XVII. The Others

Holland stirred a large chunk of rock with her foot. "This looks promising," she said wryly. The remains of a golem were scattered across the floor. Beyond was the broken remnants of a door, splintered wood and iron bindings hanging from the hinges. If she had to guess, she would have wagered that her friends were not happy when they woke up.

"How?" Olon demanded, wild-eyed.

"They're resourceful people," Holland said, drawing her sword. She wasn't going to wade into a fight without a weapon if she could avoid it, no matter what the Heartforge had said. "You and your men should stay back. I'll find them. I doubt they've gone far."

She heard a crashing sound and shouts from further down the hall. Holland loped that way, trying not to grin. Yes, it could sabotage the tentative good will she'd created with Rust, but it was undeniably amusing as well. The dwarves deserved a little bit of damage. She rounded the corner a ways down to see Vladan wielding an armored dwarf like a flail, keeping the assembled ranks of guards at bay. Khagra had a stolen spear in her hands, deftly creating an opening towards the next door with the help of Ardashir, who apparently found a dwarven heavy axe as an acceptable weapon. He was maneuvering it quite well. The dwarves hadn't taken any lethal casualties yet, but only because her friends were holding back.

"Vladan, put the dwarf down!" Holland called.

The anthroparion looked over in her direction and grinned, flinging the dwarf into the ranks of the guards, scattering them backwards and creating a clear path to Holland. "Took you long enough!" he called jovially. The fight seemed to have put him in a good mood, even if he was scraped up and bruised from brawling with the golem. "You missed a fine fight!"

"I saw," Holland said, approaching her companions. She lowered her blade. "I have an understanding with the new Forge-Tender. The fight is over."

Vladan looked crestfallen, but he relaxed obediently. It was Khagra who stayed stiff and ready for combat. "It might not last," the orc said, glaring at the dwarves. When Olon rounded the corner, the orc snarled and gripped her spear more tightly. Her yellow eyes looked feral.

Ardashir put a hand on the orc's arm. "Khagra, it's alright," the hooded knight said soothingly. He was the cool head out of the three.

The orc scowled but lowered the spear. Holland was grateful for the intervention. There was no way in hell she was taking a spear for Olon and she didn't want to have to deal with his dead body. The penitent moved forward, checking her friends for injuries. Not that she could do anything about them, considering her lack of healing skill. She knew to put pressure on a wound that was bleeding and to keep things clean. More than that was beyond her. Holland's gift had always been for breaking people, not putting them back together. "Everyone alright?" the penitent asked.

Vladan shook out his hands and grinned. "I've a hard head," he said proudly.

"Perhaps next time you should refrain from using it as a weapon against a golem?" Ardashir muttered, though he was grinning despite himself. The comment made Khagra laugh, easing the tension in the orc's body.

"I'm sorry I missed it," Holland said with amusement.

"What happened to you?" Khagra asked, keeping a suspicious eye on the dwarves, who were withdrawing down the hallway to speak with Olon.

"I had an adventure," Holland said. It seemed the best way to describe what had happened. The phantoms of her past were being pushed back by the reminders of the life she was currently living. "There is a dwarf on our side, the new Forge-Tender. He's working at the Heartforge now, but I think he'll help us."

"So what about Olon?" Ardashir said. His jaw was tight and his eyes dark. He didn't have much love for the dwarf who had ensnared them either.

"A good question. We can't trust him, but I don't think we need to kill him now," Holland said.

"Respectfully, Holland, I disagree. We might not have a second opportunity to do it," Khagra said fiercely. She was still gripping the dwarven spear tightly. It looked small in her hands.

Vladan slapped Khagra on the back companionably with enough force to rattle the orc. "There's always a next time," he said agreeably before raising his voice to shout at Olon. "Hear that? Next time you die, Drunaast!"

Ardashir sighed. "Very diplomatic, Vladan," he said, letting his stolen axe rest against his leg. "I'd like to see my gear again, if it's all the same to you."

One of the dwarven guards approached them after a few more moments. "Your equipment awaits that way," he said, pointing down a side hall. "We have orders from the Forge-Tender that you are to be treated as guests."

"And Olon?" Holland asked.

"He is no longer the voice of our people. The Heartforge has spoken," the dwarf guard said.

"If there is something unpleasant down that hallway, little dwarf, I will snap your bones and lap out the marrow," Vladan said genially, giving the dwarf a broad grin that exposed all of his sharp teeth. "Rest assured, even if it slays us, I will still kill you first."

The dwarf went very still and gripped his axe a little more tightly. "Lady Penitent, if you could control your cre—"

"Your people started it. You have no right to complain simply because you bit off more than you could chew," Khagra said, cutting the dwarf off. She shouldered the dwarven spear. "Let's go fetch our armor before they change their minds again." Holland heard her mutter something further about the inconstancy of dwarves as they walked. The orc was clearly unhappy.

Thankfully, it was in fact their gear waiting for them in the small guardroom. Vladan and Holland kept watch while Khagra and Ardashir donned their armor. The orc opened a small tin and reapplied the red paint to her skin, refreshing the markings that had started to fade. She was so used to doing it that she didn't even require a mirror. Once they were armed and armored again, the small group moved back the way they had come.

"We must wait for the Forge-Tender to speak. There is a room—" the dwarf guard started to say.

"We'll be sticking with the overlook of the city," Holland said firmly. She had no intention of making herself easy to gas again. "If that is a problem, you may direct your complaints to my large, furry friend here."

Vladan gave another of his unsettling grins and the dwarf nodded, almost rattling in his armor from nerves. He led the way out to the overlook, then trudged hurriedly over to the other armored dwarves. The small group watched him go. Interestingly, they weren't reporting to Olon anymore. They appeared to be answering to one of their own commanders, marked by the edging of gold to his pauldrons. "The golem was enjoyable," the anthroparion said to break the silence and settle Khagra further. "Do you think they would allow us to kill another?"

"Probably not. They seem valuable," Ardashir said as they settled on the outcropping of rock that overlooked Dhir Daral. He'd been clipped by the golem hard enough to crack a rib, so he wasn't particularly keen on recreating the experience.

"Dwarves," Khagra muttered, still glaring in Olon's direction.

The minutes stretched into hours as they waited for any word from the Forge-Tender. Vladan went to sleep after the first twenty minutes, tired from the exertion that had been brawling with a golem. Holland took the time to consult Khagra's map of the north. It was a little bit crude, but it was accurate enough for her purposes. The distraction finally settled the orc down. "We need to head further west if we're going to reach your people and the elves, yes?" Holland said quietly.

"Yes. We can move along the Long Walk," Khagra said. "But it will take us through the lands of the Năluci."

Holland frowned. "I've never heard of them," she said.

"They are the last of the free peoples who once dwelled in what is now the northern reaches of the Imperium, pushed northeast by terror and loss: the Igigi, the Relicta, the Oameni," Khagra said. "But they are shadows of their old selves. Their gods have forsaken them and they no longer feel the touch of the Denah now that their traditions of magic have been extinguished by the Imperium."

The penitent's stomach tightened into a knot of guilt. She hadn't realized that the Princes of Iron had been so successful in their quest to stomp out the last vestiges of magic in the west. The knowledge that she had played no small part in it was uncomfortable at best. For a moment, she saw Adriana's face in her mind. You have a soul too, Cruciata. A heart. Please, listen to it! "Who leads them?" It was an automatic question, but she was dreading the answer.

"They are fractured," Khagra said. There was a touch of pity to her tone. "Perhaps if they were more united, they would not be dying out. The Imperium has been forcing them further and further afield. They are not suited for this far north. They do not know the land. But those who survive are hard and cruel, well-suited to repelling incursions. If Dunak isn't full of hot air, Murdak has been recruiting them. It is...sad."

"That is what awaits all of us if the Imperium is not stopped," Vladan said. He could probably only barely conceive of a world without magic. As an anthroparion, it was ingrained in his nature—not to use it, but certainly to sense it always. He had soaked up Khagra's myths about the Denah eagerly. The big creature looked over at Holland. She was always quiet, but she seemed particularly so now. "Holland?"

Holland was looking at the map and carefully focusing on her breathing. What was it that the magus had said? Old sins cast long shadows. "I fought them," the penitent finally said quietly. "When they still had mages."

"Ah yes, because you were of the Mág—" Vladan cut himself short, dark eyes comprehending. He laid one of his strange hands on Holland's shoulder. He didn't say anything, probably because he sensed that there was no comforting word that would alleviate the force of Holland's guilt.

"The Mág Vrah haven't been seen in their lands for more than half a century," Khagra said. "Their mages are gone, after all. No one will remember you, Holland."

Holland's face was grim. "Some things are hard to forget," she said quietly. After a moment of silence, she let a sigh escape. "There is a definite danger that we may encounter an Immortal. The Princes of Iron have set a price on our heads. If they are willing to pay foreigners for us, they will most assuredly send their best after us."

"They will be working in unfamiliar, unfriendly territory," Ardashir commented as he ran a whetstone along his sword's edge. "That gives us something of an advantage."

Khagra nodded. "If we go to my brother, we will have allies," she said firmly. "We can do this...provided we make it out of this hole alive."

"We also need to decide what to do with the shard of the Deceiver," the hooded knight said. He hesitated when they all looked his way. "The longer we carry it, the more risk we are at. Surely the Princes of Iron could use it to find us. They hear His call, don't they?"

"They do," Holland said quietly. "But we may have need of the piece when we go seeking the Desolate Throne. It is connected to Him."

"Then we keep it," Khagra said quietly. She looked at Holland. "Will you be safe from the corruption, Holland? Dunak mentioned that you would feel the Calling strongly, with all the sorcery within you."

"I am well enough to resist for now," Holland said. "There will be a lot of wearing before I succumb."

"You are a warrior. You will be fine," Ardashir said with confidence that she didn't share. It seemed to ease the worries of her companions, however.

Holland decided not to shatter his optimism. If they needed to believe that she was impervious to Deus's voice, she would let them believe it for now. She just nodded and did her best to relax as they waited.

It was hours of waiting. Vladan had gone to sleep sitting up at that point, snoring and growling as he dreamed...probably of ripping apart golems. Holland still wasn't certain how he'd managed to do so much damage to one, but she was relatively certain it had been a joint effort aided by Khagra and Ardashir. Meanwhile, Khagra started treating and then bandaging up a wound to Ardashir's arm that Holland had missed on her initial scrutiny. The orc's movements were skilled and practiced as she dressed the wound.

"Ah, you are a healer," Ardashir said when she finished, impressed despite himself as he examined the binding. It was not nearly as sloppy as he would have done himself. The salve she'd treated it with smelled strongly of some herbs, but it eased the pain of the wound—pain being something he was still getting used to. He was curious as to what was in the medicine, but he knew from his family that northern healers rarely shared their secrets with anyone other than their students.

"I know a little," Khagra said with a shrug. "My father, Skolg, was a clever orc. He knew much about many things. A scholar's mind and temperament. I was just the one who listened." She was understating her abilities.

"Very modest," the hooded knight said. He gave her a smile. "You surprise, Khagra. The south has heard much of orc battle-prowess. It is...interesting, to see that there is more than that."

"There is a reason I am not with my brother," Khagra admitted. "I do not fit."

"None of us do," Ardashir said. "I have lost my family and my place. Holland is mired between worlds in a way we cannot even imagine. Vladan appears to be little more than a housepet with an attitude problem, something that clearly does not suit his nature."

Khagra laughed. "Don't let him hear you call him that," the orc said with amusement, her yellow eyes alight. She sobered slightly. "I am sorry about your family, Ardashir."

He shook his head. "Don't be," he said quietly. "One cannot force such things." When he saw the orc's quizzical look, he clarified, "I allowed my wife to annul our marriage. To keep her where she was unhappy would have been wrong. She is alive and well. Just...not mine."

"It is true," Khagra said in soft agreement. "Only evil compels hearts to feel what they do not. Your choice was the better one."

Ardashir shrugged. "It still stings," he said.

"Every wound has its balm," the orc said reassuringly as she packed her healer's kit away again. She brushed some of her dark, wiry hair away from her face. "You will find yours."

Holland lifted her head from her arms when she heard an approach. She didn't want to interrupt the moment of understanding Ardashir and Khagra were having, but it sounded like the Forge-Tender was finally ready to hear from them. "Incoming," the penitent said.

Immediately, the softness in her companions dove beneath the surface. Khagra picked up her spear and rose to her feet, Ardashir following suit with his mace in hand. It would be far more effective against dwarven armor than a sword. He had little hope of cutting or piercing the famous steel. Two armed dwarves approached along one of the precarious walkways. The hooded knight kicked Vladan lightly in the ribs. "Up, lump."

The anthroparion growled and snapped his teeth as he awoke. "Fight?" he said hopefully.

"Not yet, but perhaps," Khagra said. She glowered at the dwarves.

They seemed to sense that they were unwelcome and hesitated before speaking. "Lady Penitent, the Forge-Tender would speak with you and your companions," the lead one said. "If you would surrender your weap—"

"Which organ would you like them surrendered into?" the orc asked fiercely.

Vladan grinned. "I like the way you think, Khagra," the burly anthroparion said with a chuckle.

Holland held up her hands. "Relax," she said to her companions a bit forcefully before looking at the dwarves. "Did the Forge-Tender say we were to surrender our weapons?"

"No, but—"

The penitent let her hand rest on her sword. "Then we will be keeping them. Lead the way," she said. "We're all on the same side here."

The dwarves nodded reluctantly and led the small group along the winding way to the Heartforge. Holland smiled faintly when the awe broke across her companions' faces at the sight of it. At least they would be able to say they had seen someone no one but a dwarf had seen in generations, whatever happened next. There was the crippled, wild-haired figure of Rust at the anvil, a long bundle under one arm. The dwarf grinned at them, his blind eyes crinkling at the corners. "I have been communing with the Heartforge," he said. "We will help you, outlanders. The Imperium cannot be bargained with."

Holland felt an overwhelming surge of relief. "Thank you," she said, grateful that at least something might go their way. "But you expect something in return, yes?"

"Yes," the Forge-Tender said, hobbling forward. "The dwarves have been shut away from the surface world too long. You will help us rectify this. The Heartforge and I have a gift for you, Lady Penitent, as a sign that cannot be mistaken of our alliance. Once, in the days of the Revealing, there were those who carried the weapons of Tek against the Princes of Iron. So too, we hope, you will carry a weapon of the dwarves against them now." He unwrapped the bundle.

It was a sword, a straight cruciform blade that tapered from a long grip where she could easily wield it with one hand or two, much like her own, to a lethal point. The blade itself was hollow-ground, with a flattened diamond cross-section. It was more slender than her current weapon, but just as lethal. Holland reached out, carefully taking hold of the rayskin-wrapped grip, and lifted it. The damascus steel had been etched to reveal the countless lines of folded steel within it in beautiful, rippling patterns. It felt like it danced in her hands, light and elegant. She knew it would be wickedly fast just from the way it handled as she moved it. When she turned the blade in the light, she caught a glimpse of angular dwarven runes worked into the patterns of the steel. "What does it say?" Holland asked reverently.

"That is the name of the blade," Rust said, supporting himself with a hand on the anvil. "It is called Solace."

"This is a dwarven mastercraft," Holland said, lowering the blade and regaining her senses. It was a beautiful weapon, but it was not hers. "It should be carried by a dwarf."

"Perhaps," the Forge-Tender said. "But it was made for you." He dusted off his apron and gave them a crooked grin. "We will construct more golems, and then we will arm and armor your people, Lady Penitent. Let us hope that is enough to turn the tide against the demons. There are some in Dhir Daral and the other cities who will need much convincing, but the Heartforge has spoken and you can rest assured that the dwarves will answer its call. Where would you have me send our messengers?"

"To the Queen of Yssa in Tamaris," Holland said. "But they need to go carefully. There are two people to avoid: Immortalis Laenus Nasica and his companion, Naris Velane. Both serve the Princes of Iron."

"Very well," Rust said, bowing his head to them. "It will be done. I wish I could join you in battle, but if the Heartforge speaks truly, you are going where only one can follow, Lady Penitent. Go forth from Dhir Daral in peace. We have many preparations to make."

"This is madness!" Olon barked, emerging from the darkness. He was armed and armored this time, a fearsome figure in his dwarven plate. Holland could sense the wildness in his movements, however. Olon Drunaast was a dwarf with nothing left to lose, which made him very dangerous. "This war will destroy us all! I gave us a way out, but you would throw it away!"

"Olon, you are Forge-Tender no longer," one of the dwarven guards said warningly.

"Taafr Thir is a usurper in the service of the demons!"

"I say you are a liar," Khagra said, stepping forward. A sudden hush fell on the area. "I say he is the rightful Forge-Tender. And I will prove it with my steel."

Holland grabbed the orc by the upper-arm. "Are you sure you want to do this?" she asked her companion quietly.

"My quarrel with the dwarf is not settled yet," Khagra said grimly. "But this should lay it to rest."

"Your weapons will be insufficient to the task of his armor," Ardashir said seriously. He held out the dwarven spear the orc had claimed earlier to Khagra. It was a little short for her, but it would be able to pierce that steely exterior. "Use this."

Everyone looked over at Rust, who looked thoughtful for a long moment. "Very well," he finally said. "If you prove you are correct by strength of arms, Olon, I will heed you. This outlander will serve as my champion."

"Khagra, are you certain?" Vladan said as he unslung his great-maul. "Yes, he deserves to have his head unscrewed from his body, but it might tire your hands."

Khagra looked over at Holland without answering him and gave the penitent a tight nod.

"Very well," Holland said. She didn't like the idea, but she respected the warrior traditions of the east and north. A duel was a duel. It would be fought. "Ardashir, Vladan, and I will make certain no one interferes."

"Much gratitude," Khagra said as she squared off with Olon. His axe would be a serious threat. Her armor might as well have been nonexistent, which meant she was going to have to do her best to just not be hit. Fortunately, Khagra was much more dexterous than the average orc. She bent her knees, balancing her weight evenly between both feet. She would need to move if she was going to survive this.

Rust looked between the two figures as each one readied in their battle stances. Then he picked up the hammer and brought it down on the anvil. The ring resonated out through the area. "Begin!"