town walls for that long even if it meant a decent meal. The dwarves had walked, stomachs grumbling audibly, while Lyla and her father rode together on their shire horse. Supplies were scarce in Lochtagh and none were willing to trade victuals for gems.

Ye can’t eat sapphires.

The road between Lochtagh and Caghdun was a simple enough uphill climb. Bardun’s Gate, the eastern entrance into the Dwarven mountain city, sat just over a third of the way up the mountain. By Franco’s estimation they were almost there. Earlier in the day he’d been worried, but there was no chance of another Väahn attack as high as they were. The raiders would never come so far inland as to actually climb the mountain.

Then again, they’d never attacked Lochtagh before, either.

Ill-at-ease, Franco looked back on the scene behind them. From their vantage he could see back over Lochtagh, the lake for which it was named and the forests and the sea beyond that. Franco tapped his friend on the shoulder, nodded at the sight and the two took a moment to absorb it.

“Excuse me. I don’t mean to hurry you, but I think it best if we were in Caghdun before sundown.”

Typical gnome. If it didn’t come out of a workshop, they don’t have the time of day for it. Franco decided to take note of that insight, so he could share it with Kherrin later.

The path continued to rise until, at its apex, the group arrived at a tarn; a deep and wide expanse of freshwater sat in a clique carved out millennia ago by ice. The path flattened and wound around the edge of the tarn and, at the opposite bank, stood an immense stone doorway cut right into the cliff-face. Lyla stopped the shire horse just to look at it.

“Wow.”

Franco smiled at the sight.

“Bardun’s Gate. A real triumph of Dwarven architecture. Two unbroken doors of countless tonnes of rock carved right out from this very mountain.”

Lyla spurred the horse back to a walk. “Who was Bardun?”

“He was one of the architects who masterminded the whole thing. Seems right to name something like this after the one who build it.”

“You said one of the architects,” started Mellbert, “What about the others?”

“Well there was only one other. Name of Grazzin. Grazzin’s gate, identical to this one, is on the other side o’ the mountain.”

“I see.”

“I see” he says. I’ve met a few gnomes in my time, thought Franco, but this one is by far the gnome-y-est.

As they got closer the left door began slowly to heave itself open. Neither Kherrin nor Franco were quite sure about the mechanisms that allowed such a monstrous amount of stone to swing open and shut. It was a Dwarven secret, but that didn’t mean all dwarves had to know it. The door didn’t open any wider than it needed to for the four to enter in single file. Once inside Kherrin made a long whistle. The paved tunnel continued on exactly as wide and as high as the doors behind them, curving gently to the right as it did so. Franco explained to the gnomes that this curvature was so that no intruders could see the inner gates from the outer ones. At the exact point the outer gates were lost from view, they came upon a portcullis. Behind which sat a single official; a dwarf dressed all in finery – a red-and-white striped tunic, spectacles and a cap – with a small mahogany desk.

“Names please” the official spoke, not appearing to address anyone in particular. He also spoke in the common tongue.

I suppose that’s for the benefit of the gnomes.

“Mie bridh Dwôrfnan” said Mellbert.

Franco arched an approving eyebrow at Kherrin. Bugger me! The gnome speaks Dwarven.

“Aiens thol ge” repeated the official.

“Kherrin Gully.”

“Franco Rhian.”

“Mellbert Fairmill agh Lyla Fairmill; maih ghrean.”

“Franco Rhian and Kherrin Gully; what are your intentions in Caghdun?” the official asked, continuing in Dwarven.

Kherrin spoke up; “We were hired to accompany a caravan travelling to Caghdun. After the Väahn, this is all that’s left.”

The official ran an eye over the company from behind the bars, dipping his quill into a small inkpot.

Not sympathetic; appraising, Franco decided as the official scribbled something onto the papers on his desk. They must have gotten wind of what’s happening outside. They can’t have their heads so far underground as to miss that.

“Mellbert Fairmill and Lyla Fairmill; what are your intentions in Caghdun?”

“I came here to establish a jeweller’s workshop. My daughter is here to apprentice under me.”

Again, the dwarf’s eye ran over the group.

“You bring no tools.”

“They were lost. To the Väahn.”

After a long time spent scribbling, the dwarf behind the portcullis rose from his desk. He was taller than Franco and Kherrin, and thinner around the chest.

He’d snap like a twig, this one. Real dwarves have girth.

“Kherrin Gully and Franco Rhian; it is my honour to welcome you to the city of Caghdun. Have a pleasant stay.”

The old gnome was holding his breath.

“Mellbert and Lyla Fairmill; you have twenty-four hours to report yourselves to the Office of Inhabitation. From there your case will be decided. Welcome to Caghdun.”

Mellbert’s sigh must have been audible even to the guards inside the walls. With no prompt from the official, the portcullis began to raise itself up into the ceiling, stopping only a few inches higher than necessary for the shire-horse to pass under.

The foursome pressed on; first gently to the right, then sloping downwards, then to the left. At one stage, paradoxically, they seemed to be moving uphill. Aside from the dwarf with the desk, they didn’t see a single soul along the road under the mountain. There were other portcullis’, however, each of which seemed to open of its own accord as the group drew near. In-between they passed countless arrow-slits and murder-holes, and numerous sections along the walls, floors and ceiling that looked to be hiding contraptions Franco couldn’t imagine the nature of. Without the sun as a guide it was hard to say for how long they walked exactly, but eventually they came upon a set of doors mirroring those they passed through to enter the mountain, though significantly smaller. That was another wonder of the city; until seeing the inner gates Franco had not even realised the tunnel had been gradually narrowing. The doors opened – with any working dwarves or mechanisms concealed entirely – and gasps followed.

Before them was an antechamber larger than any other physical space Franco knew of aside from the sky itself. The wide expanse of the ground level was an ocean of merchant’s wagons and stalls, with crowds milling about between them. Wide roads – such as that Franco and Kherrin found themselves on – wound around the walls of the chamber, so that a horse-drawn wagon could climb the entire expanse on only a gentle incline. Towards the top these roads were carved into the rock - sometimes directly above one-another - with steep, narrow stairways providing shortcuts between the levels. Along each of these roads were traders, workshops, ale-houses, guild-halls, inns, public offices and even a schoolhouse. From each of these windows and occasional balconies looked out over the immense space of the antechamber. Visitors sometimes joked that they could see clouds forming near the top. From every part of the chamber, branching tunnels led outwards to the other districts and coves of the city.

Having traversed the eastern entrance into Caghdun, it is our view that the structure is impregnable. The stone doors outside are thicker than most walls, but in a siege scenario (assuming the dwarves have no means to harry forces exterior to the structure) the doors could be mined through in time. It is the tunnel following the doors that renders invasion unfeasible. Walking at a slow pace I lost count at around two-hundred-and-thirty arrow-slits, sixty murder-holes. Other agents counted a number of miscellaneous traps, but I cannot say with any certainty the numbers or applications of said traps. Sending armed agents into the city would be difficult. At the first portcullis (of many) officials record the names and details of all visitors, and confiscate weapons from anyone who isn’t a dwarf.

If a force were able to break through the traps and counter-measures they would reach the eastern antechamber. The structure is huge, shaped something like a rounded cylinder or a pear, with a large market – the Lower Markets – occupying most of the floor of the chamber. Around the walls; roads and stairways are carved into the sides of the chamber, as wide as any street in Altome. This would present challenges for the invaders; the chamber is simply too large to be securable. There are too many branching tunnels running out of the chamber for an invading force to control them all. If invaders did push into any one of the tunnels they would almost guarantee their chances of being flanked or trapped.

I have, in my notes, included a rough map of many of the larger passages. Please forgive its roughness; I’m not used to drawing maps in three dimensions.

Military Analysis of the Dwarven City Caghdun – Unknown

“Look at the size of it.” Mellbert was scratching his head. “And see how many traders there are down there. They’re all taxed, I understand. The city must make a fortune.”

Gnome-y-er and gnome-y-er, thought Franco, sees an architectural wonder and thinks about taxes.

“They’re taxed based on how much space they take up. Except once you go over - I don’t know, ten square feet? - the rate increases. Marginally, naturally.”

“And it’s the same for all of them?” asked Lyla.

“No, lass. It depends on what the merchant is selling. Someone selling jewellery, for instance, would multiply their tax by a factor larger than that of someone selling furniture.”

“Hmmm.” Mellbert looked to be about to ask another question, but Kherrin deliberately spoke first.

“Well, it was nice meeting the both of you,” he said, “but we ought to get going. Things need doin’, people need meetin’. I’m sure you understand.”

“Yes, of course. Farewell ser dwarf. And you, Franco.”

“Aye. Good luck to ye both. You’ll be alright here by yourselves, without your things?”

“I should think so. I have a friend in the city, we’ll be headed there now.”

“Aye, alright then. Goodbye to you too Miss Lyla.” Franco bowed a little and Lyla giggled.

“Bye Franco.”

The two dwarves watched as the old gnome and his daughter rode their shire horse through a sea of travellers, merchants and dwarves.

“They’ll be alright, won’t they?”

“Aye, I don’t doubt it. Did he really ask us about taxes? With this view? Agh, anyway I want to head to the market. I need a new pack, and new travelling gear. You do too, if memory serves.”

“Aye, where to?”

“The Lower Markets, see if we can’t sniff out a couple of bargains. Plus, I need a new dagger. Mag never returned mine.”

As they descended, the pair could not fail to notice something amiss about the throngs in the Lower Markets. Franco spoke up first.

“Awfully quiet, aren’t they?”

“And look at the stalls. Not exactly overflowing.”

“The Väahn. Must be. I don’t suppose many of these merchants have left Caghdun in quite some time.” Franco supposed.

“Ye’ reckon they’re hiding here? Waiting out the storm, so to speak?”

“And no new merchants are coming in to replace them. At least not the way we came.”

“This must be hurting the city; no goods coming in or out the eastern side. There must be some reason the Archon hasn’t sent out the armies to help” said Kherrin.

“I can’t imagine what it is, but it smells like shite. And politics.”

Once among the thinned crowds of the Lower Markets the pair found several unvacated merchant’s stalls, all bunched together in the centre. There was a korrigan fellow manning a near-empty stall of leather-work items who – fortunately - had a couple of packs left suitable-enough for the dwarves’ line of work. A human apothecary was able to provide some of the particular potions and salves that Franco and Kherrin each liked to travel with, though for every one thing she had in stock she was out of something else. And try as they might, they could not find a dagger worthy of Kherrin’s high standards. Eventually he announced that they would have to find a proper blacksmith. By proper Franco could infer he meant Dwarven. Thus they set of on a long walk up the side of the antechamber, to the Upper Markets and an excellent blacksmith Franco knew from the last time he was in Caghdun. A grey-hair by the name of Bavvel something.

The pair spoke as they climbed the winding roads that circulated the walls of the eastern antechamber. Familiar sounds and smells drifted out from the storefronts on their right, as they watched over the daunting vantage-point to their left. Passing an ale-house, Franco heard the characteristic deep, rumbling of drums and keening shrill of the suide flutes.

“And are ye’ sure this fella’s any good?”

“He’s more than good. Old Bavvel’s been working that forge for near half a century. His steel is superb. I can vouch for that much.”

As they walked ever higher up gently rising roads and steep, winding stairs Franco and Kherrin melded perfectly into the roving currents of dwarves.

Definitely peculiar, not standing out like this.

Before Franco could delve into the relativity of what folk consider normal, the two arrived at the smithy. Inside the shop their eyes feasted a shopfront brimming with top-quality Dwarven steel while their nostrils gorged on a hot air, rank with molten iron and coal dust. Marvellous.

Kherrin was perusing daggers as the hunching old smith prattled on about each blade as if it was one of his children, when another dwarf walked in. He was of an age with Franco, but could not have been dressed more differently. His clothes were immaculate; all embroidery and fur trims. His beard was shorter and perfectly groomed. He was wider around the belly. Definitely wider than he had been when Franco last saw him.

“Odi! You fat bastard, how are ye?”

“Franco? Bugger me if you’re not still strutting about, I had a wager you’d be dead by now.”

“Har! And which keen mind bet that I’d still be alive?”

“My great-uncle” Odi said, nodding toward the aging blacksmith, still prattling.

“I thought he looked a little too happy to see me.”

“Where are you staying? Not some back-cavern pit, I hope. You know you’re always welcome at the Thatts’ house.”

“I was thinking about The Crossed Antlers.”

“A reputable-enough establishment.”

“Aye, do you know if they still brew their own mead? The one with mountain bilberries in it?”

“I am pleased to inform you that they do.”

“And will I be seeing you there later tonight?”

“You can bet yer rump you will.”

“Har! Odi Thatts. That’s what I like to hear.”

Odi said a few words to his great-uncle and left. Kherrin took a gander at every small blade in the shop, but eventually settled on his favourite. He spent a great amount of time haggling over it, but he got a good deal. Eventually.

The poor old man was just happy to be rid of him. Maybe spending the best part of an hour poring over every pointy thing was Kherrin’s strategy. If so, he could have bloody-well told me. I’d be at the inn by now.

Franco made his way to The Crossed Antlers, but Kherrin had other plans. He had a friend in the city he was staying with. Plus Caghdun was home to the largest temple to Virimar on the continent, and Kherrin was insistent on visiting. Thus Franco entered the tavern alone, paid for a room and immediately went downstairs. A real granite bed, compact mattress. Perfect. Sleep would have to wait, though. Odi would be along any minute.

Downstairs Franco was nursing a mountain-bilberry ale when Odi entered, now dressed in a fresh outfit and wearing a pungent, likely rather expensive fragrance. Franco was reaching for a joke about a perfumed dwarf, but only one came to him.

“Odi? Is that you I smell, or did someone drizzle ambergris into a bag full of pubes?”

It was something. Odi didn’t have a comeback for that one, so he just laughed and took the seat next to Franco.

“I see life on the road hasn’t blunted your wit. If it can be called that. How is the road these days, anyway?”

Franco told the story of his journey to Caghdun in true Dwarven fashion. By the point of the Väahn ambush, he was regaling the tables on either side of his with the telling of his heroic exploits. By the time his group entered Caghdun he was drinking courtesy of his listeners. Also, in true Dwarven fashion, a number of listeners interrupted to ask questions and make their own remarks, to which Franco responded with all the wit four tankards of good ale afforded a dwarf. A real rodomontade and, all in all, a great start to the evening.

Before long the keeper’s bells were ringing out the setting of the sun outside. Odi gave his reasons and left for home.

“Before you go, I have to ask something.” Franco’s tone was hushed. “Is Rosie still in town?”

“Rosie? Ah, of course. She’s still here, and she’s engaged.”

Franco nearly spat out his drink. “Engaged? When? To who?”

“A few months ago. To the eldest son of a very well-to-do household. I think he’s a sergeant in the guard or something like that. His father’s a real important dwarf. Chief Minister of Tax, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Well I’ll be.” Franco looked down into his tankard.

“No hard feelings, Franco. Anyway, I best be heading home. Goodnight friend.”

“Aye, goodnight.”

Odi left and Franco made up his mind to finish what he estimated to be his sixth and final ale and go to bed.

Dearest Amelia,

Please let everyone back home know that I’ve arrived in Caghdun safe and sound. And do you remember that discussion we had before I left? We was wondering how the dwarves know what time it is when their entire city is underground, remember? Well I found out how. It’s bells! They ring four times a day; once when the sun starts rising, when it’s risen, when it starts setting and when it’s set. The most interesting part is how they know what time to ring the bells. Apparently they use numbers. Mad, right? With paper, ink and I guess a pretty big abacus they work it all out.

The craziest part is that they’ve never gotten it wrong. Not once! Well that’s what a Dwarven fellow told me. I asked him how anyone would know if they got it wrong, seeing as we’re all underground here and have no way of checking, but he just got mad and told me I didn’t understand.

Anyway, bless the children for me and let everyone know I’ll be back home when we planned. All my love,

Yarv

Letter Home – Yarvin Haywell

Franco was nearing the bottom of the tankard when a pair of hands landed over his eyes and a feminine laugh filled his ears.

Soft hands and a throaty laugh.

“Rosie?”

“You remember me?”

Her voice was always a little deeper when she was being mischievous. Franco loved that about her.

“Aye. I remember.”

“Mmm, that’s a shame. I was looking forward to reminding you.”

Her hands slid from his eyes to his neck.

“Do you remember the last time we were together?”

“Do you mean before or after I had to fight off Baffir and all his mates?”

Rosie harrumphed. “I mean before, dummy. The night before."

Soft hands moved quickly to just inside the collar of his shirt.

“You promised me you’d find me a present, from somewhere out in the big wide world.”

Deftly, one hand slid under the front of his shirt, moving across the coarse hair of his chest.

“Well, I’ve decided what I want.”

Franco held her wrists, not gently, and pulled the hands away.

“You’re engaged.” He was blunt.

“I’m bored.” She was too.

“How did ye know I was in town?”

He released her wrists, and her hands quickly found their way to his hair.

“Someone told me.”

“Who told ye?”

“I’m a very popular girl. Lots of people tell me things.”

Swiftly her head dipped and her mouth found his ear. She nibbled and whispered things in her naughtiest voice. Her hair smelled enticingly like pheromones and citrus. Franco felt himself sinking. He watched as one of those perfect hands glided back to his chest, and he saw a ring. A golden band with a large diamond set in it. The sight of her engagement ring worked just like a bucket of icy water thrown over his head, dragging him back to reality. He stood abruptly, ceasing the embrace.

“Rosie, you’ve had yer fun, but I think it’d be best if you went home.”

She pouted. Pouted!

“You’re too serious Franco.”

He didn’t budge, and she huffed, turned her back to him and marched out the door, silk dress swaying in time to angry steps. He watched her the whole way. Franco took a deep breath - held it - and slouched down onto the stool, head in his hands. He couldn’t be sure how long was spent collecting his thoughts before he stood, swaying slightly, and staggered to his room. The floor of the tavern seemed to rock gently under his feet, rising and falling like the deck of a ship. The stairway that lead to the rooms twisted around like a snake as he climbed it. Outside his room someone had left a silk dress, with a fragrance of citrus, hanging from the doorknob.