Chapter 29: Two Hands and One Sword

  The dwarves had grown used to stares the moment they entered Harbinth. At first, it had been constant. Children tugging their mothers’ sleeves, sailors nudging each other with smirks, merchants narrowing their eyes like they were trying to decide if a dwarf’s coin was worth the same as anyone else’s. Some pointed at the braids in their beards, others muttered about mountain folk straying too far from stone.

  But after the horns sounded, no one stared anymore. The crowd had changed. People no longer had time for curiosity. They had only time for fear. The dwarves blended into the blur of bodies, the rush of carts, and the wild swirl of shouted orders.

  Thora Greyfell had noticed how quickly it all shifted. One moment, Harbinth had been alive with noise and trade, its streets full of haggling and laughter. Next, it had become a storm of urgency, the kind that hollowed out faces and bent backs low. A port city that once thrived on rhythm and commerce now bent itself toward survival.

  For a while, the dwarves just watched. They stood in small groups at corners, leaning on weapons disguised as walking staves, eyes quiet and unblinking. Watching the humans prepare stirred old memories in them. They had seen cities braced for siege before. It reminded them of miners bracing a tunnel just before collapse. The frantic work, the silent prayers that the beams would hold.

  They regrouped within the hour, exactly where Thora had said they would. South Gate. Every one of them came, not a dwarf man or woman missing. Twelve in all, faces weathered from mountain air, shoulders thick from lives of labor. They had no banner and no announcement, but they had something steadier: discipline.

  The south gate was different from the grand stone archways of the market quarter. Its wall leaned toward the sea, the stone pitted and worn from years of salt and storms. The beach beyond it was thin and jagged, waves throwing themselves against the rocks without rhythm. Few dared use that stretch. Which made it perfect. Fewer eyes to see them. Fewer questions asked.

  Thora was the first to notice the watchman running toward them. His armor looked like it hadn’t been polished in years, edges dulled, patches of rust where the salt had chewed through. His tabard was stained, the color of the sash long faded. His breath came hard, but his voice carried as he shouted over the wind.

  “All foreigners are to be evacuated!” he barked. “Orders from the city command. If you stay, you stay under one condition.”

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  The dwarves waited. The watchman swallowed.

  “You fight. Risk is yours. Kobolds are on the approach. No telling when they arrive.”

  The words hung in the salt-heavy air.

  For a moment, no one moved. Then Bram Flintbrace gave a short laugh, rough as gravel. Korrik Helmbarrow cracked a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Old Surna leaned on her hammer, shaking her head like the man had told her a poor joke.

  None of them argued. None turned to leave.

  Thora stepped forward. She moved with the quiet weight of stone shifting under pressure, her boots clicking against the uneven stone road. Her hand rested lightly on the haft of her axe, not as a threat but as a promise.

  “Take us to your commander,” she said simply. Her voice was calm, even, carrying no boast. “We didn’t come here to sip tea and watch walls fall.”

  The watchman hesitated. His gaze darted from her face to the line of dwarves standing behind her. Twelve sets of eyes, all sharp, none wavering. He looked for doubt in them and found none.

  “You’ve all got weapons?” he asked finally.

  Korrik stepped forward. He patted the hilt of the sword at his side, its leather grip worn smooth by years of calloused hands. “One sword each,” he said. Then he held up his hands, palms scarred but steady. “And two hands to use it.”

  Something shifted in the watchman’s expression. A mix of awe and disbelief flickered across his face, as though he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or bow. He shook his head slowly.

  “Well,” he said, voice quieter now, “hope the stories about dwarves are true.”

  He turned his gaze toward the sea for a long moment. The waves crashed hard against the jagged rocks, the tide surging higher than before. His jaw tightened, and when he spoke again, his voice was little more than a rasp.

  “Because gods know we’re going to need it.”

  No one replied. There was no need.

  The watchman gave them a short nod and turned back toward the city, his boots striking hard against the stone. He didn’t look back to see if they followed. He already knew they would.

  Thora lifted her chin and gave a quiet signal. The dwarves moved behind her in a line, steady as a column of stone. Their steps carried no rush, but they carried no hesitation either.

  As they passed under the gate’s arch, the sounds of the city swelled again, the clatter of weapons, the shouts of watchmen, the wails of children being herded toward the ships. Harbinth was bracing itself. And now, so were they.

  For the first time in years, the dwarves felt what it meant to be needed. Not miners, not traders, not wanderers with no cause. Soldiers once more.

  They did not speak of it aloud. They didn’t have to. Each one of them knew the truth.

  When the storm came, and it would come, they would not be found wanting.