“-. Falstad Wildhammer .-“

  It was the year 220 after the War of the Three Hammers, which meant the Wildhammer Clan would be holding their decennial carousal down in the Khaz Modan Highlands. There, on the day of the Summer Solstice, they’d hold a memorial for their dead heroes on Thunderstrike Mountain, then cap off the rest of the month with a keg party in Kirthaven at the mountain’s foot.

  It was also the third moon of the year, which meant that the troll raids were in full swing. March was the start of spring, but while this meant that you didn’t freeze your balls off as easy as before, it also meant you still had months before you were able to produce more food the proper way. Since the one exception to this was livestock, those were naturally the things the trolls went after the most. And wild game, but they hated the dwarves too much to settle for that.

  In short, Falstad Wildhammer already had enough to worry about without the news of a human war band coming from the north.

  “What do we know?”

  Snoring was his reply.

  Falstad clenched his fists around his gryphon’s reins. “Hestra, hop an’ land again, make it loud this time.”

  His gryphon obeyed and even screeched for good measure. It didn’t do jack shite. Under the judgmental stare of the other gryphon lounging nearby, the dwarf ‘scout’ just snorted and turned over in his sleep.

  Spirits, why do ye do this to me? Falstad took a slow calming breath, dismounted, ambled over without even trying to be quiet, crouched down, and lowered his mouth right next to the other dwarf’s ear. “SCHINDIGGER!”

  “Wuzzat?

  He didnae even jump, pure unbelievable!

  “Oh! Right! ‘M ‘wake – ‘m awake!”

  This is our finest gryphon rider. “Report a’fore I clout ye one!”

  Rhapsody Schindigger staggered unsteadily to his feet. “Nothin’ to it, sir, they’s just been sittin’ an’ eatin'!”

  Falstad’s hands twitched for his stormhammer. "There’s nobody down there now, ye fool! They’ve been gone fer ages, had to fly near ten more minutes to get here after I passed ‘em!”

  The fool peered down over the ledge, because he apparently hadn’t insulted Falstad enough and just had to add liar accusations on top, by the makers!

  “If ye’re done?”

  “Hmm? Oh!” The dunce finally turned to salute. “Sir aye sir, sir!”

  That’s the strongest booze breath I’ve felt all week!

  It was honestly impressive, but that just made it even more infuriating that the numpty didn’t have the courtesy to get sloshed in his off-hours like the rest of ‘em. At least Falstad would be able to participate in that competition, if he finally found the time again, instead of being stuck corralling fools like this! “Right. Now give it another go, proper ken this time, eh?”

  “What? Oh! Reporting! Aye sir, as you say sir, sorry sir! Nothin’ tae report, sir! Reckon ah must've nodded off, won’t happen again, nae chance!”

  “Ye’re right about that,” Falstad seethed. “Get yerself back to Aerie Peak an’ report to Gryphon Master Stoutarm that ye’re on dung shovelin’ duty fer the rest of the month!”

  “What?! But sir –!”

  Falstad clouted him to shut him up, shook his head with grit teeth, hopped back onto Hestra’s saddle and took off before the fool could open his mouth again.

  When he caught up with the human interlopers, the distraction from what he’d just endured was damn near a blessing.

  Hundred ‘n four, Falstad counted from on high, not trying all that hard to go unseen. Old man, young lad, one of ‘em slavish servant types humans like to keep – ugh – all at the beck and call of a right huge pretty boy with a beard – ack, that’ll never stop botherin’ ‘im now, he just knew it!

  Horses enough for all, but the old man wasn’t riding, he was driving one of the wagons. Of which there were five, a number which could be small or big depending on what sort the rest of the men were. They were precisely one full hundred. Each of them with their own horse too, not counting the handful of spares pulling the other carts.

  Falstad followed them along the peaks up until noon, blending his mind with Hestra’s to borrow her sight and her hearing whenever needed. Everything he heard and saw just reinforced his initial thoughts.

  These folk ain’t here to sell no wine.

  Wine was Lordaeron’s best export, but this was nae trade caravan. Least not just a trade caravan. These men weren’t normal caravan guards neither, they were all kitted with plate and polearm, all on top of shield and sword. Sturdy oilskin cloaks, daggers, crossbows, white tabards bearing the crest of some clenched gauntlet done in gold or silver, some had pollaxes, others hammers so big they could play bounceball with any unfortunate dwarf that got anywhere close…

  They carried themselves all proper too, these weren’t no dandies on their first ride in field kit. Not caravan guards and not bandits either, these were hardboiled knights.

  A diplomatic mission then?

  But the Clan had an understanding with the humans, one set down in stone and scroll on the same day that the Empire of Arathor let them settle the region. It had been held to even after the empire ended, by both Lordaeron to the north and Strom to the west. There was a neutral zone along the border, and any human party was to stop right inside and put up a peace flag to call one of their gryphon riders down. Send word ahead, as it were.

  You only didn’t do that when it was something right urgent, but these folk didn’t act like it. They traveled heavy, with purpose but not hurried, definitely not fleeing. Soldiers like these, they could lay camp at a moment’s notice and break it just as fast. On a campaign Falstad would expect them to stop only after dark and move on with the first rays of dawn… but instead they’d loitered so long under Schindigger’s nose that he passed out from boredom! And the booze, granted, but still.

  The band stopped at noon for supper too, which they definitely wouldn’t have done if they were in a rush. Good eatin’ too, they had dried rations but weren’t shy of hunting, and in a neutral zone it wasn’t even poaching. They also found water and foraged for seasonings like people who’d done this all their lives, even though it was still winter. Spruce needles, juniper berries, birch bark, wild rose hips, they even tapped birch trees for sap. Their woodcraft was decent, as these things went. Even the shaman might not have anything to grumble about.

  And he didn’t. Falstad, as usual, proved right correct when he finally met back with the greybeard in question, who’d been using the highest peak other than Aerie Peak itself to spy on the humans from further south using the farsight of the spirits.

  “What d’ ye have fer me, Elder?”

  “Can’t tell if the big lad is older or younger than he looks.” Coming from Gavan Grayfeather, that was quite the admission. “But he’s definitely in charge of the lot.”

  That fit Falstad’s own reckoning mostly, but not all. “What about the old man? Pretty boy seems to defer to ‘im.”

  Grayfeather looked at him sharply. “A light insult is still an insult, an’ easily turns heavy when aimed wrong. I understand ye’re forced to deal with many beardlings, Wing Commander, but I strongly advise against judgin’ humans the same way. They may not live as long as us, but they mature just as fast and their elders don’t coddle them half as long.”

  Flastad scrunched his nose. “As ye say, Elder.”

  “It needn’t be as I say, ye’ve ears and eyes, don’t ye? I’m sure ye’ve seen the same things I have.”

  “Fer barely two hours.”

  “Well, I’ve had two days and I tell ye it’s only been more o’ the same.”

  Falstad stood on the ledge, watching alongside the elder as the band approached at a steady trot. The humans were getting damn close to their actual border now. What they did at that point would determine if the Wildhammers went down to meet them as a host or a war host.

  For better or worse, they stopped short of the unmarked boundary, even though the border outpost itself was built two hundred meters further down. It was a walled compound that completely blocked the pass, with a thick iron portcullis and right in middle of a death zone where literally every rock, nook and cranny concealed a trap door or machicolation. The Wildhammers may prefer their gryphons and stormhammers, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have land forces. If anything, the ground pounders always felt like they had something to prove, which was why they dug entire defense complexes wherever they could. The above-ground bunkers were just there to make a statement, which came in handy in times like these.

  ‘Course that’s no guarantee either, we did tell the human bigshots we had killing fields the last time we matched maps, but that doesn’t mean one of e’m couldn’t just suss it out. It was a stretch, but since nothing was impossible Falstad had to at least entertain the chance. This lot certainly looked down more often than they looked up.

  Their overlook was wooded, and hidden by the natural rockface too, so the two dwarves had pretty good camouflage to watch. As the humans spread out and made camp, Falstad took his time studying them, though he wasn’t able to listen in this time, even with Hestra’s ears.

  ~ ~

  Falstad looked at the shaman incredulously, they were trying to be stealthy-

  ~ Lokkar til meg ~ Kvite ramnen ~ Duld og dvelande~

  - but he was singing all of a sudden, low and steady like the ice of Khaz Moden in high winter, what words even were these – wait, what’s that-?

  ~ H?yr eg sp?r! ~ Lend meg ei fj?r ~ S? skal eg verkje ~ vingar kvite ~

  A white raven flew up from below – the familiar! Grayfeather’s familiar, he’d been using it to spy, but – it was singing too?!

  ~ Lat oss flyga ~ I vide vindar ~ I hugjen veida ~ Med songen seida ~

  The song, it came from below too!

  ~ H?yr eg sp?r! ~ Lend meg vidsyn ~ Lat meg skilje ~ Sj? i skodda ~

  The humans were singing it, the knights! “Elder!” Falstad rushed to shake the older dwarf by the shoulders, but he was in some trance. The song chose that moment to change too, turning into some sort of great, wordless cry that rang below from dozens of human throats – and the raven screamed it too, and the shaman! If not for the elevation and the healthy wind the humans would get wise to them for sure, but did they even need it? They were clearly behind this! “Elder, snap out of it!”

  Grayfeather didn’t, just kept singing.

  “Shite!” It was like the greybeard was totally blootered all of a sudden, and on mushrooms instead of booze, what now? Should he slap him? Strike him? Should Falstad kill the raven before he fell to the enchantment too? The song sounded mighty fine even though he didn’t understand a thing, curse it-!

  ~ Vil du meg fylgja ~ i all mi tid? ~ Vil du meg varda ~ i all mi tid? ~

  Just as he was about to smite the raven dead, the rumbling chant changed to the voice of a woman, and Falstad was struck motionless by the sudden vision of a great, shining dame with angel wings singing alongside the spirits themselves in the realm unseen.

  ~ Gygrefuggel ~ Gav meg vingar ~ Kvite korpa ~ Gav meg sjon ~ Galdrekr?ka ~ Gav meg songen ~ Kvite vingar ~ Fylgjer meg ~

  Falstad felt it when the song ended, in his soul and flesh both – if it was a spell, what would it do? What had it done? He couldn’t let it-!

  “Scunnering planks!” Grayfeather erupted in an outburst, suddenly lucid again.

  “Thank the makers!” Falstad hissed as lowly as he could, abruptly free of the – spellbind, he didn’t feel nothing like that but it had to be a spellbind, it had to be… the song had finished, after – what? Six, seven minutes? They weren’t the longest seven minutes of Falstad’s life, but they were up there! He dropped to a knee before the older dwarf. “Elder, what happened?”

  “Turnabout. I think.” The old dwarf almost didn’t lift his arm the right way to catch his white raven, also normal again. “Spyin’ and snoopin’ repaid with… forced rule of shared customs. I think, Wing Commander, that we just experienced a very gentle message to and through the spirits to kindly sod off.”

  “Say what?” Flastad blinked. “How? By what? Who?” That ghostly woman? That glow – not witchery? – gold – isn’t that how humans describe their Light? But seizing minds! How insidious compared to what they claim of their holy miracle-~

  “Other spirits it felt like,” Grayfeather upended Falstad’s inner rant. “But it were right odd, like – like loudmouths broken off the whole with more power than sense, letting the proper spirits feel more than they – than I was prepared for. The song was just… the way back out. What do them manlings feed their spirits over there?”

  “Feed?” Falstad was stumped. “Ye mean spirits? Other spirits? Fragments?” Didn’t the pieces go mad, if they broke loose? Turned into crazy elementals? “I thought the humans had no shamans?”

  “Well clearly that’s old information, isn’t it now?”

  The same couldn’t be said about Falstad’s vision of the, what? Angel woman? Which Grayfeather was very interested in hearing described in thorough detail when he learned of it.

  Falstad was ready to call either attack or retreat just for having to endure that, but… it didn’t seem as if the humans were on to them? Or they were pretending ignorance really well? Was it a courtesy, or another insult? Bah! A pox on all the elder races and their confounding ways, bah! Bah, he said!

  Falstad decided to call their bluff, if it was a bluff, and continued with his surveillance.

  He and Grayfeather were limited now, to what they could see or pick up on the wind, but Falstad still got a fair bit from just seeing the party at rest, especially with Hestra’s help. Pretty boy was clearly in charge of things, even though he was younger than everyone except his young squire. His manservant was disturbingly meek, lot meeker than even the young squire lad. Falstad had seen this with highborn humans before, and even some of the traders they got, but it didn’t stop there. The knights also deferred to him, and they weren’t just humoring some highborn brat, they were completely genuine about it. Even seemed to be learning something from him.

  At the same time, the old whitebeard seemed to be the exception, but also kind of wasn’t? He didn’t seem to have any authority, or didn’t go out of his way to exert any, but he also tended to get lost in his own head a lot. He was… sad? No, it was more than that. There was something deeply bothering the whitebeard, though he pushed it aside with elderly grumbling and obviously fake bluster whenever he caught himself. Which he didn’t always seem to manage without help.

  Hestra thought it was that thing that she saw in gryphons who lost their riders, and Falstad had to agree. He’d seen the same in old longbeards that had to bury a young wing mate, or a relative. Old man was wallowing, and not the right way.

  Pretty boy must’ve agreed, because he seemed to have made it his mission to always draw the old man out of those moods. Lad was very considerate of him actually, all the time. Must be right exhausting, but also the proper thing to do. An old relative? They didn’t look anything alike, and the old man was small in comparison…

  The knights didn’t act near as familiar with the whitebeard, but that didn’t seem to be a slight either. If anything, they held him in some distant awe.

  Reverence for one and loyalty to the other, Falstad felt like that wasn’t the best combination. He hadn’t been born yet back then, but the War of The Three Hammers happened exactly because people’s mutual respect didn’t measure up to their loyalty, after the singular subject of that loyalty went and died. Positions here seemed to be reversed, or maybe he was misreading things and they weren’t but-

  Why am I thinking about that war? That there’s not a good omen!

  Omen went and turned even badder when noise interrupted them that wasn’t coming from down below.

  Instead, a beardling huffed and puffed his way up the rock face behind them, never mind that this lookout was supposed to be the perfect spot because you couldn’t get it the landbound way. Lad only had a couple of light picks too, and no spikes on his boot toes. This was a right masterful climber, Falstad admitted grudgingly, though the idea that trolls or whatever else might be capable of the same wasn’t a pleasant reality check.

  “What do ye want, laddy? Can't ye see we’ve got problems to take care of here? Who has time to stand around yapping with some little straggler? Bad enough there’s trolls coming outta the woodwork, now it’s humans too! Make it snappy.”

  “Need – ter – warn!” The dwarf barely had breath to speak, flopping down on his face when he was finally back on level ground. “Div’nation – not workin’ right!”

  Eh?

  After waiting for the lad to catch his breath, Falstad really started seeing omens everywhere.

  “Yer master can’t scry anythin’ about these humans?” the shaman finally asked the lad – one Thadius Grimshade – after he finally explained why he was there. “Sounds like they’ve had even less luck than me.”

  “Not so, elder,” the lad rasped, completely oblivious to the gravel stuck in his rumpled beard. “We don’t even get starts or fits, that says loads. Means someone down there’s real important.”

  Grayfeather seemed to get it. “Because they’re either protected, or they aren’t.”

  Falstad didn’t get it. “An explanation would be nice.”

  “If they’re protected from divination, that means they have some rare and powerful magic. If they’re not, that means they must’ve done things that’ve already had extremely wide impacts that haven’t settled. Considering the massive uproar the elements had not so long ago…”

  “Well ain’t that a riot,” Falstad grunted, turning to the newcomer. “Well lad, which is it?”

  “Dunno sir, either? If they’re a big shot it won’ just be them that’s hard to divine, it should be harder to divine everythin’. Might be that’s true, Explorer Talonaxe’s been seeing me teacher lots more than usual, and the League’s expedition into the Badlands was delayed every time. But I don’t know anything about all that, sirs, I’m just an apprentice.”

  “So ye're a glorified errand boy fer some old Explorers' League geezers, eh? Well congratulations, ye get to do more of the same fer me! Since ye’re so spry, why don’t ye go to them elves in their lodge over yonder and ask them if they’ve got the same problems? Shouldn’t be more than a few days’ hike, I used to do the same just fer fun back in my day, but don’t ye dare come back before ye’ve got an answer! Don’t care how long it takes, if those old grumblers complain tell ‘em to take it up with me. Now get a move on, and use this rope and harness to get down properly instead of those picks, where did ye even get them that they blunt so easy? If I catch ye climbing ravines without proper gear again I'm gonna put ye to some real work.”

  The high elves were the only other elder race that the Wildhammers trusted any, though they hadn’t bled on the same ground either. Like the humans, they were perfectly content letting the dwarves do the bleeding as the buffer nation between them and the trolls. Falstad couldn’t even grumble that much about it, both the elves and the men had told them upfront what they were getting into, when the Wildhammers came all the way north instead of staying in the Highlands with the rest of their kind.

  “Poor lad,” the shaman muttered after the beardling had rappelled down enough that he wouldn’t hear. “You didnae need be so harsh.”

  “Pfeh! Jalinde Summerdrake’s a bleedin’ heart an’ then some, an earnest lad like that? She’ll have ‘im with his feet up an’ eatin’ cakes within ten minutes o’ showin’ up, and she’ll keep at it however long it takes ‘em to do tarot tests or whatnot. I give it at least a couple o’ days, probably more. Elvish instincts, doncha know – they live so long that everyone else vanishes in the blink of an eye. Some stay aloof so they don’ have to deal with it, but the others?”

  “They dote,” Grayfeather realized. “You set him up for a vacation?

  “The League’s got plenty gryphons on call and they’re all expertly trained, but they made that lad climb up here? I wouldn’t risk this deathtrap. Someone has it out for that boy. I don’t have time to look into it right now, but I will in a few days.”

  “… You’ll make a fine High Thane one day.”

  “Bite yer tongue, me cousin’s perfectly fine and still plenty young too.”

  “Of course,” thankfully, Gavan Grayfeather wasn’t just humoring him. “I assume you gave the lad your worst attitude so he wouldn’t presume to come to you for rescue again?”

  “A Wildhammer has to learn to take care of himself, he’ll be fine without handouts.” Falstad grunted before mounting Hestra. “Ye stayin’ or comin’?”

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  Grayfeather looked down, coincidentally right as the big lad in charge happened to look in their direction from all the way down there. The greenery should still hide them, but neither of them were fine assuming it no more. “Probably best I not linger here on my own,” the elder decided. “Just in case that’s not a coincidence.”

  Coincidence, right.

  The humans had finally put up the right flag, but Falstad only flew a wide, visible circle in the air above their camp before turning away and flying back to the Aviary, signaling all but one of the standby scout wings to follow him back home. He resisted the urge to do a final pass just to see the looks on their faces after the sudden flyover of a dozen gryphon riders. While it was nice that the manlings were finally acting proper, they also deserved to stew a little for the hassle they put him through.

  Also, they’d stopped just short of getting on the bad side of the Wildhammer Redoubt, so Falstad couldn’t treat them as trespassers. He’d need to go through the fuss of assembling a diplomatic hodgepodge instead, now, ugh.

  The grass of the Hinterlands was already peeking out through the snow, vibrant and green even at that height in the Aeries mountains. Aerie Peak spanned almost the entire length of the chain. It was a majestic, sprawling city of wide paths and airy buildings with plenty of space between each other, helped along by the natural environment with many drops and rises, through which they’d carved extensive tunnel networks as was proper. For the Wildhammers, who valued their independence and personal space above everything else save maybe the gryphons in some cases, it was almost a dream given life. It was ironic that they’d only built it because they were kicked out of their prior homes (twice).

  It was doubly ironic that the place was on the very edge of the territory they ostensibly controlled, right at the crossroads of the only two entryways to the Hinterlands, from the North and West.

  “A third possibility strikes me,” shaman Grayfeather told him as they dismounted at the aviary.

  “What’s that?”

  “Divination might not be a lost cause because of what those humans did, but what others are doing in response. If we’re not the only ones trying to divine the actions of these people, we’re each the others’ interference. If that’s the case, I have a feeling those men themselves know it too.”

  Of course they did.

  Falstad bid goodbye to the shaman and spent a little while playing with Hestra’s baby, Swiftwing. It was a sad thing, but gryphons didn’t live near as long as dwarves, so a good rider had to make sure not to ignore the hatchlings. Since Hestra was starting to show her years and her mate was dead, this one little tyke was her last clutch. Probably Falstad’s next mount too, if nothing took Hestra before her time. She should live long enough to see him grown, at least.

  It was exhausting keeping up with such a lively creature, it didn’t used to be but these days it was. But Falstad Wildhammer always did his duty.

  It was a bit of a walk to Wildhammer Keep from there, but the aviary was located in the very center of Aerie Peak for a reason. Falstad stopped at the graveyard to hang a new feather from the tree grown atop his family grave, but didn’t linger. None of his immediate kin had died recently, thankfully.

  After that, it was straight in to meet the dwarf in charge.

  There, because Falstad’s job apparently wasn’t stressful enough already, High Thane Kurdran Wildhammer decided his cousin would be the perfect face for the meet-and-greet.

  “I felt the uproar of the elements same as you, cousin. Of course the humans will also be in a tizzy no matter how spirit blind they are, whatever it was happened in their lands. I’m just surprised the mess is spilling over from the north instead of west. If old Grayfeather say they’ve got strange secrecy magic too, we need to get to the bottom of this.”

  Falstad’s belief was once again vindicated, that the High Thane position existed just so the one stuck with it could take it out on the rest of ‘em for forcing his arse into that chair. Which was fair enough, but what did Kurdran expect? Spend his life with his bum out the window while someone else did the paperwork? As if!

  Sometime later, Falstad was debating whether to put on his good clothes or just go as normal. Gryphons could carry a lot, but maneuvering in the air was a different matter, never mind fighting. Also, he’d long since developed resistance to all but the most infernal chill thanks to his woad tattoos. A Wildhammer gryphon rider wasn’t considered veteran until he could go about his duties in the skud. Few ever went that far, you had to keep some modesty reserved just for the missus at home, but still.

  With the leather-and-brass arm rings he wore on his upper arms, which teleported his stormhammer back into his hand after he tossed it at some beastie’s head, Falstad didn’t need anything else…

  But there was still more snow than not, outside, and at that height it would stay white for another couple of weeks before the springmelt set in. Then, too, the passes only got a direct view of the sun around noon, so they were particularly packed with white still. Also, when the spirits themselves got told off for spying and complied, you had to give some credit to those claims that your incoming guests were important.

  Time to chew the ice, I suppose.

  Falstad settled on a crocolisk leather tunic with straps and buckles of cobalt-alloyed nickel, turtle shell shoulder pauldrons bound with the same, his most comfortable boots – made of chimera leather – and his regular leggings which were made of wildvine-soaked grizzly boar hide with primal reinforcements. He had a fancy helmet, but he didn’t want the hassle of wrestling his hair through it, and he’d sweat like hells if he did – that was why he wore most of his hair shaved except for the ponytail at the back.

  Thankfully, that was the most difficult part over with, since Kurdran had decided to assemble the diplomatic team himself. Technically, even alone Falstad was enough to fulfil diplomatic obligations, being Kurdran’s heir presumptive and also one of the initial contenders for his seat, unfortunately. Falstad still didn’t know who’d put his name forward back then, but when he found out there would be hell to pay.

  When he returned to the aviary, Gavan Grayfeather turned out to have talked himself into the group, which Falstad had expected. He himself was no shaman or wise dwarf, which this whole thing seemed like as not to need.

  What he did not expect was to see Elder Mastran there too. That dwarf was a living cultural treasure, one of only two dwarves in the entire Wildhammer kindred old enough to have been alive for the War of the Three Hammers. Most elders didn’t reach 250 years, but he was pushing 280 – he hadn’t just been alive for that war, he’d fought in it from start to finish. And that wasn’t even when he lost his eye, that came a lot later, practically his retirement story.

  Could still walk fine too, more or less. And boy, could that dwarf talk, not a day went by without him telling stories to the little ones around the Great Hearth. Falstad had been one of them himself, in his time.

  The day Mastran passed and they had to choose someone else to play Greatfather Winter during Winterveil would be a right sad day indeed.

  Hopefully it wouldn’t be today that they found out the hard way that he wasn’t fit to fly no more.

  “Go easy on me, won’t you lad?” The whitebeard said with a crooked smile. “I can practically hear you trash-talking me in your head.”

  “Not at all, Elder,” Falstad said with the straight face that all beardlings perfected before their twentieth year as a matter of self-preservation against promised mortification. “Just wonderin’ if we were waitin’ on anyone else.”

  “Nay, you will have to settle for us two I’m afraid.”

  “Right then. Let’s be off.”

  Thankfully, Mastran proved stable enough in the saddle so Falstad wasn’t doomed to become the dwarf most hated by the next generation on their return.

  Since the First Wing was for protecting the High Thane and his keep, Falstad took the Second Wing with him. Those six landed first, forming a semicircle right inside the kill zone. Falstad, Gavan and Mastran landed inside their perimeter right after that. They didn’t dismount.

  A respectable distance away from the invisible border line, the big lad in charge got up from an armchair of all things. Then, accompanied by his manservant and squire and six of his own knights all on horses, he came over on foot and sweet buggering fuck he was big. Even up there on Hestra’s saddle, Falstad had to look up at him and he wasn’t even in the best hammerthrow distance yet, gods damn.

  Falstad didn’t have the consolation of build this time either, braw was as wide as them dwarves at the shoulders, and waist too, had muscle on him for days even, this was ridiculous! He’d heard the trader talk about them supposed sea-faring giants, but he thought they were a tall tale!

  Bloody elder races, we already know we’re small and stunted, no need to rub it in!

  Maybe Falstad should be all gung-ho about the whole Explorer’s League thing. Then maybe he’d be there when they found their makers and asked them what the hell they were thinking making them so damn small! No, the fact that gnomes and gobbos existed didn’t make it any better!

  “Halt, humans!” barked Falstad when he was sure his hammer throw wouldn’t miss. “You encroach upon the lands of the Wildhammer Dwarves! State your business!”

  The big lad in charge obligingly stopped, made to speak, paused, then changed his mind with a twist of his lips that was damn right rascally. “Commander, introduce me.”

  “Dwarves of the Wildhammer kindred! You stand before his saintship, Ferdinand Wayland Hywel Rogasian, the bright and the holy, the brave and the merciful, maker and unmaker, redeemer and punisher, bane of tyrants, protector of the just, speaker to gods! Avenger of Tyr, friend to Odyn, herald of change who wields the Spark of Destruction by right of lore! Witness the slayer of thraxxi and black drakks, who descended into the last place the Ancient Watchers walked in step and put an end to Zakajz the Corruptor with the Sword of Kings! Be thou daunted, for you stand before the sworn foe of the Black Empire of Ny'alotha, whose foul masters wreaked the vile predations that laid low your fatherland! And lo, be thou blessed evermore, for you are in the presence of the Prophet of the Flame Imperishable, from whence springs eternal into the universe the Holy Light of Creation!”

  And in the pass of Aerie-Darrowmere, enfolding at once the most civilized of men and wildest of dwarves, there was total stunned silence.

  …

  Holy moly!

  A cult!

  We gotta fly back, we need more hammers-!

  “Did ye aye, now?” Elder Mastran said with all the composure that Falstad found himself having lost. “Those’re some right tall boasts, laddie, how many can ye actually prove?”

  “I can heal your eye,” the big lad – Ferdinand? Ferdinand claimed as if it was just some paltry no nothing, who was this galoot-?! “Anything else would be rather damaging.”

  “To who?!” Falstad barked, before clearing his throat in the face of the confused glances he got for his outburst over – to be stunned stupid by soddin’ words like in fairy tales, what the bloody sod was that speech?! “Dangerous to who, ye or us?”

  “The region.”

  Well boggin.

  “And what would that there involve, ‘xactly?” Mastran asked as if the promise of a literal miracle next to the threat of the end times didn’t faze him none. “Not scoops and knives, I hope?”

  “My hand on your face for a couple of seconds.”

  He’s off 'is head, if the humans’ Light could do that we’d know by now, and so quick, it couldnae be true!

  “That’s a wee much to ask between strangers,” Mastran said diplomatically, because everyone else on their side seemed too off their faces to join in. Fine for the other gryphon riders, they were just there to look dangerous, but what the heck was Grayfeather gawping at? “Don’t know what it’s like with ye humans, but we prefer a wee adjustment period, as it were. We don’t let just anyone into our personal space, saint or not.”

  “Understandable.” Ferdinand held out a palm, on which his manservant promptly placed a silver tray he’d drawn from – somewhere, and a bunch of goblets around a bottle of- “Shall we partake in guest rite, then? Neither of us holds claim on this ground, but it should be fine if we both offer, no? I’m told Lordaeron wine is pretty good.”

  He’s told-?

  “Aged one hundred and two years, sir,” the Knight-Commander reported dutifully as if that wasn’t a claim fit to knock a dwarf off his rocker- “We never export anything older than twenty, though the king and queen sometimes send bottles as gifts.”

  He’s right, Falstad thought testily. The only aged bottle we ever got was a gift at Kurdran’s inauguration and the stingy cunt only let me have a sip, they know exactly how to yank a dwarf’s beard, these – these bawbags!

  Falstad abruptly realized everyone on his side was waiting on him. “Grayfeather!”

  At his shout, the shaman snapped out of whatever it was.

  “Ye fine, or do we need to go back?”

  “What? Oh! No, no, don’t mind me, I was just distracted for a little spell there.”

  That made Ferdinand smile for some reason and he did a wave-

  Vapour and steam whirled into view around his hand, hot and blurry and with two laughing eyes Falstad felt on his very soul when they passed over him – a spirit! – before the apparition dispersed with the most delicious smell of mama’s soup.

  The hells?

  “Roilbroth accepts your challenge,” the big lad told Grayfeather as if – what challenge? When did they have an entire second conversation? “Unless you’d like to back out? He can be spiteful.”

  “Such are spirits,” old Gavan said with that put-upon shamanic serenity that everyone who ever attended the solstice bash knew was completely fake. “It guarantees nothing.”

  “Of course you’d say that, the contest is rigged your way because you’re the only arbiter of your personal taste.”

  “Well I never, to see the day Gavan Grayfeather gets called a liar! Rest assured that if he does treat me to the best food I ever tasted, I will readily say so.”

  Oh, is that what we’re talking about now?

  “That’s a bit much to take on faith between strangers,” the lad said, turning Mastran’s earlier words back on them, no lavvy heid this one, more’s the pity. “Well, that settles it! We’ll have a party, right here, right now!”

  “Eh!?” Falstad balked. “How the heck didja get from one to the other?’

  “Well I’d think it’s rather obvious,” the lad said while opening the wine bottle and pouring some over a bowl of bread cubes, what was he thinking doing that with such a venerable beverage, such a waste! “We need to build up to it, therefore, a party.”

  Falstad wondered when he’d missed yet another part of the conversation. “Build up to what?” No wait, they’d been talking about trust-

  “An offer you won’t want to refuse.” The big lad picked up the bowl of winebread and came forward with the offering, stopping with the tip of his foot just outside the invisible border exactly. “And the healing of course, I can’t in good conscience pass through here and not do something about the elder’s eye – and your stress too of course, mister…?”

  Falstad, belatedly, realized that none of ‘em had ever given their names even though the humans had. Well, this one had. “These are elder Mastran Thundermantle and shaman Gavan Greyfeather, and I’m Falstad Wildhammer, commander of the Second Wing.” It was the lesser of his titles, but it was safest that way. “Ye can heal stress?”

  “Your hormones are practically screaming their triumph into the void, it’s a nasty sight.”

  Did this numpty bawbag just call him a–

  A whore! That moans! He’ll kill’im!

  “Derived from the alteraci word ‘hormon’,” bawbag said with unrestrained fun at Falstad’s expense. “It means to set in motion.”

  That oversized whelp! Moppet! Jackanape! Bastard was poking fun of him on purpose and wasn’t even pretending not to feel all gloating about getting one over him, the swash!

  Falstad Wildhammer sneered, then nudged Hestra forward, ripped a piece out of that moist bread and crushed it in his teeth while trying not to weep over his first taste of this great beverage being spoiled by grain, why were humans like this?

  Bummer, shoulda made him have some first, what if it’s poisoned?

  Oh... Feh!

  No one was gonna claim Falstad Wildhammer was the only whopper around!

  “And then ‘e says – see, there’s a human who walks into a tavern, an’ there’s an elf there – an’ – an’ she – snrk – she says – eheh – ahahahahahahahahaha!” Falstad slapped his knee laughing so hard he cried, that joke got better every time he thought about it!

  Och, to think he’d been so worried over nothing! These manlings were great! Sure, they were clearly lying about everything, that speech had been way too rehearsed, and their names! All of ‘em that he drank with used fake ones, and they didn’t feel shame none over it! Magroth the Defender, Sage Truthbearer, Headsman Forlorn, Dagren Shadeslayer, Agamand the True, all of the rest with something just as put upon! Nobody gave sprogs such ridiculous names as these! All of ‘em had a Sir in front of their names too, but not a one he asked said they’d gotten the title from someone not part of their – whatever it was! Gallow birds all of ‘em, or soon to be gallow birds, or a cult, or – or something!

  But they knew how to have fun, and most importantly they knew how dwarves had fun!

  “An’ then the look on ‘is face!” Falstad was still roaring with laughter even hours later. “Bastard got me demoted and thought I’d be all broken up, tried to make it worse with bad jokes when I wasn’t! I was dancing jigs in my head!” Hilarious, if only it had lasted! “An’ then he didn’t last a moonturn in my place ‘afore I had to step back up, the useless numpty! Thank the Makers for building that fool, what a blessing for the dwarfish race – NOT! And the team he brought with ‘im, where did he find ‘em all?! Ye know how much harder it is for a whole bunch to be that unfailing bad than for ‘em to occasionally be good just by accident? Even the math didn’t add up! He single-handedly lowered my standards and my expectations, a bloody factory of sadness the whole lot of ‘em!”

  “Ah yes, the Peter principle,” Pretty Boy nodded understandingly as he filled Falstad’s mug again, something ambery this time. “Good to see you lot don’t have to learn that lesson the hard way.”

  “How ya figure?” Quaff quaff quaff, och this beer, not as fine as the wine but Makers-!

  “Someone does well in their job, so they get promoted. They do well in that job, so they get promoted. They don't do well in that job, so they stay there and do badly forever. Being a good fighter or a good builder doesn't mean someone knows how to lead an army. Being able to do the job and bothering to do the job are very different things too. We humans call it ‘promotion to your level of incompetence.’”

  “Hahaha, tha’ss ezzactly right!” Falstad slammed the mug back down on the table and gave a hearty belch, mm-mm, what else they got? Ohhhh, firewater come to papa, from plums! “Take it from me, lad: ye want a good leader, forget the fussy types! Ye want ‘em blunt, ye want ‘em mad as a hatter, and they gots to know what the hell they’re doing which means they gots to put in the work!”

  “Or the smart and lazy, right? Because they’ll come up with ways to make everything more efficient.”

  “Sod that coddly nonsense, when ye’re in charge ye put up or shut up and get the fuck outta the way!”

  “Like you?”

  “Damn right!”

  “I see now, I was worried for nothing.”

  “Eh?”

  “Well, maybe not nothing, just not the right thing I should’ve been worried about-“

  “Not yer riddles again, speak plain or get!”

  “My mistake, I’ll gladly talk all about your ‘whore moans’ again if that’s what you want.”

  “Hear that?!” Falstad hollered for all the dwarves and humans to hear, and the horses and gryphons too because why the hell not?! “He’s one of ‘em ‘don’t promote me too much’ types, he just admitted it!”

  “Well then, I suppose it’s just as well I got here when I did,” pretty boy shook his head and tugged on that pansy arse beard of his as if it was worth the – wait!

  Hold the horn! “Wassat s’pposed to mean?”

  “Normality,” the big lad said slowly. “Or do you expect me to believe you’re drunk just from a few carafes?”

  “Bite yer tongue!” Falstad balked on reflex, before what the human actually said caught up with him. “Hey wait, no, say that again.”

  “Oh, I think you heard me fine.”

  Looking around, Falstad saw that everyone was… still fairly right merry, but everyone nearby who was from his side was tossing him glances now and then. Even the elders, both of whom were at the same table with them and looking right worried. “What with those looks?” Falstad hadn’t forgotten about them, no sir! “Don’t mind them longbeards, longshanks, they’re nowhere as uptight as they put on! Why else would they host the decennial in Kirthaven, of all places?”

  “Is that some holy place, or-“

  “Some holy place he asks, it’s the holy place, our spiritual core that is!”

  “And you hold regular revels there?” Pretty Boy glanced at Grayfeather. “How do the shamans not burst a blood vessel?”

  “Hah!” Falstad laughed heartily. “They’re the ones who keep the beer an’ mead flowin’! How do ye think they get their apprentices? Lads and lasses drink an’ drink an’ go from bellow to mellow, an’ then suddenly the hall’s a frenzy with the rambles an’ babbles of boys ‘n girls on a mare’s nest of a shared vision quest!”

  “Can I assume that you’ve partaken in this mead of poetry yourself.”

  “An’ I’ll damn well enjoy it this year too!”

  “You clearly need it,” Grayfeather muttered.

  “What’s that?” Falstad snapped. “Say it to me face, if ye’re brave enough!”

  The old shaman looked at him aghast. Next to him, Elder Mastran did too. Beyond them, the two gryphon riders that made sure to stay within shouting distance because they didn’t forget their training balked at the display he put on too.

  Belatedly, it occurred to Falstad Wildhammer than he’d just snapped at one of the two most venerable longbeards this side of the Thandol Span as if they were striplings on their first flight.

  Suddenly, everything that happened since about… one hour into the bash began to squeeze Falstad’s mind in a different shape. How – long ago even was that – when had the sun come down? “… What did ye do to me?”

  “Only what I said and what you agreed to, I healed your stress,” the big lad was speaking all cautious too, now. “I had no idea there was so much, or how long it must’ve…”

  It certainly hadn’t felt bad, when that gold light knocked all his screws loose.

  “Lad,” Mastran said worriedly. He had both eyes working now, when did that happen? “When’s the last time you took any time off?”

  “What’s this now?”

  “You don’t get literally high on feeling normal unless it’s the farthest thing from normal,” Pretty Boy said bluntly. “The wrong way.”

  Falstad blinked owlishly, feeling like his brain was wrapped in cotton that had been straining to hold it in until it suddenly deflated. His brain, not the straps. His body… was all jittery too, the bloody ‘ells, since when did he get the shakes?

  “And there’s the crash,” Pretty Boy murmured, before Falstad felt some invisible force abruptly hold him in place. “Easy now, small friend, that’s just to hold you upright. We don’t want anyone to see you have a fit.”

  “That’s it!” Pretty Boy’s slavish manservant suddenly yelled from clear across the camp, standing up to loom over the rest of the riders. “A drinking contest, you four against me, right here, right now!”

  Such a boast couldn’t not cause the biggest ruckus. Soon enough, everyone was absorbed with the new development, which coincidentally – feh! – distracted them from Falstad’s rapid loss of composure, what the fuck was happening-?

  “Go on, you two!” Mastran shouted at the last two riders, the ones standing close just in case. “You can’t let such a challenge go unanswered! Or do you still need your elders to defend clan honor?”

  “Yes, Elder!” “No elder!”

  The embarrassment of stumbling over their replies made the last two scamper off in a rush, leaving Falstad to the mercy of… the last people in the world that he wanted to see him have a fit of jimjams, what the hell was –? It had to be something the humans did, not – but then, would the Elders just play along with it? They weren’t just playing along?

  Mercifully, Pretty Boy and the Elders got talking between themselves after that, waiting him out while he had his – whatever it was in peace. The invisible force seemed to loosen from around him too, but it was only replaced by – wind? Like the air formed an invisible cushion around him, safeguarding his dignity every time he would’ve twitched. Or fallen out of his chair.

  Not one of them oversized mannish chairs either, sods had come prepared for that too.

  Makers’ balls, Falstad thought, still muddle-headed. Maybe I do need some time off.

  Too much time later, the dwarf finally had control of both his wits and his body again. The merriment was in full swing everywhere around him, especially the right hollery drinking contest. Normally… no, not normally. Now that he’d been confronted over it, Falstad realized he’d not joined in on… anything of the sort for way too long. Used to be he’d be the first to join in and the last to cheer on the way out, but not for months now. A whole year even, maybe, buggerin’ bowfins, had it really been so long?

  The momentary impulse to fix that right this moment flittered across his brain, to jump up and off his chair and go to put his mug in the game.

  He couldn’t find motivation for any of it. “Ey you. Big boy,” he grunted. “What do ye lot really want?”

  “Okay, we’re finally doing this I suppose,” Pretty Boy said with way too little worry. “Was hoping we’d at least-“

  “Ye wanted to build up to it and we let ye, but I’m this close to not appreciating it anymore. No more bender-wilders. Why are ye here?”

  “I’m going to cleanse Grim Batol.”

  …

  That –

  “Naturally, I assumed you’d want to be there for it.”

  That – was the most preposterous thing he’d ever heard, that anyone in the entire Wildhammer kindred ever heard, wild, absurd, utterly mad, preposterous– !

  “We’ll be detouring by way of Uldaman first, since Odyn has some things to take care of there. It’s not directly related, but I figure you’ll want some observers for that too, seeing as it’s where you dwarves all come from and all. The gnomes too.”

  Falstad looked up at the big man and stared blankly at him.

  The human-

  Ferdinand stared back. His gaze held inside a radiant golden glow that promised to destroy every certainty Falstad ever had, if he stared in those eyes too long.

  He looked away. Looked around, for the punchline to – whatever joke this was. And when Grayfeather and Mastran didn’t have one for him, being just as speechless at the sheer audacity of what the human had just claimed, Falstad looked farther to see who else he could tear a new one.

  He was about to decide who among the fake knights looked most stand-offish, when by chance he saw the old man he’d wondered about all that morning and abruptly realized he’d had his spirit bond with his gryphon – his side of the spirit bond open all day. From the moment Pretty Boy healed him to right now when the old man looked back at hi-

  Falstad Wildhammer’s mind was swept aside to the sound of trumpets and striking thunder, and his entire self was witnessed by a colossal being that looked down on him from a throne of iron through a meat shell that was empty empty empty empty EMPTY!

  Reality returned at the end of his fall to earth. The music was gone. The shouts were gone. The wine had stopped flowing, the beer had stopped pouring, the revelry – had ceased the moment he fell out of his chair, stunned and breathless.

  The old man – an empty husk! Mindless – marionette puppetted in a perversion of the bond of the gryphon rider – and he tapped it! Like a beardling trying to connect to his mount the first time, only to miss and hit everyone else, except this time it was – what – he’d seen – felt – burden, judgment, woe unaccountable, great, massive, titanic! Borne alone, by a being of wrath and woe stoked over ages countless!

  Gavan and Mastran helped him up. Picked him off the ground, lifted him, held him upright because his legs wouldn’t work. His breath – fits and starts, like his thoughts, crushed flat by a mere glance from – from –

  “Blindi,” the voice of- “What did you do?”

  “Nothing intentional,” the old man said– his voice – the first time– “But I think we found your next paladin.”

  Falstad looked wildly at the humans, and their leader who was so sure and tall and wanted – but suddenly seemed just as small and insignificant as Falstad himself was.

  The thought brought anger, and the life back to his limbs, and his lungs, but when he dug for what scraps of courage he still thought he had, he didn’t find it. “Everyone back!” Falstad screamed hoarsely, not even knowing why. Falstad Wildhammer had never been the sort to flee from an enemy, but now, here, he found himself the sort to flee from friends. He backed away frantically, out of the elders’ hold, away from – from - “Back to yer gryphons, we’re leaving!”

  “What-“ “The sod happ-“ “Who-“

  “NOW! RIGHT NOW, BACK TO AERIE PEAK RIGHT NOW, NOW, GO, GO, GO!!”

  They obeyed him, even the elders did as he told them, screamed at them, they scampered back to their startled gryphons in abject confusion, away from the humans who watched them with caution and surprise, save the one – and two! The first! And last!

  The dwarves flew away like death was stalking them, back to the Aviary, back to Aerie Peak where Falstad landed first, dismounted first, fled first, not overland but down, down and further down, into the deepest tunnels and beyond even them, to the passage that only the High Thane and his most trusted knew. The tunnel only made in case they had to run away, like Khardros Wildhammer had run away from –

  Grim Batol! Grim Batol!

  Their lost home, their second lost home, the home who’d held them just to fail them and good riddance, good bloody riddance, it was good riddance, wasn’t it? With its grand vaults and majestic spires and the old guard who lost two wars in a row because they were too busy chasing useless dreams of being the new bluebloods. Bluebloods. Blue blood. Blue blood! The god on the throne bled blue blood!

  Blood instead of a beard, seeping from wounds open and fresh, bleeding, many, countless, pouring blood as blue as ink from countless breaks in jadestone skin! Blue blood! Bluebloods, is that where the word came from? Were the dwarves like that too? Did they bleed blue too, once? How? Why? When?

  Uldaman, where you come from-

  “What the – who – Falstad! Makers’ breath, is this where you’ve been? I’ve been turning Aerie Peak upside down looking for you, how did you get in here? Wait -” Kurdran stalled mid-run, rushing to close the secret wall that Falstad had left half-open in his mindless haste to – to-

  “Cousin!” the High Thane shook him by the shoulders, violently. “Talk to me! What did those humans do?!”

  “The Makers,” Falstad said woodenly, turning to meet his cousin’s gaze with sightless eyes. “The Makers. They’re real. And they’re here.”