dwarves waited.
Abram and Whill stood side by side in mutual awe at the sight of the tens of thousands of dwarves within the cavern. Before Whill could comment on the sight, the drumming abruptly stopped, and all attention fell upon the western wall of the cavern, where Fior stood upon a ledge high enough so that all in attendance had a clear view of their high priest. He wore red flowing robes with gold trim, and in his left hand was a staff adorned with enough jewels to see ten men through fifty years of comfortable life. As the drumming echoed and was lost in the surrounding stone, and the murmurs died away, Fior spoke.
“Six thousand years ago, on the vast green surface world, a great dwarf by the name o’ Ky’Dren was born.”
He paused for effect as his deep melodic voice echoed throughout the cavern. Near him four dwarf children stood as still as stone, looking up wide-eyed at the storyteller. They had of course heard this tale a hundred times, but only rarely did they have the pleasure of hearing it from the mouth of the gifted Fior.
“Before the time o’ Ky’Dren, our people lived on the surface, on the neverending rolling fields o’ green we called home. We were aimless creatures, broken into many tribes; many o’ us fought amongst ourselves as with the humans. Always were we at war, ever threatened by the horrible dragons. But our gods sent us a prophet, a messiah-indeed, the greatest dwarf that ever lived!”
Fior paused as the crowd bellowed “Ky’Dren” in unison.
“The gods spoke to Ky’Dren, and bestowed upon him the ability to move stone with only a thought. ‘Go to the mountains,’ the gods told him, ‘for within them lies the most beautiful o’ our creations, buried by the jealous and evil gods. Defeat the dragons, find and free our riches, and forever shall ye live within the Mountain o’ the Gods.’”
He paused once again as a slow beat was taken up by the many drummers. “And so Ky’Dren and his many followers went to the great mountain range now named after him, and there Ky’Dren and his people carved out what would become the first halls of our ancient city.”
Fior went on for more than an hour, recounting the many battles those ancient dwarves had faced, and the grandest of all stories, how Ky’Dren had single-handedly killed five dragons-no small feat, even for a small army. Throughout the entire gathering Whill watched and listened keenly. All about him he saw a proud and noble people, listening intently to the stories of long-gone kings and heroes. History was the backbone of the dwarf culture, a great pride of the race that had come so far. Their faith was stronger than Whill had ever seen among any people he had ever met. The peace within the eyes of those he looked upon-those who dedicated their lives to the greater good, those with the knowledge that their actions would undoubtedly find them a place within the Mountain of the Gods-gave Whill a feeling of great longing for a faith so strong, so resolute.
Whill followed no deity, had no god, but he was a spiritual man. Abram those many years ago had not presented Whill with any one religion, but rather had shown him all religions and told him it was for him to decide which he believed. Whill came to see that all were relatively alike, promising salvation for blind faith and damnation to nonbelievers. He could not follow blindly; he was a student of the world, always striving to learn more, always quick to ask the many questions that, with religion, inevitably led to the same answer. With religion one had to believe something to be true without proof, something Whill could not do, though he sometimes wished that he could. He had therefore come to the conclusion that whichever god or gods were real, they would judge him by his deeds and not his blind faith; they would see him as a good man with good intentions. By following his heart and doing always what he saw to be right, Whill would find his salvation.
After the gathering had ended, and he and Abram had turned in for the night, Whill lay thinking of Tarren. The next day they would leave the mountains with Roakore, and learn the fate of Sherna. He lay awake for hours worrying for the young lad who had so quickly found a place in his heart. At last sleep found him, as did dreams of Tarren.
Roakore had learned from Fior that Whill wished to set out first thing in the morning. He said his farewells to his many wives and children, and checked over the contents of his large pack. Seeing that all his needed provisions were included, he gathered his many weapons. He brought his four hatchets and his great axe, and also a new weapon he had himself invented but not yet tried. He called it the stone bird. To anybody but one with the powers to move stone, it would have seemed cumbersome. The weapon consisted of two smooth round rocks, fifty pounds each and connected by two thick, steel chains, which in turn connected to a short metal handle. He gazed upon that handle with a smile. He had been working on this weapon for nearly a year and could not wait to put it to use on a Draggard skull. The handle was covered in runes, listing the names of the many dwarf gods, and the names of his father and fallen brothers. Set at the bottom of the shaft was a single diamond, circled by many smaller, dark red gems.
Roakore made his way to the main gate and was greeted by Fior and Whill and Abram, and a great many dwarves. After many farewells the three made their way down the long and winding tunnels that would take them to the surface.
“The king has granted usage o’ the railway,” Roakore said to Whill and Abram, who had inquired why they had veered from the tunnel by which they had previously entered the city.
Before them was a wide stairway, spiraling up so high that Whill could not see its end. “This stairway spirals up fer one thousand feet. It’s a hell o’ a hike.” Roakore laughed at the frowning humans. “Cheer up, lads! It’ll save us hours an’ get us out o’ the mountain within the hour.”
With that he began ascending the stairs two at a time. After less than an hour, and breathing heavily, the three companions finally came to the end of the giant stair, which ended in a small room. Before them was a large, heavily cushioned metal cart, similar to but larger than those used to haul coal and metals. It sat upon a thin metal track that Roakore referred to as the rail. The rail led to a large hole in the wall and beyond into darkness.
Whill eyed the contraption with worry. Without a word Roakore hopped over the side of the cart and sat down, bidding them to do the same. With a smile and pat on the back from Abram, Whill did the same.
“Trust me,” said Roakore. “These railways are sure an’ safe. We only have a few accidents a year.” He laughed again. “Whatever ye do, don’t put yer arms out, and hold on fer dear life.”
He pushed down on the single lever next to the cart, disengaging the blocking mechanism, and then disengaged the brake lever. They began to roll very slowly, literally at a crawl for many moments. Whill frowned at Abram, who only shrugged. “Roakore,” he said, “are you sure this will be fas-”
The words in his mouth were replaced by his stomach as the cart suddenly shot down at such an angle that it felt more like they were falling. Roakore hooted and laughed maniacally, as did Abram, but Whill could only scream and hold on as the cart descended at breakneck speed down, down, down the pitch-black tunnel. Finally the track leveled out almost flat, and they came to an area lit every fifty feet with torches. But because of their initial descent, which had hurtled them down the track, and because the track still ran down at a slight angle, the torches passed like fence posts to a sprinting horse.
Whill had found his voice now and hooted and hollered with the other two. The track led relatively straight, with only small turns in course. After less than half an hour they had traveled the many miles to the entrance cave, and now the track leveled out altogether. Far ahead Whill could see the end, and the stone wall beyond. He glanced nervously at Abram.
“Yer thinkin’ mayhap it’s time to slow down, eh?” Roakore said, and then pulled back hard on the brake. Sparks flew from under the cart, and the brakes gave an ear-splitting shriek in protest. They began to slow somewhat, to Whill’s relief, but then to his horror Roakore flew backwards, braking lever in hand. The brakes let up as they careened towards the end of the tunnel at the speed of a flying dragon.
“Not to worry!” Roakore said, somewhat unconvincingly. “There is a backup.”
Whill saw what the dwarf meant, and groaned as he braced himself. The track suddenly dipped low into a shallow pool of water less than fifty feet long. Great waves rose up more than twenty feet as the cart barreled into the water. Although it slowed the cart considerably, it did not stop it completely, and all three screamed as the cart slammed into the barrier wall at the end of the track. End over end they flew through the air, slamming hard into the wall thirty feet away.
They three lay at the base of the wall for a long moment, Whill and Abram groaning. Whill fought his dizziness and stood over the dwarf, who was rolling around in a fit of laughter.
“I take back what I said before, Roakore,” Whill said. “You
All three burst into hysterical laughter
