XV. Dhir Daral

"Such tall walls for such short people. Who would have thought?" Vladan said, looking up at the massive fortifications that marked the entrance to Dhir Daral. An impromptu trade city had formed around the outside of the walls, some buildings timber but many more just tents. Traders who spoke dozens of different languages hawked wares and haggled endlessly. It was such a mix of races that the small group didn't stand out for once, though no one watching seemed quite certain of what to make of Vladan. They were far from the only warriors: caravan guards and mercenaries were moving through the area constantly, following the great east-west highway that passed by Dhir Daral known as the Long Walk. If one craned a neck and looked upward, the dwarven watchtowers could be seen. The fortifications were the only indications that there was even a city constructed here. It was all built beneath the mountain.

Ardashir was doing his best to shoo off the pack of grimy children they'd acquired who were both trying to sell them everything—including each other—and rifle through the strangers' pockets. Khagra had warned them beforehand to expect this, so Holland had hidden her coin in her saddlebag rather than carrying it on her person. The hooded knight was a soft-hearted man, however, and so he wasn't quite firm enough. It took Vladan's intervention to get them away.

Khagra laughed, finding Ardashir as amusing as always. The hooded knight was still uncomfortable around her, which she seemed to find entertaining rather than insulting. The orc had agreed to join them in their hopefully subterranean endeavor despite her low opinion of dwarves, and so Zajar was waiting for them some distance away. The horses passed without comment, thankfully. The orc sauntered more than walked, her spear resting against her shoulder. They were a well-armed group, so no one seemed inclined to give them trouble. "So what's your plan for getting in, Holland?" Khagra asked, looking over at their unofficial leader. Holland had settled into the role without too much complaint, though sometimes it concerned her a little bit that the other three had such faith in her.

"I have no idea," Holland admitted. "I thought we would go see the gates and decide from there."

"Find a big shipment of spirits and ride in with that?" Vladan said with a grin.

"Could work," Khagra murmured. "Though I doubt they'd take us seriously. I imagine they're used to idiots trying to get inside."

"Undoubtedly," the penitent said as she led the way through the crowds. There was a long line of people waiting to speak with two massive guards. They were shaped roughly like men, but made of stone and metal that had become corroded over time. Golems. Holland had heard of them, but never seen them. They were remnants of the First World, simulacrums of demons with rudimentary minds of their own bound to the will of the descendants of the cunning artificers who had crafted them: dwarves. Each one stood about ten feet tall and their voices were dull and inflectionless as they turned people away.

"I guess we're not going to be forcing our way in," Ardashir said, eyes widening.

"Still could," Vladan said. He sounded hopeful that it would still come to combat.

Holland watched as the golems turned away petitioner after petitioner, allowing the small group closer and closer to the front of the line. She was going to have to come up with something, the sooner the better. She realized they were all looking at her. "Shall we tell them that we are from Yssa?" Ardashir asked in hushed tones.

"I would not recommend it. The kings of men have overreached themselves into northern territory before. It will not endear us to them," Khagra said.

"The gate was made to withstand siege equipment and armies," Vladan observed. "Perhaps with a sufficient number of mages and an ample supply of living sources we could blow our way past it, but that would be difficult and cost many bodies."

"I love how you casually mention blood magic," Ardashir said dryly.

"Is its existence any more objectionable than that of the Mág Vrah?" the anthroparion said with a chuckle, gesturing at Holland. "Or do you find the sorcery of the demon princes to be less offensive to your delicate sensibilities? A tool is a tool."

Ardashir had no good retort for that, so he settled on saying, "Holland is a tool no longer."

"Nonsense," Vladan said. "She is merely the Queen's tool now."

Holland let out an irritated huff. "I'm trying to think," she said as they made the final approach on the golems. She honestly had no idea what she was going to say or do. Then again, had she really planned this entire adventure even a little bit? For the most part, she seemed to be throwing herself headfirst into the arms of Fate and hoping it would go well. She silently prayed to the gods for guidance as the last person ahead of them was turned away.

Two crude, big faces turned towards their small group. "WHAT PURPOSE BEARS YOU TO DHIR DARAL?" one of the golems intoned in a deep, gravelly voice.

The small group all looked at Holland, who pulled in a deep breath. "We would converse with your masters," she said evenly. "We bring warning of a great enemy to the west."

The golems were silent for a long moment, apparently considering this. Finally, it said "THE MASTERS LISTEN THROUGH THIS VESSEL. SPEAK, CREATURE."

"Truly, their manners are faultless," Vladan murmured. It made Khagra snigger.

"The Princes of Iron are gathering their armies," Holland said. "They intend to conquer the east."

"WE HAVE TURNED BACK ARMIES BEFORE," the golem said. It had only a little inflection in its grating tone, but it communicated contempt and dismissal surprisingly well. "THEY WILL BE MORE OF THE SAME."

"The Deceiver is awake," the penitent said more forcefully. "Can you hide behind your walls from Him?"

"WHERE IS YOUR PROOF, CREATURE?"

Holland reached into her saddlebag and pulled out the shard of Deus. She held it up so the golem could see it, clenched tight in her fist. She could feel the warmth from it, the strange hum of power through her veins as it synced again with her heartbeat. "The pieces are not sleeping any longer," she said, ignoring the shocked expressions of her own companions. She knew the golems would be able to perceive the difference between this and a simple lump of obsidian. Even as pale imitations of true power, their artifices came from the same line of tradition as sorcery.

"WHY HAVE YOU BROUGHT THIS THING OUT OF THE DARKNESS?" the golem asked.

"To destroy Him," Holland said. "And the Princes of Iron with Him."

"WHO ARE YOU?" the giant figure asked.

"This is the Lady Penitent, once of the Mág Vrah," Vladan said boldly on her behalf.

An unnerving silence descended on the group and Holland's grip on the stone tightened until she could feel it cutting into her hand. The discomfort kept her grounded in her own body as her anxiety shot through the roof. Suddenly, there was a deafening grinding sound and the gates began to ever so slowly crack open.

"WELCOME, LADY PENITENT," the golem said, extending one arm to gesture for them to enter. "THE MASTERS EAGERLY AWAIT THE MYSTERIES YOU BRING."

"Is that...? Have you had that with us the whole time?" Khagra asked Holland, still shell-shocked as they started to move forward. She couldn't look away from the jagged black piece.

"Yes," Holland said quietly.

"That was what you fetched from the Tuama," Ardashir said, comprehending. He looked equally unnerved as he studied the fragment. Everyone knew the stories of what the Deceiver was capable of. No doubt some part of the hooded knight was wondering if He had wormed His way into Holland's mind. "Why did you not tell us?"

Holland looked down at the piece in her hand. "To keep you from attracting His attention to yourselves," she said. "Honestly, I would rather be far from it myself, but leaving this piece in Tamaris would have been catastrophic."

"A little warning next time would be appreciated," Khagra said, tensing as they passed through the great doors. She was uncomfortable with both the fragment of the Deceiver in Holland's hand and the tons of rock now precariously above her head.

"Because saying I have a chunk of pure evil on me is ever a good start to a talk," Vladan said, taking it in his usual stride. He looked around with a great interest as they moved in to a great hall supported by square columns. It was all a smooth, grey stone inlaid with angular patterns in steel, its vaulting heights a good thirty feet above their heads. The area was well lit, but in a strange blue-violet color. "Such a big hall for such sh—"

Ardashir elbowed the anthroparion in the side to cut him off as short, broad figures approached. The dwarves were stocky, burly figures with long arms for their bodies, bronze skin, and large white eyes devoid of pupil. They were blind in the traditional sense, but Holland suspected that they possessed a secondary vision much like her own. Their hair was cut short or shaved off, both on the men and women approaching, but the men all had large, bushy beards that were braided or plaited into submission. There were three male dwarves and two female ones in the group approaching, dressed in sturdy work clothes with a lot of pockets. They were clean and well-kept, but Holland could see crescents of grime under their nails, like they'd just come from work, and they were all flushed from the heat of forges deeper in the mountain. All of them were armed with hammers or axes and flanked by two more golems.

"Greetings, Lady Penitent," one of the dwarf men said genially, though he was clearly still wary of them. His bald head gleamed like polished metal, but his dark beard was intricately woven and matched thick, beetling eyebrows. "I am Olon Drunaast, the Forge-Tender of Dhir Daral. You and your companions are welcome in this place. You are...different from those we are accustomed to dealing with. Not merchants or marauders. We do not know of you, but we certainly know of what you carry."

"I thought you might," Holland said. "I heard it said that when He was sundered, some of your people bore fragments deep under the earth where they might never be found again."

"Yes and no," Olon said, waving for them to follow him deeper into Dhir Daral. "Some were devoured by the fires of the mountains. But one or two pieces escaped with demon-kith dwarves when our guard slipped low."

"Destroyed?" Khargra said wonderingly. "It is possible to kill Him?"

"Yes and no," Olon said. He turned his head to the other dwarves and gave them orders in his harsh tongue. They scurried off in various directions. "The pieces are not truly gone and rendered to nothingness. Just rendered...inaccessible to any, including the Princes of Iron. They do not swan-dive into lakes of fire, in our experience. Were we to cast all the pieces into the same molten rock, it might only serve to reconstitute the Deceiver in a new form. But that was centuries ago. No one in Dhir Daral has heard of a fragment in generations, at least until now."

"We are pleased to break the monotony," Vladan said, his dark eyes bright with amusement as he looked down at the strange creature. Dwarves were foreign to him, but he was eager to learn more about them in his own way.

Olon snorted. "You have interesting timing," the dwarf said.

Before any of them could ask him what he meant, their words suddenly died as they broke out into Dhir Daral proper. "What sorcery is this?" Khagra whispered as the others just gaped.

The city, if it could be called such a thing, was a meshing of stone and steel in a giant machine that was in constant motion, ticking away the dark millennia here beneath the surface. The streets were walkways above endless chasms full of giant turning gears and whirring parts, all lit by the orange glow of the fires of a mountain's heart that burned below. The heat was incredible and Holland saw vents above them that belched out smoke from the forges. They had apparently entered some infernal foundry. The city was full of the sound of great hammers constantly striking hot metal. Everywhere, the reek of smelting and mining permeated the air. Channels of clear mountain water from the surface high above rushed down past them to quench both the thirst of the metal and the dwarves who worked it.

"Gods' breath," Ardashir said, his eyes wide. "This could equip armies in days."

"Dhir Daral is the greatest of the dwarven cities," Olon explained. "Much of the ore is mined further north in Bar Tarum and Dhuldarim, but all of it comes here to be smelted and forged."

"It's wondrous," Vladan said with enthusiasm, showing his sharp teeth in a grin. "It is like magic."

"It is artifice," Olon said sharply. "Not magic."

"Not that you're sensitive about it," Khagra muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Holland to catch it.

Apparently Olon caught it as well, however, because the dwarf glared in the orc's direction. "Typical brute," he snapped. "You are fortunate you are here as a companion of the Lady Penitent, orc, else you would be biting an axe."

"I'm certain Khagra and Vladan meant no offense," Holland said, giving her companions a look that strongly suggested they not contradict her. "Forge-Tender, is there a place where we can talk?"

Olon motioned again for them to follow, leading them across a wooden catwalk that passed over one of the massive chasms, the dull orange glow of the mountain's heart burning beneath their feet. It didn't feel nearly sturdy enough for Holland's comfort. They followed their guide down another few sets of rickety stairs before coming to a squat stone building. It was a single-room construction, what looked like a drafting workshop. Its large table for working had been cleared off. Food was waiting for them in the form of a coarse dark bread and what looked like large, strange mushroom caps sliced into thin pieces. Heavy flagons full of a dark, frothing beer stood next to the plain iron plates. "Your friend said you were once of the Mág Vrah," the dwarf said, looking over at the penitent. "However, the past is past. You have come to warn us of the disturbance to the south, yes? I assume that is why you carry a piece of the Deceiver with you. Please, eat and drink. You are welcome to our hospitality."

"Thank you," Holland said. She was surprised that they had so readily accepted her past and moved on. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Khagra watching Olon suspiciously. Holland's intuition whispered to her that all was not well. She didn't know the orc well, but she trusted Khagra—the dragon-rider was not the kind of creature inclined towards deception. Besides, there was something odd about how welcoming the dwarf was being given their reputation.

"You must want our help, our weapons," Olon said.

"Yes," Vladan said helpfully, standing at the table. He and Khagra looked almost comically large next to the dwarven furniture. Ardashir tried to sit down, but found the furniture designed for a very different body-shape.

"Well, I think we can work something out, one way or another," the dwarf said casually. He smiled brightly at Holland. "You look like you're tired, Lady Penitent. Please, sit."

Holland could feel a strange leaden weight settling into her limbs. Her head ached and she felt like she'd suddenly acquired the flu. She looked over and saw Ardashir slumping to the ground, Khagra following fast. The world around her was starting to spin. Vladan's bulk swayed beside her as he succumbed. "What are you doing to us?" Holland slurred out, feeling unsteady.

"Relax, Lady Penitent," Olon said pleasantly. "Just sleep."

As the blackness started to rush in, Holland felt a sudden surge of power burst through her veins. It was Saraqael's sorcery rescuing her body from whatever was happening. Holland threw herself past Olon and straight at the door, slamming against it. She heard a cry from the other side—someone was trying to brace it shut. She snarled and dug her fingers into the door, shoving hard with everything she had. The door broke open and two dwarves went stumbling back. Holland careened out the doorway, sucking in breaths of the reeking air in an effort to counteract whatever was happening to her. She vaguely heard Olon shouting behind her, but that didn't stop her from running as well as she could. The shadows were starting to come alive as she moved, chasing her along with the dwarves. Gods, how was she so dizzy suddenly?

Holland forced herself to keep moving, motivated strongly by the pursuit. She thought she could hear the pounding of golems' feet behind her. The longer she ran and the more she breathed, the more the ache in her head started to recede. She was positive that whatever had claimed her companions was in the air in that room. Her mind was coming back to her and her steps became more certain. The dwarves moved behind her with surprising speed for their short legs, occasionally grabbing rope lines and swinging themselves across the gaps after her as she bolted across walkways and through narrow, winding corridors. Where the hell could she go to get out of this?

A door opened as she went skidding around a corner and hands snatched her, jerking her violently to the side and into the darkness. A large, rough hand covered her mouth so she couldn't yelp. "Shh," a deep male voice whispered in her ear. The reek of hot metal overwhelmed her senses. "I'm here to help you."

Holland stilled and went quiet, though her hand was resting on her misericord. She heard the sound of pursuit passing the door by and slowly fading into the distance as they hunted for her. Her rescuer released her and stepped back. She heard him rustling around and then a sudden spark illuminated the room as he lit a small oil lamp. Her rescuer was a dwarf, but like none of the others she had seen. He was filthy with the grime of the forges, wearing a scorched but thick leather apron over ragged clothing. His black hair and beard were long and unkempt and his large, blind eyes were peering at her almost as if he could see. She saw one of his hands gleam in the sudden light. It—and the rest of his arm—was metal, but not nearly as sophisticated as a demon's. It had many gears and wires and pieces of clockwork that kept it moving. "You may call me Rust, outlander," the dwarf said in a low voice. "I am one of the few friends you have in this place."

"Thank you," Holland said quietly.

Rust smiled crookedly. She could see patches of missing beard with shining scar tissue beneath. His whole body was twisted and disfigured, likely from a combination of fire and the crushing and grinding of gears in accidents. "You are made of better metal than Olon thought. His ilk meant to trap you."

"Why?" Holland asked.

"The Princes of Iron have put prices on your heads, outlander," he said. He coughed, a horrible hacking sound that spoke of lungs blackened by smoke. "You would win Dhir Daral the favor of the Imperium, a chance at survival in the face of what is to come. To return to the Seven a piece of what they seek above all other things as well? So much the better."

The penitent cursed. It shouldn't have come as a surprise that the Princes of Iron were actively working against her, but she'd hoped to stay beneath their notice longer.

"This not a safe place to talk. They will double back soon when they find no trace of you. We would be better off gone then," Rust said. "I will lead you out of the mountain. There are back passages out of the city."

Holland's jaw tightened. "He has my companions," she said. "I'm not leaving without them."

Rust hesitated for a moment, then picked up the lantern. "Then let us consult the Heartforge. Perhaps there is a way to free them—but I promise nothing." He beckoned her further into the darkness and with a serious trepidation, Holland followed.