"The amulet, girl!" Grumstone urged, with a voice like stones grating together. He took a step closer, extending his gnarled, calloused hands. "The one your parents carried. Did it bear the mark of the First Forges? Did it whisper of mountains unmade and stars cooled to iron?"

  Sabine, startled, felt a nervous flutter in her chest. She protectively touched the amulet beneath her K’thrall-made tunic. "I… I don’t know its name, Master Dwarf," she stammered, her archaic Argrenian feeling clumsy and inadequate. "It is woven of dark metal. Cool to the touch. And it… it hums sometimes. Like a song, I would guess."

  Grumstone’s breath hitched. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if lost in a painful memory.

  "Stonebeard’s Rest…" he began, his voice low, "fifteen years past… aye, just over fifteen." A faint, bitter smile touched his lips. "Our Master Metalsmith, old Alvin Ironvein, a stubborn, brilliant old goat, gods rest his forge, he had… visitors."

  He paused, his gaze finding Jorn, as if seeking confirmation of an old, half-forgotten tale. "Two of them. Their heads… gods, they fair scraped the ceilings of our highest halls. Unmistakable. Like seeing legends walk out of the sagas. Their stay was quiet. Secretive. They spoke little even to Alvin, who had invited them for reasons no one could fathom."

  A gasp, soft but audible, escaped Sabine.

  Grumstone took a shaky breath. "One night, after a particularly generous sampling of my finest Firebeard Ale," Thera let out a disdainful snort, and Grumstone silenced her with a murderous glare, "old Alvin Ironvein, his tongue loosened by the spirits, and perhaps by the weight of what secret he carried… he told me. He told me of their quest."

  His red eyes burned into hers. "Alvin’s forge was the only one in these lands, they said, with flames hot enough, with anvils old enough, to mend what was broken."

  "Alvin said he’d never seen its like," Grumstone continued, "ancient, aye, beyond reckoning. The Jotunai spoke of a shadow stirring in the deep places of the world. Of a legacy, scattered and broken, that needed to be salvaged. Reclaimed. Before it was too late."

  He shook his head. "They said… some of their kin still possessed fragments of the old power. Charms to soothe stone. Trinkets to guide water. Small things. But this Chain was different. It was a key. A key to awaken something vast. Something that had slept since the First Mountains were young."

  Grumstone’s gaze returned to Sabine, to the amulet. "They were heading south after Stonebeard’s Rest, towards the K’thrall Fens."

  He took another step closer, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "The description, girl, the craft of it… the song you say it sings… By the Great Anvil of Moradin, child… that amulet you wear is the same. It has to be."

  Grumstone, his tale told, seemed to deflate slightly, the fire in his eyes banking to a smoldering ember. He grunted, then turned and lumbered back towards his neglected bar.

  Ignoring the dusty flagons, he reached into a large, open sack beside the hearth and scooped up a prodigious double handful of stonepine nuts, their shells still warm. He dumped them unceremoniously onto a thick square of cured leather, then, with a surprising deftness for one so ancient and inebriated, he snatched a heavy smithing hammer from beneath the counter.

  WHUMP! WHUMP! WHUMP!

  The sound vibrated through the quiet hall as Grumstone brought the hammer down onto the nuts with a series of surprisingly precise blows. He gathered the corners of the leather, gave it a vigorous shake, and with an expert flick of his wrist sent the shells flying into a nearby bucket, leaving behind a generous pile of perfectly shelled, lightly toasted nuts. He grunted again, grabbed a clay shaker from the bar, and sprinkled the nuts liberally with a pungent mixture of rock salt and dried mountain herbs, then shuffled back to their table, plopped himself heavily onto the bench beside a startled Artholan, and pushed the pile of seasoned nuts towards the center. "Eat," he rasped, his voice still rough. "Talk makes a dwarf thirsty. And hungry." He proceeded to grab a large handful for himself, crunching contentedly.

  Marta reached into the pouch at her neck. She drew out the old iron key, its surface dull in the dim light of the longhouse. She placed it on the table beside the pile of nuts. "This," she said, her voice soft but clear, "was my grandfather’s. From Alderholt. The village that is no more."

  Thera leaned forward, her eyes narrowing as she examined the key. "By my ancestors’ beards…" she breathed, reaching out a hesitant, broad finger to trace its unfamiliar contours. "The make of it… the feel of the iron… it is old. Older than Stonebeard’s Rest itself, I’d wager. But the craft has the touch of the Deep Forges. A dwarven hand shaped this, long ago."

  Grumstone, his mouth full of nuts, nodded vigorously, spraying a few crumbs. "Aye," he mumbled, swallowing hastily. "The balance of it. The temper of the metal. No Jotunai work, that. That’s Mountain Born skill. A fine dwarven locking key, or I’m a bearded elf."

  With tremble in her voice, Marta recounted the tragedy of Alderholt. She spoke of the goblin shaman, of the dead-walkers, of the overwhelming horde, of her lost Tomar.

  Jorn let out a long, slow sigh. A sheen of held back tears clouded his eyes in the torches’ light.

  "Our own oldest sagas," his wife Narai said, "they speak of a time long before even that war, when the Mountain-Shapers, our ancestors, did not dwell solely in the frozen north. They speak of great strongholds in the southern lands, of cities carved from living rock, of alliances with the First Men, and even… with the Mountain Born, the dwarves, in those dawn days." Her eyes flickered towards Thera and Grumstone. "Our people shared the secrets of the earth then, the songs of stone and metal. Before the shadows fell, and the world grew cold."

  Jorn sighed. "Those days are long gone to dust, little sister," he said, his gaze resting on Sabine. "Our people are fading. The strength of the earth wanes within us. The songs grow fainter. Many of our kin… they look not to the past, to these shadowed lands, but to the east."

  "The east?" Ronigren asked.

  "Aye," Jorn rumbled. "Towards the sunrise. Towards the Far Sea, the Boundless Water that lies beyond even the Zha Khor deserts and the lands of the Rising Sun. It is a legend amongst our scattered holds, a promise for those grown weary of this dwindling world. They say beyond that sea lies a New Land, a place where the earth still sings with its First Power, where the Jotunai can be reborn. More and more of our folk take that eastward path. A long, perilous journey, with little hope of return. But for many it is the only hope."

  Grumstone reached for the dark bottle he had brought from the bar. He took a long, mournful swig.

  The embers in the great hearth hissed and popped, casting uncertain light on the faces gathered around the ancient table.

  "The Keepers of Alderholt," Ruthiel began, his archaic Argrenian flowing with an effortless grace. "These are constructs of immense power, born of a magic that eludes even the eldest songs of the Sylvanesti. The 'Soulless Army,' as some scrolls name them. Animated without spirit, moved by the intricate weaving of elemental forces and arcane command."

  The Elf leaned forward. "Do your people, noble Jorn, revered Narai, still possess the knowledge of this making? Are there Mages amongst your scattered holds who remember the ancient rites that could awaken such power?”

  Jorn and Narai exchanged a puzzled look. "The 'Soulless,' as you name them, Star-Eyed One… yes, that name lingers in our oldest sagas. They were the strong right arm of our ancestors in the days when the world was young and our people shaped mountains. But that… that was an age of giants, in truth as well as name. An age when the earth sang with a power long since gone from these lands." Said Narai.

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  Jorn rumbled in agreement. "The art of their true making… it is lost to us, I fear. Scattered like dust when our great northern holds fell, when the ice crept south, when the Long Silence descended upon our people." He threw his massive, weathered hands in resignation. "What remains are fragments. Echoes. In some of our larger settlements, further north, closer to the edge of the Scablands where the old Jotunai cities lie buried beneath ice and ash… yes, there are still those who call themselves Mages. Earth-Shapers. They can coax life from barren stone, guide the flow of water, even… animate beasts of burden from clay and river-rock, or fashion messenger-birds from woven twigs and arcane commands. Small things. Useful, for the daily toil of survival in harsh lands like these. But the knowledge to awaken a true Keeper… that sleeps with our ancestors."

  Stonehand, the scarred human villager, nodded grimly. "These Jotunai Mages Master Jorn speaks of… they are rare, even in their own settlements. And reclusive. Their power is unsettling to many of us, and for good reason. We are simple folk here. The world outside is lost to us, and ever since the War of Solitude, the southern passes were sealed, or became too perilous to traverse."

  Thera took a long swig of Grumstone’s potent ale. "Aye," she grunted. "Stranded. That’s what we are. We were cut off when the world went mad. Found refuge here, where the Jotunai had once walked. Their old roads, their crumbling fortresses, became our shelter. Our world."

  She looked around the longhouse, with its amalgam of Jotunai, dwarven, and human craftsmanship. "We are not a kingdom here, Sir Knight. Not anymore. We are a loose confederation of villages and small dwarven holds. Sturrel’s Edge. Stonefall. Ironwood Deep. Each with its own council, its own ways. We trade, we sometimes squabble, we occasionally unite to deal with a goblin raid from the Scablands, a particularly harsh winter, or the encroachment of the K’thrall. But we are… diminished.”

  Grumstone, softened by another deep draught of ale, nodded sadly. "Aye. We are the guardians of dust.”

  A low groan from the corner of the longhouse cut through the somber deliberations. Masillius Vasi, lying on the stretcher, stirred, his eyelids fluttering. Myanaa abruptly rose, as did a stout, grey-haired woman from the village – a healer. Sabine’s heart leapt, she excused herself and rushed to her father’s side.

  Masillius’s eyes were clouded with fever and the lingering tendrils of the nightmare vine’s venom. He saw Sabine’s face bending over him, her blue eyes filled with concern. But his gaze drifted past her, towards the great table at the far end of the hall. Through the hazy, shifting light of the hearth fire and the dim oil lamps, wheretwo colossal Jotunai silhouettes loomed against the flickering flames. He reached out a trembling hand towards Sabine, towards those distant, towering figures. "My little one…" he whispered, his voice a dry rasp. "Have you come back for her at last?"

  Sabine caught his wandering hand, her own trembling slightly. The initial rush from Grumstone’s revelations, the fatigue of their journey, the wonder of discovering this hidden village and living Jotunai – it all evaporated. Her father, so vulnerable, was still lost in the borderlands of nightmare and reality. Tears welled in her eyes, tears of love and relief. "I’m here, Father," she choked out, pressing his hand to her cheek. "It’s me. I’m right here. You’re safe."

  Masillius’ outburst had gone largely unnoticed back at the table. Stonehand fixed his eyes on Snik. The small goblin froze.

  "That one," Stonehand said, his voice a low growl, gesturing towards Snik with a jerk of his chin. "The green-skin. You say he guides you? That he fled his own kind?" His eyes narrowed. "Why is he not bound? A goblin is a goblin. Treacherous by nature. How do we know he is not leading you into a trap, or leading his kin to our door?"

  Snik whimpered softly, pressing himself closer to Artholan.

  Ronigren met the man’s gaze calmly. "Snik has proven his loyalty to us, Master Stonehand. At great personal cost. He has shared vital intelligence, warned us of dangers. He chose to break with his own people, to defy the darkness that now commands them. He is a refugee under our protection, not a prisoner."

  Stonehand snorted. "A goblin’s ‘loyalty’ is as reliable as a winter thaw, Knight. And his ‘protection’… what of ours?"

  Thera turned her steel-grey eyes towards Xylia-Kai. The young K’thrall warrior met her gaze without flinching. "And the Frog-Speaker," Thera rumbled, her voice like stones grinding together. "You say she guides you too? Through the Fens? The Mountain Born and the Fen-Dwellers… our paths have rarely crossed in friendship. Why would a K’thrall risk her life to guide you to the lands of their ancient enemies?"

  Ronigren was about to reiterate his defense when Artholan interjected. The mage, pale and disheveled, cleared his throat. "Ahem. While the… shortcomings of the goblinoid species are, admittedly, considerable," he began, his voice still carrying a faint tremor, "and their societal structures regrettably devoid of any discernible appreciation for thaumaturgic scholarship, this particular specimen… Snik presents a compelling case of psychic schism and subsequent volitional realignment."

  He peered at Snik with a somewhat detached regard. "The somatic trauma he exhibits – the lesions, the epidermal scarring – is consistent with a violent, and likely excruciatingly painful, severance of a psycho-magical coercive bond. The ‘Rite of Unbinding,’ as he terms it. Fascinating. I observed similar necromantic binding patterns amongst so-called ‘dead-walkers’ utilized by the goblin shaman at Woodhall. To break such a chain would require an unimaginable exertion of will." He tapped his smudged notebook. "I have, in fact, made several preliminary notations on the subject. Utterly groundbreaking, from a theoretical standpoint."

  "The 'chains' Master Artholan speaks of, Master Stonehand, Chieftain Anvil-Breaker," Ruthiel began, "are woven from despair, from terror, from the very essence of a will broken and remade in the image of a consuming darkness. To sever such a chain from within… it is akin to tearing out one’s own heart while still it beats. It is an agony that few, of any race, possess the courage, or the strenght, to endure." Ruthiel’s gaze rested on Snik with a deep, solemn respect. "This small one has walked through a fire that would have consumed many a taller, prouder spirit."

  Snik took a hesitant step forward, looking up at the looming Jotunais. "The Giant Priest," Snik croaked, "he was Jotunai. Like you, Great Ones. Captured. Tortured… by the Bone-Singers. They wanted his spirit-songs. His earth-knowledge." He paused, eyes wide with awe. "He showed Snik the way. Before they took him. The Rite of Unbinding."

  Snik then began to chant in his reedy voice, weaving a series of guttural clicks, soft whistles, and ancient, archaic Argrenian. As he chanted, his small, clawed hands moved in intricate, precise gestures, tracing patterns in the air, his body swaying to a silent, internal rhythm. An almost invisible shimmer of power, a subtle pulling and shaping of the ether emanated from him.

  With a final, heartbreaking gesture of vulnerability, he pulled aside the ragged remnants of his K’thrall-made tunic, revealing the puckered scars that crisscrossed his emaciated chest and the lesion at the base of his skull. "The price," he said, his voice thick with pain. "The price for freedom."

  Silence fell. The Jotunais stared at Snik. Marta rose slowly from her seat and looked at Stonehand, Thera, at the suspicious faces of the villagers. "My home was destroyed by goblins," she said, "my grandson, Tomar… my neighbors, my friends… all slaughtered. I, more than any here, have reason to hate their kind." Her gaze softened as she looked at Snik, who now huddled miserably with his scars exposed. "And yet," Marta continued, her voice gaining strength, "Snik chose a different path. He endured agony to break free from the darkness that consumed his people. He has warned us, guided us, shared our perils. He has shown more courage, more loyalty, than many a man I have known." She looked directly at Stonehand. "You speak of treachery, Master Stonehand. Of fear. I have lived with that fear, that treachery, every day since my home burned. But I have also learned that hatred is a blindfold. It prevents us from seeing the individual, the choice, the potential for change." She gestured towards Snik. "This goblin is not the monster that destroyed my home. He is a survivor. A refugee. And, I believe," she paused, her gaze unwavering, "he is our friend."

  Xylia-Kai rose, fluid and deliberate. She was not as tall as the Jotunai, but her warrior’s coiled grace commanded attention. "The Mountain Born speaks of ancient enmities," she began, forceful, each word punctuated by a resolute click. "Her songs are old. And incomplete."

  She gestured towards Jorn and Narai. "Yes. Long ago there was war. The Spawn-Songs sing of the Great Thirst, when some Stone-Singers forgot the balance. They took too much. The land wept. And our ancestors… they fought. To protect the sacred waters. To protect the life-blood of the Fens. But the world… it is not a single, stagnant pool, Dry-Skins. It is a flowing river, with many currents. The Scuttler-Hordes you fight have their tribes, their chieftains. So too, the K’thrall. We are not one people. We are many Spawning-Beds, many nations. The G’Tharr of the eastern marshes, who trade in poisons and shadow-weeds… their water-hearts are cold. They remember only the old grievances. They would see all Stone-Singers drown."

  A surge of pride straightened her back. "But I am of the Xy’tharr. The Sunken City. Our Spawn-Songs are deeper. Wiser. We remember the peace that came before. We remember the pacts, the shared wisdom, when Stone-Singer and Frog-Speaker both listened to the song of the earth."

  She turned her intense golden gaze back to Thera. "My mother, Zyl-Phana… she was a Dream-Walker. She did not see an ancient enemy in Sabine’s parents. She saw hope. She saw kin, in spirit if not in form. She saw allies against a shadow she felt stirring in the world’s sleep. Our people guided Sabine’s parents. My people’s blood stains the same mud as them, Mountain Born! We are bound by grief, a grief more recent and more potent than ancient wars."

  Stonehand looked down at the table. Thera grunted, a sound that, for a dwarf, was tantamount to a grudging apology, and took a thoughtful swig of her ale.