Stonesworn, an Original Story by Rob Hebblethwaite

‘What ye are, son of mine, is a disappointment.’

            Benyar looked down at his plate full of half-picked pork-ribs and honey glaze. As ever, Ermoldulus, the Gnomish servant, had surpassed himself. But tonight, Benyar was not hungry. Moodily, he pushed aside a cold boiled potato with his fork and picked a morsel of meat out of his long, black beard and tossed it away. It landed on the shadowy, stone-flagged floor of the great hall and was immediately forgotten. From the shadows that clad all sides of the long, rectangular room, the stone statues of his many ancestors glared out at him with gem-cut eyes. Weapons in their marble hands and displeasure upon their features, their death-idols peered disappointedly at the house-clan sitting to dinner before them.

‘I don’t see wha’s so bad ‘bout it,’ the young Dwarf man said through his dark beard. ‘People are stronger together: look at us Dwarf-folk and the Gnomes – we’d be lost without ‘em.’

            From the far end of the long, low table, his father rose from his great stone seat. Thored Volostag was tall for a Dwarf, some four-and-a-half feet from the ground and broad of chest and shoulder. His iron-grey beard covered the dark blue doublet he wore, and the great mass of traditional Dwarf plaits, golden rings, and beaded braids fell to his round, wide waist – though it did not hide the displeasure on the old Dwarf’s weathered and scarred face.

            It was to the largest of those scars the old Dwarf now pointed – a long, white mark scoring diagonally across his face from his right eyebrow brow to bottom-left jaw. ‘Do you know how I got this?’ he snarled. The fury in his voice echoed around the large stone room, dimly lit by the candles upon the tables and the huge roaring hearth behind where Thane Thored Volostag sat at the table’s head.

            Of course I bloody know, Benyar thought to himself, you tell the damn story at every opportunity you get. From where he was sitting half-way down the long table, Benyar let out a low sigh and glanced across the table to where his mother, Amelie, sat opposite him. Her coal-black hair was tied in a bun almost as large as her head, all bundled up behind her crown. There was sympathy and exhaustion in her chestnut-brown eyes, though no words came from her round lips. Dropping her gaze from her son and shaking her head in resignation, she continued to eat from her plate.

            Benyar turned to his young twin sisters, sitting on the side of the table between his mother and where his father sat at its head. Neither Berra nor Derra offered him any form of salvation in the cheeky, fresh-faced glances and giggles they shot him. Benyar gritted his teeth behind his chest-length, dark beard and looked between the identical young Dwarf-girls, with their identical plaits, braids, and dark-brown eyes. Still, neither of them offered him any support and instead continued to snigger, covering their mouths with their small hands. They’re giggling at Nanna Therrin’s statue – as always.

            Benyar’s attention was wrenched from his sisters and back to his imposing father by the sound of the old Dwarf’s boot kicking the long table. ‘We’d ‘eard word from the northern mines tha’ there’d been a sightin’ o’ the Old Enemy,’ his father began.

            Oh, here we go, Benyar thought and rolled his eyes. He dropped his gaze back to his plate and pulled a small strip of pork from one of the ribs before him. At every Stone-forsaken opportunity. With a long sigh, Benyar tossed his silver knife and fork onto the finely-crafted plate before him and made as big of a show of looking everywhere but at his father as he could. The great, studded iron chandelier above his head with its many dripping candles helped illuminate the long hall in which they sat, and it was thrice as interesting as the story he was about to be told for the thousandth time. Even the two-dozen or so house-clan statues that lined the edge of the grandiose hall seemed to sigh as a draft of warm air blew through the room.

‘Your Stone-blessed uncle, myself, and three other strong lads went to see if there was any validity in these claims,’ Thored continued. ‘We arrived at the northern mines an’ found ‘alf the workers there already dead. Yet low-an’-behold, there, standin’ over the bodies, was a goblin raidin’-party – and a stone troll.’

Benyar sighed and rolled his eyes again, still casting his gaze about the room and resting his chin in his hands in a much-exaggerated show of disinterest. ‘So you, Uncle Garr, an’ yer lads all charged without waitin’ fer reinforcements in yer hunt fer glory. Everyone was slaughtered in the melee, includin’ Uncle Garr – would’ve loved to ‘ave met ‘im, by the way, sounds like a top character,’ he said passively, eyeing one of the many family weapon-heirlooms that were hung about the long hall. I always liked Grandma’s sword. Mind, I’d prefer a pot o’ ‘er miserable, cold ol’ gruel over this wretched tale.

Benyar’s father’s face grew dark with anger behind its great grey beard. ‘How dare ye?’ Thane Thored hissed through his yellow teeth. He slammed a fist onto the long, dark mahogany table, making the whole thing quake and the light reflected upon its fine, polished surface twitch and dance.

Benyar pulled his eyes away from the great, wide tapestry depicting his house-clan tree that hung behind where his mother sat, face in hands and muttering to herself. ‘Yet it was ye,’ Benyar said as he rose to his feet and leapt onto the table, sending a decanter of mead spinning towards where his two sisters sat – they squealed excitedly and laughed at Benyar’s antics. ‘It was ye who, wit’ yer great axe in one ‘and an’ yer fallen brother’s shield in the other, slew the great stone troll – the hideous rock avatar, the amalgamation of malformed mountain-made-flesh,’ he cried loud, thrusting with an invisible weapon, much to his younger sibling’s mirth. ‘An’ ye hacked its head from its shoulders an’ brought it ‘ome to Ma, who gave ye permission to mount the hideous thing on the mantle.’ Benyar raised a large finger and pointed to where the fire roared in the wide hearth behind where his father sat. On the great wall above it was the huge, stone skull of the hideous troll. ‘Why Ma ever let ye put tha’ there is beyond me. By my ancestors, it’s hideous.’

His twin sisters giggled together until their father shot them a dark, nasty look. ‘See?’ the old Dwarf hissed. ‘Ye’ve not an ounce o’ respect for the past. This is why ye want to try and make allies o’ the pissin’ Vidorians, and o’ those so-called Free Esdarian jellies! Yer uncle died to defend ‘is ‘ome from outsiders – yet ye want to welcome them wit’ open arms? This house-clan has always defended the Halfling-folk o’ the Syladras Mountains from tha’ which lies above and blelow – yer nae a Volostag, yer nae a Dwarf! Yer a disgrace to yer family name!’

Benyar shook his head sadly and leapt back into the thick, sturdy wooden chair on which he had sat. ‘If ye say so, Pa,’ he said with a shrug. ‘An’, in my opinion, it’s antiquated ol’ fossils like ye that are holdin’ back the Halfling people – think o’ how easily we’d crush the goblins an’ their hordes o’ monsters if we ‘ad a unit o’ Vidorian soldiers to assist us!’

‘Tha’s quite enough,’ Benyar’s mother finally spoke in a strong, cold voice that cracked across the hall. Amelie Volostag pushed back her chair and rose to her feet – she was of average height and stature for a Dwarf woman, but her face was cold and collected. Like diamonds amongst dirt, her pale green eyes glittered dangerously through the half-light of the room. ‘I’ll no’ ‘ave you two bickerin’ and arguin’ like a pair o’ old ladies,’ she snapped. She turned and glared down the table towards her husband. ‘Thored, ye’re the house-clan patriarch, fer Stone’s sake, not some moody, babblin’ storyteller. An’ Benyar,’ she said, narrowing her eyes as she stared across the table at her son, ‘yer our eldest son. Act like it.’

With her words ringing about the Volostag house-clan’s hall, those assembled fell to quiet. For a few moments, no-one spoke, and only the gentle clatter of cutlery upon plates was heard. Then, a shuffling sound came from the back of the room and a fifth, well-dressed figure appeared. He was short – below four-feet in height – and had a large, round head. The hair upon his scalp was greying and receding, and his torso and legs seemed too small for his head. The high, quizzical brow and a long, hooked nose upon which balanced a small pair of spectacles gave him a near-scholarly appearance, though the tidy apron across his front told a different story. The small fellow had ears that were as large as his deft hands, and he carried himself with a sense of duty-won respect.

‘Is all well?’ the small, smartly-dressed figure said.

‘Yes, Ermoldulus,’ Thored said from the head of the table in his deep, gravelly voice. ‘We need no more food, though if ye could bring another decanter of mead-…’

‘Ye’re a wise Gnome, Ermoldulus,’ Benyar interrupted, the young Dwarf turning in his seat to look at the small man. ‘Do you think the Halfling-folk should seek allies to the south?’

‘Benyar!’ his mother snapped, hurling slamming her hand into the table. ‘Will ye just drop it?’

Benyar gestured to the Gnome-servant with a hand and glared at his mother. ‘No, I want to know what Ermoldulus thinks. He’s a clever chap, an’ the Gnome-folk don’t even get to play a major role in the Ironrend Covenant, despite makin’ up ‘alf the population beneath the Syladras Mountains!’

His father’s voice echoed from the end of the table: ‘The Ironrend Covenant was established by King Torunsson I to help the Dwarves rule – the Gnomes were never involved because, much unlike ye, son o’ mine, they know when to keep their mouths shut.’

Ermoldulus blinked his heavily-lidded eyes and glanced from Thored to Benyar, then back again. ‘T’is not my place, Master Benyar,’ the Gnome said dutifully, before turning on his heel and quickly retreating into the shadows.

Silence fell again for a few moments. Eventually, Ermoldulus returned with a decanter of mead and a cloth for the spillage Benyar had caused. He left the fine silver vessel on the table and retreated after wiping the table clean and bowing low to the assembled family.

‘Our house-clan is on the cusp of being allowed a seat on the Ironrend Covenant – we could ‘elp rule over our people, or maybe even be kings, Benyar; a Volostag rule the Halflings under the Syladras Mountains,’ Thane Thored said in a low, threatening voice from the far end of the table. ‘It’s taken me decades to get the Volostag house-clan where it is, an’ ye’re goin’ to drag us back into the dirt if you keep ravin’ on about ‘ow we need Humans to help us wit’ our affairs.’ He took a swig of whatever alcoholic beverage was in his large, steel tankard and slammed it down on the table. ‘You’ll destroy us with these views o’ yours. Thanks be to the Great Creator I ‘ave a second son – my first is no Dwarf.’

Part of Benyar wished his father’s words would hurt him, but they could not – at least if they had stung, it would have meant that he cared for the relationship he had lost. Instead, Benyar found himself simply wishing his father would disappear. Tomorrow, his younger brother, Gorgrim, would return from the Pits draped in heroism and glory. He would tell tales of the goblins he had slain, of the Dwarf-warriors he had rescued, and of the adventures he had been on down in the deepest, darkest depths of the Syladras Mountains.

Benyar knew exactly what would happen: his father would praise his name and lift him high, calling him his ‘true heir’ before taking delivery of the huge amount of ancient, lost treasure Gorgrim would doubtlessly bring back with him. Thane Rhodd Steelshatter, patriarch of the Steelshatter house-clan and one of eleven High Councilmen in the Ironrend Covenant, would then appear – it had to be him, Benyar knew his father had orchestrated a deal with Thane Rhodd.

Thane Thored would bow to Thane Rhodd and gift him gold and jewels from some dark, shadowy corner of the Pits.  Then, as everyone was cheering and celebrating Gorgrim’ victory, King Boragsson II, himself a member of the Steelshatter house-clan and father of Thane Rhodd, would arrive in a great fanfare and uplift Benyar’s father to the position of High Councilman as reward for the Volostag house-clan’s service to the Syladrian Halflings.

King Boragsson II would take Thane Thored, his eldest son Benyar, and the glory-draped Gorgrim into the High Chamber where they would make oaths upon the High Seat – all were necessary, for it was not just Thored being sworn-in, it was also the heirs who would one day take his place. Once complete, though, it would be Thane Thored Volostag who then became the twelfth councillor to the king, and would ensure his family joined the list of most noble households from which kings and queens could be elected – and Benyar would be his direct heir. And in that moment of familial glory, Thane Thored would look at his eldest son, Benyar, and he would curl his lip and shake his head. And Benyar would not care.

If father became king, the Halfling-folk of the Syladras Mountains would be doomed, Benyar thought. His father’s antiquated views on how Halfling life should be – separate, aloof to the problems of the Upper World, and wasted on pointless quests for glory against monsters in the Pits – would drive his people to ruin. Benyar knew, however, that if his brother Gorgrim returned from the Pits with so much as a whiff of glory upon him, his father’s place upon the Ironrend Covenant was secured – such was the agreement between Thane Thored and Thane Rhodd.

Benyar was aware of the honour involved in being a member of a house-clan upon the Ironrend Covenant; the thousands-of-years-old organisation assisted the king in the governance of all things that took place under the Syladras Mountains. The young Dwarf knew, though, that change was coming. Not normal change for the Halfling-folk, such as a new golbin threat, or a shift in the Stones. Nor was it a change that would just affect the Halfling peoples. No, whatever was coming, was far greater. He could feel it in his bones.

Sick of his father and his own thoughts, Benyar tossed his fork down and left his seat without a backwards glance. He heard his mother sigh and his father let out a huff of amusement, but Benyar had better things to be doing. He left the dimly-lit stone hall and strove deeper into his family’s residence. Losing himself in the great stone corridors of artisan-level craftsmanship, hewn straight into the insides of the mountains in which the Syladrian Halflings lived, Benyar tried to think of some way to convince his father that there was power in alliances. Perhaps Gorgrim can help, he thought. Perhaps his experience in the Pits has changed him.

Benyar doubted it, though. Gorgrim knew he was the house-clan favourite over his elder brother, though rights of succession still meant that, should Thane Thored die, Benyar was first in-line to receive his wealth and titles – a fact that made Gorgrim bitter towards his elder sibling. We shall see, Benyar thought as he turned a corner and walked past the life-sized statue of his great-grandfather, Amensus. Flesh of fine white marble and eyes of intricately-cut gemstones, even in death Amensus Volostag was an indomitable figure: tall and broad – for a Dwarf, at least – with arms as solid as tree-trunks and a replica of his mighty hammer in his hands.

Amensus’ statue did not stand with the others in the house-clan hall where Benyar’s mother, father, and sisters were eating. One-hundred years ago, Amensus had been involved in a civil dispute, the nature of which every Volostag knew but never spoke of. Thane Thored’s father had attempted to usurp rule of the Syladrian Halflings, though his attempts had been thwarted when his plans were discovered by the Ironrend Covenant.

 For the Volostags, all that mattered was that Amensus had been on the losing side and had been tried for and found guilty of high treason. As a result, he had been forced to swear upon the Heartstone itself – a legendary and ancient Dwarf relic – that he would enter the Pits in search of only the greatest glory: the acclamation of such great glory that one’s previous crimes were outweighed by the magnanimity of new deeds. For most, this meant the destruction of a great and legendary monster that would either lift the Oath of Stone from the criminal and earn them their freedom, or mete out their punishment in the form of a glorious death in battle.

Benyar’s grandfather had never returned when he was sent into the Pits. He had taken with him his great hammer, Lightstorm, the most valuable weapon-heirloom that the Volostag family had previously possessed. At least a millennia old, Lightstorm was a weapon shrouded in myth and familial tale – though talk of the weapon had ceased as soon as it became clear that Amensus Volostag was never coming back from the Pits. It was not well-to-do for a house-clan on the cusp of having a seat upon the Ironrend Covenant to speak of past transgressions and failures.

With another long, sad sigh, the young Benyar turned and left the statue of the grandfather he never knew and walked back into the shadowy corridors of his home. I hope bein’ a high councilman is worth it, Benyar thought as he wandered into the shadows once again.

*

The under-mountain metropolis of Khur-Karzana was the beating heart of the Syladrian Halfling way of life. From the mines came gold, silver, gemstones, copper and iron in great buckets and barrows. From those deep, dark places the treasures of the mountains were taken to the High Forges – great coal-powered furnaces from which came the most beautiful creations one could imagine. Bars of gold and silver as large and thick as a forearm were piled high onto mule and pony-drawn carts and wheeled away from the towering furnaces. Others, piled high with copper, iron and steel, went another way, destined to become enormous hammers, swords, shields, and every kind of armour that existed. Polished gemstones of every imaginable colour poured from the mines, polished for the artisan Gnomes who would cut and fashion them into delicate trinkets worth more than the finest townhouse.

Then there were the coins. The many long, wide streets of Khur-Karzana that arched this way and that through the Syldras Mountains like stone veins were packed full of Halfling-folk – and where there were people, there was money. Coins the size of a Dwarf’s palm flowed like golden nectar through the streets, emblazoned with the bearded face and name of King Boragson II on one side, and on the other a mighty sword and two crossed axes. The richest Dwarves and Gnomes were unimaginably wealthy, owning vast quantities of gold that they kept hidden away in giant vaults. Even those who were poorest had a little to their names.

Coin changed hands and business was done in the streets that ran like arteries through the mountains, as pony-pulled wagons carrying huge boxes and crates of goods from the forges rattled through the great caverns and caves that made up Khur-Karzana. Stone buildings on all sides that were hewed out of the very mountain’s rock squatted low and stoically gazed out over the streets. The light from their windows, low and golden-glowing, seeped out onto the great iron brazier-lit cobbles of the cave-streets.

But everything led to one place. All the gold that came and went, like blood, passed through a heart. In the greatest natural cavern under the mountain, known as Kava-Toa, sat the High Chamber. The great stone hall was decked with the statues of the mightiest warriors and ornamented with thousands of trophies from only the most heroic battles. It sat on a huge shelf of stone on the far-side of a river of molten rock, only accessible by a long and wide stone bridge that was guarded at all times by elite Dwarf guards called the Ironrenders. The fierce guards wore entire suits of heavy plate armour, fashioned to be dark and menacing, with covered faces but holes to allow for their beards to hang through. The High Chamber was where the king and the Ironrend Covenant met to discuss matters of state, and on normal days, the was empty aside from the Ironrenders in their heavy armour that watched its great gates and the long, wide bridge. But today was no normal day.

That very bridge was packed with Dwarf-folk and many Gnomes. Benyar had counted around four-hundred of the Halfling-folk. Everyone with as much as a drop of Volostag blood was present – fifth cousins, thrice-removed aunts and uncles, even the unpopular Loran-Volostags had turned up for the occasions, though they stood separately to everyone else in a small group of two-dozen.

‘It’s nice o’ them to come,’ Benyar’s mother had said when Thane Thored had begun to grumble. ‘At the very least, they make up numbers a little. An’ don’t you go kickin’ up a fuss – we’re standin’ in the middle of a crowd o’ your family. Who knows who’ll hear wha’ ye say.’

Thane Thored had glared at his wife. ‘I am the ‘ead of the Volostag family. I am house-clan patriarch and wha’ I say-…’

‘Shut up, Da,’ Benyar said with a sigh. ‘We could be standin’ ‘ere fer hours yet, an’ you bein’ a miserable sod isn’t gonna make time pass faster.’

‘Benyar!’ his mother hissed. ‘The same goes for ye! Show your father some bleedin’ respect!’

Thane Thored glared at his son. ‘Nae respect for your kin; nae respect for your people’s way o’ life; nae respect fer your position in the house-clan. Ye’re no Dwarf. Run along to your tall, thin friends down south.’

Benyar shrugged a shoulder. ‘Still, if ye’d ‘ad some ‘elp from the Vidorians, yer brother may be standin’ next to ya to celebrate the Volostag victory. Instead, his bones have returned to the Stone.’ Benyar pulled an unappreciative face and shook his head. ‘An’ all this nonsense with the Pits. One Vidorian Legion – even a Garedian army from the Free Kingdoms – an’ this whole farce wit’ monsters and goblins’d be over before ye knew it.’

Thored glared at his eldest son. ‘An’ ‘ow’d ye know tha’? ‘Ow’d ye know the tall-folk wouldn’t jus’ pull down our stone halls an’ call us their conquered, like they do everythin’ else they touch?’

Benyar glared up at his father, unafraid. ‘Because they’re goin’ to end up ‘ere at some point anyway. ‘Ow long d’ya think it’ll be before some scout party stumbles across the Great Gates of Khur-Karzana? Then they’ll come wit’ fire an’ sword.’

‘Enough!’ Amelie hissed and smacked both Thane Thored and Benyar’s shoulders with the back of her hand. ‘Ye’ll both put this stupid quarrel to rest this instant. Benyar, if ye’re so desperate to be a political player, perhaps ye’d be best tryin’ to ensure your family gets its place in the Ironrend Covenant, instead o’ causin’ a scene on the High Chamber’s very doorstep!’

Thane Thored snorted, folding his big arms across his chest and looking away from his son. ‘Him? A member o’ the Ironrend Covenant? Not on my watch.’

The entirety of the Volostag house-clan had come out to celebrate Gorgrim’s return from the Pit – for it was rare anyone ever went into the Pits voluntarily in the search for glory, and even just one of a group of adventurers returning would see to it that their names was recorded within the Book of the Stone. The Halfling-folk crowded both sides of the long bridge to the High Chamber, stopping a few dozen paces from its great, carved doors which were flanked by two large groups of dark-armoured Ironrenders. Benyar found himself uninterested though, beyond finding out whether or not his brother was still alive.  He’ll be fine, he thought to himself. He’s a good swordsman.

Time ticked on. The molten rock hundreds and hundreds of feet below them continued to bubble and seethe. Gradually, the crowd grew and grew as more and more the common folk of Khur-Karzana heard word that someone may be returning from the Pits. Excitement grew, and soon enough, the entirety of the huge stone bridge was flooded with several thousand of the Halfling folk. The Dwarf men, all bearded and braided, muttered and grumbled to one-another through their magnificent manes of facial hair. A few wore armour and carried magnificent weapons with them, though most simply wore common shirts and doublets. The women, some brawnier than the men, chatted and compared tips on hair-plaiting, cooking, armour-care, and weapon-use. Like the men, a few of them wore their armour and carried their weapons with them, comparing axe-size and shield-posture.

The Gnomes were much quieter. They were tucked in amongst the Dwarves, wide-eyed and round-faced, with large ears that seemed to hear everything yet repeat none of it audibly. They whispered, tucking the intricate and delicate tools of their varied artisan trades into their belts and making quiet conversation with their friends and kin.

‘By the Stone, where is tha’ son o’ mine?’ Thane Thored grunted, adjusting his great sword, Trollbane, where it hung from the leather strap about his broad chest. Of course he called it Trollbane, Benyar thought with a disdainful sniff. He went into the mines once an’ came out again draped in glory ‘cos he ‘eld a single troll’s ‘ead – no-one even knows if it was him who killed the damn troll, he was simply the last sod to be left alive. Benyar said nothing, instead folding his arms across his chest and lazily resting his hand upon pommel of the fine sword which hung at his waist.

More time passed, and the mood of the crowd began to change. Though a few merchants had arrived with great trays of ale and sweetbreads, their wares had done little to calm the worry that was beginning to set in – particularly amongst the most immediate Volostags.

‘Where is brother Gorgrim?’ Berra asked, her long, golden-blonde hair in two spiralling buns on either side of her head. She pulled on the sleeve of the flowing green-silk dress that her mother wore.

‘I thought he was supposed to be ‘ere by now,’ Derra echoed, her bright eyes looking up at her mother. Like her sister, her hair was in two identical buns either side of her round head.

Amelie smiled down at them and took one of each of their hands in either of hers. ‘He’ll be here soon, girls,’ she said. ‘Don’t you both go worryin’ yourselves now.’

Benyar glanced up at his plate and mail-wearing father beside him. ‘Perhaps he’d be ‘ere sooner if he had some Vid-…’

‘Don’t you damn-well say it,’ Thane Thored snarled. ‘Tha’s yer brother yer talkin’ about.’

Benyar glared at his father. ‘An’ if he’s dead, ye can live with the knowledge that if he’d ‘ad a few brave Humans at his back to ‘elp ‘im on ‘is quest, he might’ve made it back alive.’

Thane Thored’s grey-bearded face twisted in wrath. His big hands clenched into heavy fists and for a moment Benyar thought that he was going to strike him. Then, from the far end of the long bridge leading to the High Chamber, there came a yell. ‘He comes!’ a low voice called out. ‘He returns!’

A great cheer went up from the assembled crowds, and Thane Thored lost interest in his eldest son. He strode out from where he stood in the crowd and into the middle of the road to greet his youngest boy, barging into Benyar as he went. Benyar felt his fist tighten around the hilt of his blade and he gritted his teeth to try and control some of his anger. That fat prick, he thought darkly, screwing his eyes closed and taking a deep breath. One day I’ll-…

Someone whacked his elbow and he opened his eyes. He spun and glared into the furious eyes of his mother, who still held one and of each of his twin sisters in one of hers. Eyes brimming with fury, she pursed her lips together and shook her head at him. ‘You,’ she mouthed, ‘you…’

Benyar dropped his gaze, suddenly ashamed. It’s not worth it, he told himself. The house-clan is all; don’t wreck everythin’ over grudges. Benyar’s hand fell from the hilt of his sword, and he looked back towards the road to see a lone Dwarf walking across the bridge towards his father. Fighting for a better view, Benyar pushed his way to the edge of the crowd and leaned out, gazing down the length of the long stone structure.

His brother had left with a dozen other Dwarves; some of the hardiest, bravest and talented fighters that Syladrian Dwarves had to offer had gone with him. Yet now, only one of them returned. Suddenly afraid for his brother, Benyar strained his eyes to get a better look. The lone Dwarf making his way across the bridge towards the High Chamber was strong-armed and short-bearded. The dark hair that fell from his face was not enough to hide the cuts, bruises, and fresh scars that criss-crossed his flesh. His platemail hauberk seemed too big for him: it hung loosely around his broad shoulders and was tatty at the arms, covered in many puncture-holes and tears. There was a huge dent in his helmet, and the back of it had cracked opened, allowing for a cascade of his long, jet-black hair to fall out.

The Dwarf was holding something in his battered and cut hands. He staggered forwards, clearly wounded and exhausted, clutching his charge in both of his fists. Word quickly began to flutter through the crowd. ‘He’s found something,’ people were saying. ‘He’s recovered a great relic, a treasure of old. It must be priceless – it’s all he’s carrying.’

Benyar leaned out further from the crowd, just as the lone Dwarf reached where Thane Thored was standing. The crowd fell silent as the lone Dwarf in his battered armour fell to his knees and held the item in his hands up to Benyar’s father.

‘Gorgrim,’ Thored said in a short breath. ‘My son, what has ‘appened?’ He placed his hands on his son’s battered and sagging shoulders.

The battered Gorgrim raised his eyes and held up the object in his hands. ‘We spent three weeks searchin’ the Pits,’ Gorgrim began. His voice was not as Benyar remembered it – it had been strong and boisterous, full of life and always quick to laugh. Now, it sounded hollow and there was an echo to it – the far-off quake of too many memories.

‘We went deeper an’ deeper,’ Gorgrim continued, ‘fightin’ hordes o’ goblins without any problem. But-…’

‘Now is not the time,’ Thane Thored said and placed his hands on each of his youngest son’s sullen, sagging cheeks. ‘We shall remember the dead an’ commemorate ‘em accordingly. But this is a good day – for you have returned! Now is the time for celebration! Tell me, son, what is that in your hands? What ‘ave ye brought me?’

From the sidelines, Benyar could see the exhaustion in Gorgrim’s weary face. ‘Father,’ he said in a fatigued, thirst-strapped voice, ‘I bring ye yer father’s hammer.’ He lifted his hands up, presenting a warhammer of shimmering, folded steel. Wrought about a strong and sturdy haft and emblazoned in glittering gold with a great star, Benyar looked at the warhammer with his mouth wide in awe. All across the bridge to the High Chamber, silence fell as whispers spread of just what had been found.

‘Father,’ Gorgrim said in a choked, weary voice, ‘I bright ye Lightstorm.’

Thane Thored looked down at the hammer presented to him by his youngest son. For a few moments, he said nothing. Benyar could see on his face that he was unhappy. He wanted gold an’ riches, the eldest son thought. He wanted a way to buy into the Ironrend Covenant – and a hammer doesn’t give ‘im that. More importantly, though, it was a reminder – a symbol of the dishonour that once befell the Volostag family.

Slowly, Thane Thored took the hammer from his son and held it aloft in both hands. ‘This is a great day!’ he cried loud, though Benyar could hear the uncertainty in his voice. ‘My son has returned, and he has brought a great house-clan heirloom back from the Pits with him! The dead died gloriously, and their heroism shall no-doubt earn them a place in the Book of Stone!’

A great cheer went up from those assembled, and people began to chant the Volostag house-clan name. Hands clapped and feet stamped, and the great cavern in which the Halfling-folk of the Syladras Mountains had communed began to shake. But Benyar could hear a few folk crying. The other house-clans are here, he thought with a sigh. Some dozen went in, yet only one comes back.

Then, just as the cheering was reaching its climax, the great doors to the High Chamber opened. Whilst the roar of great cogs and gears twisting and turning echoed through the enormous cavern of Kava-Toa, the Ironrenders guarding the great doors stepped aside in perfect formation. From the vast space within, stepped two figures – both of whom Benyar recognised. The smaller of the two men and the youngest of the pair was Thane Rhodd Steelshatter: imposing, dark-featured, with mahogany-brown hair and a great beard spilling out from beneath the winged ceremonial steel helmet he wore. Beside him was his father, King Boragsson II – resplendent in glorious years and dark blue and gold-trimmed armour. His silver-white beard had not thinned, neither had the hair from his head; his features promised experience and wisdom, and his dark green eyes glinted with cunning and calculation. He carried at his hip Thundersoul, a sword held by the Steelshatter family since before the Eons began – it was as much a right to office as the huge golden crown upon his head.

The entire assembled crowd fell to their knees before their king as two-dozen Ironrenders poured out from the High Chamber behind their king. Benyar followed suit, dropping to a knee. Before him, the procession continued as he had expected it would: his father and younger brother also kneeled until the king bade them to stand. Any moment they’ll call me, Benyar thought. I’ll be made to swear upon the High Seat to be true to the Ironrend Covenant. Benyar understood the importance, and knew that one day he would have to step up and take his place amongst the Halfling nobility when his father died. Maybe then I’ll ‘ave a chance to undo some o’ the havoc he’ll doubtlessly sow.

‘Thane Thored Volostag,’ King Boragsson II said in a deep, booming voice. ‘Ye an’ yer son, Gorgrim, come before your king and the Ironrend Covenant draped in glory. For it ‘as been many a year since a Halfling has returned from the Pits with such a prestigious treasure.’

The king paused and cast his eye out across the assembled crowds. For a moment, the kneeling Halflings held their breath as they looked up at their king, proud and glittering. They all knew what should come next, that the Ironrend Covenant should gain its twelfth house-clan representative. Benyar knew it, his mother and sisters knew it, the Gnomes and other Dwarves crowding the bridge knew it.

‘I thank you for your heroism and bravery,’ King Boragsson II said to Gorgrim with a nod of his head. ‘You shall be well-rewarded for your heroism.’

Benyar watched as Thane Rhodd Steelshatter stepped closer to his father. ‘The High Seat is ready for their oaths, my king, should you-…’

The king raised a hand. ‘No,’ he said slowly and quietly, shaking his head. ‘Maybe one day, but not today.’

Benyar watched as his father quickly staggered to his feet. ‘Wha’s this?’ he said. ‘My son and I are ready, we-…’

King Boragsson II shook his head. ‘I know wha’ my son promised ye. He was a fool. Your family shall not be uplifted into the Ironrend Covenant this day.’

There was a collective gasp from the on-looking Halflings, followed by murmurs and whispers as words of rumour and speculation flew from lips to the ears of others. Benyar’s eyes widened in surprise, and beside him he heard his mother gasp in shock. His twin sisters broke into a torrent of questions: ‘What’s going on, Mother?’ and ‘I don’t understand, what’s happening?’

Benyar was about to step from the crowd and approach his brother and father to see if he could be of any assistance when, quite suddenly, King Boragsson II looked him dead in the eye. His gaze was as sharp and piercing as the legendary sword at his hip, and his face was as cold as the white of his beard. ‘Your house-clan is not fit to be upon the Ironrend Covenant,’ he said in a threatening hiss. Without another word, he turned and marched back into the High Chamber, his cohort of Ironrenders with him.

Thane Rhodd looked desperately from the fast-retreating figure of the king to Thane Thored before eventually breaking into a jog to catch up with his father. Benyar watched as the figures disappeared back into the dark space within the wide, low building. He could see pillars and more statues through the gloom. With a great boom, the doors to the High Chamber slammed shut, and the Volotstag house-clan, along with the hundreds of other Halflings present, were left in a stunned silence.

For a moment, no-one moved or spoke. It had seemed so certain to all present; surely Gorgrim Volostag’s return from the Pits provided all the glory and excuse one needed to be uplifted into the Ironrend Covenant? So few ever went down to the Pits voluntarily, and even fewer ever came back – particularly with a long-lost family heirloom. But Benyar had a terrible feeling he knew why his family’s passage into true Halfling greatness had been denied: the look on King Boragsson’s face had been one of utter distaste – and it had been directed straight at him.

He’s heard, Benyar thought nervously, glancing at his boots. Around him, he could hear whispers: people were talking, tongues were wagging and ears were listening. ‘I just ‘eard ‘im talkin’ to ‘is mother,’ one voice was saying, ‘an’ he was sayin’ ‘ow we should go lookin’ fer ‘elp from Men an’ Elves.’

‘Pah!’ a Gnomish voice said in reply, shrill and firm. ‘Us? Need help? Never!’

Benyar swallowed, playing with a long black plait in his beard. He glanced around himself, suddenly aware that there were eyes upon him. People were whispering. People were talking. He’s ‘eard that I think we should look for allies, Benyar thought frantically, swallowing a nervous lump in his throat. An’ now he’s denied us passage. That must be it. That must-…

Benyar’s brother and father stood where they had before the king, right before the doors to Thane Thored’s great goal: the High Chamber. Those doors were tightly closed, perhaps to the Volostag house-clans forever, and once again a row of Ironrenders had arranged themselves in front of the high, heavy structure to block any attempt at entry. Thane Thored had turned, though. His eyes were no-longer on the doors to the High Chamber. Now, they were fixed on his eldest son. Cold and brimming with fury, for a few moments Thane Thored said nothing. Beside him, Gorgrim looked heartbroken. His eyes were wide with sorrow and his posture had fallen. He looked like a carcass in his ruined armour and clothing, propped up on sticks and lashed together with string.

Thane Thored approached Benyar, holding Lightstorm in his hands. As soon as he stood before Benyar, he thrust the heavy steel hammer into the hands of his eldest son. Finally, the patriarch of the Volostag house-clan opened his mouth and spoke: ‘A fitting weapon for ye. Just like my father ye’ve heaped shame upon us all,’ he said with a wide sweep of his arm at the crowds around him. ‘Ye’ve humiliated us. Your ploughin’ opinions on so-called allies ‘ave left us with none.’

‘Father, this is no’ what I wanted,’ Benyar cried. ‘I jus’ thought tha’-…’

‘Ye thought what, hm?’ Thane Thored snarled at Benyar. ‘Ye thought tha’ spoutin’ off about how the Halfling-folk so desperately need outsiders to help us would see us carried to the High Chamber atop Dwarf-shoulders?’

From nowhere, Benyar’s mother appeared. ‘Thored, tha’s enough,’ she said sternly. ‘Not now, not ever. This can be fixed.’

‘Fixed?’ Thored yelled, startling some of the Halflings still close by. ‘This cannae be fixed! King Boragsson will no’ admit us into the Ironrend Covenant for as long as he is a part o’ this family!’ The Volostag house-clan patriarch jabbed a finger into Benyar’s chest. ‘Everythin’ I’ve worked for me entire life has just been brought to ruin about me because my weak son needs to be friends with the tall folk!’

Amelie said nothing. Instead, she took Berra and Derra by the hands and led them away with nothing more than a reproachful glare at her husband. Benyar felt crushed. She agrees, he thought, gazing at the floor. She agrees wit’ Father.

Gorgrim appeared at his father’s side, eyes ringed with great grey bags. His face was blank and his eyes faraway. He seemed to have aged three decades since Benyar last saw him. His face was weathered and there was blood dried around his nostrils and at the corner of his mouth. He looked at Benyar – or rather looked straight through him.

‘I’m sorry, Gorgrim,’ Benyar said quietly.

‘Don’t,’ Gorgrim said in a low whisper, his eyes flitting away from Benyar’s face. ‘Just don’t. My friends died to try an’ bring this family a few ounces o’ glory. A dozen good men lie dead in the Pits – for nothin’.’

‘Gorgrim…’

‘Don’t.’

 Silence fell between the three Volostag men for a few moments. Eventually, Thane Thored put his hand on the exhausted-looking Gorgrim’s shoulder and began to walk away from Benyar. Just as he was leaving, he turned and looked over his shoulder at Benyar. ‘Ye are no son of mine,’ he said in a low, dark voice, before barging his way through the departing crowds and back towards the rest of the metropolis of Khur-Karzana. Gorgrim shot Benyar a deeply wounded look before disappearing after his father.

Benyar stood alone on the bridge that led to the High Chamber for a long time, Lightstorm, his grandfather’s hammer and the symbol of his shame, heavy in his hands. The rest of the crowd had long-since left, and, aside for the Ironrenders who stood as still as the Stone itself, he was alone. He wanted to be able to cast his ideas on alliances aside and grovel at the feet of his father, to beg for forgiveness, and to weep his regret before his brother, but he could not. The Syladrian Halflings had been too successful for too long: there was gold everywhere, there had been for centuries; goblin incursions were at an all-time low; wealth ran through Khur-Karzana like water down a deep, wide river. It made most complacent, for men like his father thought that the occasional foray against goblins was enough to constitute a continuation of house-clan honour. Benyar, however, was worried. Things were quiet. Too quiet.

As he gazed at the stone of the Syladras Mountains arching away above him, Benyar found no way to reconcile his beliefs with the love of his family. Maybe it was Dwarven pride that stopped him, but he could not bring himself to seek out his father and apologise. He could not stand before a man so opposed to what he believed in and pretend he was sorry for his opinions. He would not do it.

Heavy of heart, Benyar turned and began to make his way back across the great stone bridge. ‘By the Stone,’ he said to himself in a whisper, ‘wha’ ‘ave I done to myself? Wha’ am I to do?’

*

Benyar had returned home long after the rest of his family, late into the night. Of course, he had no idea it was night-time. The city of Khur-Karzana never slept, and was constantly lit by torches and fat braziers belching coal-light. The air was always alive with the roar of industry: the hissing rumble of the forges, the clang-clanging of anvils, the cries and laughter of a thousand voices. Halfling-folk under the mountains slept when they needed to, not at night like the Men and Elves of the Upper World.

            Those he had passed had all steered well clear of his path. Hands had shot to mouths, Dwarf-women had whispered to the folk they walked with, whilst the Dwarf-men had glared at Benyar unappreciatively. ‘We don’t need the tall-folk,’ Benyar heard one gruff-looking, one-eyed Dwarf snarl as he passed. ‘They spend all their lives up there in the empty air – their heads are full o’ nothin’!’

            Has the entire city heard? Benyar thought as he went, his cheeks reddening in humiliation beneath his dark beard. He knew well he could no-longer stay in Khur-Karzana – maybe not even in one of the smaller settlements under the Syladras Mountains. He could hear names following him already: ‘Craven,’ one voice said. ‘It’s a grand job ‘is brother is nae a coward.’

            Benyar feared he would have to leave the Syladras Mountains altogether. Amongst the Syladrians, it was rare for a Dwarf or Gnome ever left their mountains to journey into the Upper World, and those that did were never welcome to return – unless given express permission by the king or another member of the Ironrend Covenant. Benyar had heard stories and rumours, though, that in other Dwarf-kingdoms it was becoming increasingly less taboo.

            As he stood outside the grand home in which he had grown up, Benyar felt only cold. The low, wide windows held no warming, promising glow of welcome, and the great wooden door was firmly sealed. The very mountain-stone into which the large home was carved, with its wide, flat walls and hefty support-columns, seemed to frown at him. Gripped with shame and heartbreak, Benyar sighed and slowly ascended the short flight of three stairs to the front of the house. I need to leave, he thought as he went. I’ll just grab a few o’ my things an’ I’ll leave the Syladras Mountains forever. I’ll make a new like wit’ the Tall Folk, away from ‘ere, from pryin’ eyes an’ whisperin’ tongues. Away from my brother and father. He placed his hand on the heavy wood of the door and pushed.

            It did not move. They’ve locked me out, Benyar thought, his eyes and mouth wide with shock. How dare they! This is as much my ‘ome as it is theirs! He raised a fist and banged heavily on the door, aware that those Halflings passing in the street behind him were staring. Everyone’s starin’. Everyone knows. Oh, the shame of it.

            No-one came. Not even Ermoldulus came to open the door for Benyar. For a few minutes, he stood, staring at the door in disbelief. Benyar thought about taking his grandfather’s hammer and smashing the door down – but he knew that causing such an aggressive scene in the streets would draw the attention of the guard. He really ‘as disowned me, Benyar thought to himself, suddenly overcome with shock and sorrow. He sank down to his knees, staring at the door in disbelief. His spirit was gone – he suddenly felt empty. Who am I if I’m nae a Volostag? he thought, completely at a loss.

            Then, fire burned in his belly. Quickly, Benyar scrambled to his feet and looked around, glancing up at the walls, windows and support-columns that made up the house front. This is a test, he thought to himself as he grabbed onto the lowest windowsill. He tucked his grandfather’s heavy hammer into the belt he wore. It was too large and hung awkwardly, catching the back of his knees at one end and beating his upper-back with the other. This is tha’ lousy ol’ Stone-forsaken prick o’ a father’s trial. He wants to see if I’ll give up. He wants to watch me fail. I ‘ave to get inside an’ prove I ain’t goin’ down without a fight!

            Benyar heaved himself up, climbing higher and higher up the front of his home, aware that Halflings in the street behind him were stopping to watch what he was doing. He wants to humiliate me in front o’ all these people – may the Stone swallow ‘im! Once I’ve left the mountains, I’ll never see ‘em again. He wants me to come in weepin’ and beggin’, but I won’t. I’ll stand tall an’ proud before ‘im, a true Volostag-…

            Benyar heaved himself up onto the next small ledge in the face of the stone house and suddenly became aware of raised voices from within. One was definitely his father’s, but the other was too quiet to properly make out. People in the street below were stopping and pointing up at him, calling out remarks and making it all the more difficult for him to hear what was going on. ‘Perhaps he thinks that if he climbs high enough, he’ll escape the mountain and be able to find his tall friends,’ Benyar heard a high-pitched Gnomish voice say. A chorus of low chuckles drifted up to him.

            Gritting his teeth, Benyar pulled himself up onto the ledge of the largest window in the front of his home. The window itself was an inch or so taller than he was, and was large and square, lined with criss-crossing lead that formed a diamond-shape pattern upon the glass. His grandfather’s hammer weighed heavily upon his back and for a moment he thought he would topple backwards and fall into the street. He managed to reach out and grab the windowpane before he fell, and peered in through the glass.

            Benyar eyed the scene through the single-glazed, leaded window. He pressed his face against the glass to better see the inside, for the criss-crossing lead lining upon the window distorted what was going on inside. Clearly, though, Benyar could identify the two figures: one was his father, Thane Thored; the other was his brother, Gorgrim. They stood in the wide and long chamber in which the thane and his wife slept. It was a grand room, with carved-wood bookcases up against the wall, and a deep, wide bed at the far end. A great many hunting trophies and animal skulls from forays against the goblins and hunts in the depths of the mines were decked upon the walls, and dead, empty eye-sockets stared down at the two quarrelling Dwarf men below.

            Benyar knew that his arguing family members could not see him, for they were both standing in a corner of the room close to where the wide bed was. Gorgrim was still in his battered armour and had his sword at his hip, though Thane Thored had changed into a dark brown doublet and some heavy, leather trousers. Both men were yelling at one-another, and Benyar pressed himself against the glass of the window to try and hear. Below, the Halfings in the street were watching him, though most seemed to have lost interest and had wandered off, back about their own business.

            ‘This is as much your own fault as Benyar’s!’ Thane Thored roared at his younger son. ‘Ye were supposed to come back wit’ gold! Wit’ jewels! Instead, ye brought back tha’ accursed weapon and reminded the entirity of Khur-Karzana, the Ironrend Covenant, and the ploughin’ king ‘imself that we’ve ‘ad a Stonesworn in our family!’

            ‘There was nothin’ down there!’ Gorgrim yelled back, taking off his ruined helmet and hurling it across the bedroom. ‘Skeletons and shadows – no gold, no jewels, nothin’.’

            ‘If there was nothin’ down there, then wha’ killed yer comrades, hm?’ Thane Thored growled, folding his arms across his big chest.

            Benyar watched as Gorgrim turned away and placed both his hands on a low writing-desk beside the bed. For a moment, he said nothing, but Benyar could see him fiddling with the quills, letter-opening knives, and sheets of parchment left there.

            Eventually, he spoke. ‘We travelled down into the Pits for two weeks, hammerin’ the goblins, trolls, and whatever other nonsense we found. Then, we ‘appened across this dark passageway tha’ didn’t show on any o’ the maps. It looked ancient though, far older than anythin’ else in the Pits. Thinkin’ it was a chance at long-lost and forsaken treasure, we all ‘eaded down there an’ into the dark.’

Gorgrim paused for a moment, biting his lip nervously. ‘Then things started to ‘appen,’ he said in a voice so quiet that Benyar almost couldn’t hear. The eldest Volostag son pressed himself harder against the glass to try and make out what was being said. ‘Bylar started ‘avin’ nightmares, and could say nowt but “they’re comin’” when he was wakin’. Then we ‘appened across this ancient cache of ol’-lookin’ weapons. Most of ‘em were too dusty an’ useless, but there was this one sword tha’ we gave to Yldr as ‘is ‘ammer ‘ad shattered on the ‘ead of a particularly large cavern-warg.’

‘Then wha’?’ Thane Thored demanded.

Benyar watched as Gorgrim lifted his exhausted eyes to his father. ‘Then, he began to lose ‘is mind as well. Said the weapon was tellin’ ‘im to do things, makin’ ‘im think dark thoughts. We awoke one night to find ‘im hackin’ apart Esmelda.’

Benyar’s eyes widened as he listened at the window, and he saw his father step back away from his son in shock. Gorgrim continued. ‘Then, on the thirtieth day, figures appeared. I don’t know wha’ they were,’ he said quietly. ‘Shadowy Men, I think – I couldn’t be sure. They fell upon us from the darkness and tore us apart. I was the only one who managed to get away.’

There was a moment of silence from inside the room. Eventually, Thane Thored spoke. ‘An’ yet ye ran from ‘em? From these Men-like creatures instead o’ standin’ an’ fightin’ ‘em?’

Gorgrim whirled, his fists locked. ‘Wha’ was I to do?’ he yelled. ‘Die? They were too strong! They were too good!’

‘Pah!’ Thored snorted. ‘Ye sound like tha’ stutterin’ fool Benyar. Men-like creatures? Stronger than us Dwarves? ‘Ave ye gone mad?’

‘They slaughtered us all!’ Gorgrim cried. ‘They butchered us like animals!’

‘Then you should’ve fought ‘arder!’ Thane Thored roared at his son. ‘Because all you managed to drag back from the Pits was tha’ festerin’ hammer, and because o’ Benyar flappin’ on about ‘ow we need the Vidorian Empire an’ the soldiers o’ the Free Kingdoms to ‘elp us with all our deeds, the Volostag house-clan are honourless. We will never be upon the Ironrend Covenant, and I will never be king!’

There was a flash of shining steel. Benyar watched in horror as Gorgrim opened his fist – in his right hand he held one of the long, devilishly sharp letter-openers from the writing desk. Benyar threw all his weight into the window and it shattered. He fell into the room, landing heavily upon the broken glass and the stones beyond. He looked up – too late – to see his father lying on the stone floor beside him. His eyes were wide and surprised and his mouth hung open. The long, iron-grey hair about his head was slowly being stained dark red by the blood pumping from the wound to his temple – in which the small, steel letter-opener was buried.

Benyar staggered to his feet and looked at his brother, who was standing over his father’s body with wide eyes and a face twisted in anger. His fists were clenched and held before him as if he were about to punch someone, and his chest rose and fell heavily as he took shallow, fast breaths. ‘Gorgrim,’ Benyar said in a whisper, ‘wha’ ‘ave ye done?’

Gorgrim looked up, and for a moment he looked as if he were about to collapse – his eyes seemed to glaze with tears, and his face twitched with, what Benyar thought, was sorrow. ‘I’m sorry, Ben,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Benyar shook his head and took a step back towards the window. ‘Why?’ he said in a breath. ‘He was an ol’ fool, but-…’ Words failed Benyar and he held a hand out to Gorgrim, gesturing between him and the corpse of their father.

‘I’m sorry,’ Gorgrim said. ‘Really, I am.’

Suddenly, the youngest Volostag son leapt forwards and grabbed hold of Benyar’s hand in both of his own. Benyar looked down at Gorgrim’s bloody hands, and now his own blood-smeared fist. ‘Gorgrim, no…’ he said in a breath.

‘Murderer!’ Gorgrim cried, shoving Benyar as hard as he could in the chest. ‘You killed him! You killed Father!’

Benyar tried to draw his sword but Gorgrim was too fast. Blow after blow rained down on his head and face, and soon the young Dwarf was staggering around the room, doing the best he could to keep his head protected by lifting his hands to cover his face. Gorgrim kept yelling all the while: ‘Murderer! Killer! Traitor! Treason! Treason!’

And then he was back at the shattered window. Before he could help himself, Benyar found himself gripping at the frame, trying not to let Gorgrim push him out. He could hear cries from the street below – the crowd that had watched him clamber up the face of his home and break through the window were now crying out for the guards and watching what was taking place some twenty feet up the face of the Volostag residence. ‘I knew ‘ee was a bad-‘un!’ someone was yelling from below. ‘I knew it, I told ye!’

Glancing over his shoulder, only now did Benyar truly appreciate the dizzying drop down onto the cavern-street below. There were some thirty Halflings there, Dwarf-folk and Gnomes, all watching what was going on. ‘Gorgrim, please,’ Benyar choked as his brother placed both his hands on his chest and began to force him out of the window. ‘Please, don’t do this.’

The crowd below gasped and shrieked as Benyar began to slip, too dazed and weary to fight off his furious brother. He gripped the broken window-frame with all his might, broken glass cutting his palms and the backs of his legs as he was pushed further and further back. He could hear footsteps on the stairs, heavy and fast – his mother, for Ermoldulus glided silently everywhere. If I can jus’ ‘ang on a little longer…

‘I’m sorry, brother,’ Gorgrim said in a whisper. Benyar looked into his brother’s dark eyes, ringed with great grey spheres. His black beard was frizzy and wiry, flecked with blood and tatty, as if it had been pulled out in places. His face had changed – there was a tightness in it he had never seen before. There was a twitch in his eye, and line at the corner of his mouth. He’s insane, Benyar thought. He’s lost his mind in the Pits.

A shard of glass snapped and buried itself deep into Benyar’s hand. He cried out and instinctively let go of the frame. In that moment, Gorgrim pushed into Benyar’s chest with all his might. Benyar felt himself slip and desperately tried to grab back onto the window frame, but it was too late. Before he could even cry out, he was falling. He could feel the warm air of Khur-Karzana whipping past him as he plunged downwards. Gorgrim, ye bastard, Benyar thought as he fell. Ye mad bastard.

He crashed into the street, and the world went cold.

*

Benyar had always wondered what it was like inside the High Chamber. He had dreamed of being able to walk around the great, wide space and look at the detail wrought into the great, high pillars and many gold-plated statues of kings that could stand between them. He had wondered where the Covenant sat – at benches or a table? On individual seats or on a large, amphitheatre-like pew?

            There were fewer statues than he had imagines in the great, wide, circular space, though around the edge of the room there was a ring of carved columns. The walls were decorated in a fashion he had expected: a great carved mural depicting the story of the Ironrend Covenant, from King Borag Ironrend leading the other clans to the Syladras Mountains some two-thousand years ago, up to the establishment of the Covenant itself under his son, King Boragsson I. The rest of the available space upon the circular walls was filled in with dramatic pictures telling of old tales – wars with Elves, Dwarves slaying dragons and so-on. Benyar had been surprised to see a little of the wall was even given over to Gnomish feats of heroism. He recognised Gifu, the she-Gnome of legend who had ridden a mule into battle alone against one-thousand goblins.

            ‘The charges laid against you are as follows:’ Thane Barras Stoneshaper said, reading from the small scroll before him, ‘breaking an’ entry into the home of the Volostag house-clan, and the murder of Thane Thored Volostag, as well as the spread of treasonous talk throughout city of Khur-Karzana. ‘Ave ye any last words to say in your defence?’

            An hour before, Benyar had been dragged from his cell in the Durhzal Dungeons, stripped to the waist and barefoot, then made to march through the streets in chains. He had been pelted with rotted fruit, stones, even copper coins, as everyone had made an effort to shame and humiliate the man convicted of the murder of one of the Syladrian Halflings’ best-known thanes.

            He had been escorted into the High Chamber and made to kneel before King Boragsson II and the Ironrend Covenant. The king, who sat in an enormous throne of stone and gold, the back of which reached twenty feet into the air and was inscribed with the words ‘Whoever shall sit here, may the weight of the Stone keep him forever humble,’ had not said a word throughout Benyar’s brief trial. However, the eleven other individuals sat either side of him on smaller stone seats had brought forth countless witnesses.

The house-clan patriarchs who had seats upon the Ironrend Covenant had plucked from the streets every single person who had been outside the Volostag residence that fateful night. Dwarf men and women, as well as a few Gnomes, had all testified as to how they had seen him break into the home of the man who had disowned him before the High Chamber the previous day.

‘He seemed furious,’ one old Dwarf with a patchy beard and balding head had said. ‘Muttering and cursing t’ ‘imself as ‘ee went. All covered in weapons, too. Seems clear ‘nuff t’ me wha’ ‘ee were plannin’.’

‘Smashed the window in with his fists, he did,’ a young Dwarf-woman with a short, boyish haircut said. ‘My Nancee and I saw it all from the street. If we’d known that he was plannin’ to do ‘is father one, we’d’a clambered up there and tossed ‘im down from the window ourselves!’

Benyar felt like the entire world’s enemy. He knelt at the foot of the throne in the circular chamber for hours whilst the golden flames thrown up by the huge, deep fire pit in the middle of the room spat eerie shadows out across the walls. Dozens of people came, called him a murderer, and left again. Even Gorgrim had appeared. He had shown no remorse and had lied through his teeth, calling Benyar a crazed, bitter psychopath and describing the attack he had committed as if it were all Benyar’s doing. When he had tried to protest his younger brother’s words, Benyar had been punched in the mouth by the surly Ironrender standing beside him.

‘I ask you again, Benyar, have ye anything to say in your defence?’

‘I didn’t do it,’ he said in a low whisper. ‘It was Gorgrim.’

The patriarchs who made up the Ironrend Covenant and the king himself all sighed and rolled their eyes. ‘Very well,’ Thane Stoneshaper said with a roll of his dark eyes and a pat of his long beard, ‘King Boragsson II and the Ironrend Covenant understand that is what took place yesterday night: bitter following your father’s disownment of you and the recognition you would never sit upon the Ironrend Covenant or inherit your father’s titles, you returned to the Volostag family residence – where ye were no-longer welcome. When this was made clear to ye, ye decided to try an’ break into the building. This ye did by climbin’ the face o’ the home an’ breakin’ the window tha’ led into yer father’s quarters. Ye found ‘im there, alone and upset followin’ an argument he’d just ‘ad with ‘is son and heir, Thane Gorgrim Volostag. Ye seized yer opportunity an’ stabbed ‘im with a letter-opener.

‘When Gorgrim, who ‘ad stormed out the room to get away from ‘is father, ‘eard the upset, he re-entered an’ found ye standin’ o’er the body o’ the late Thane Thored Volostag. The two of ye fought after ye made to attack Thane Gorgrim, as ye were jealous of ‘is success down in the Pits, an’ Gorgrim managed to throw ye out the very window through which ye entered,’ Thane Stoneshaper concluded. ‘I’ll ask ye one final time – how d’ya plead?’

Broken, Benyar shook his head. ‘Not guilty,’ he said. ‘I never liked Da, but I’d never hurt the man. Never.’

‘Aye, so ‘is mother said,’ Thane Gorr Magmapael called from where he sat beside King Boragsson II. The short, fat Dwarf with a large ginger beard and a heavy brow had sharp, glinting eyes that saw everything and exploited all details – he was the only member of the Covenant who had spoken a word in Benyar’s favour. ‘Ye cannae discount tha’, ‘is mother knows ‘im better than any o’ us. Wha’ if Gorgrim’s lyin’?’

‘Yet we’ve ‘eard she did not arrive until after Benyar had been tossed from the window by Thane Volostag,’ Thane Neyti Norren, a frightening-faced, silver-haired Dwarf-woman with arms like ancient tree-trunk snarled. ‘We cannae simply use ‘er assumption tha’ Benyar’s innocent when all the signs point to his guilt.’

‘Come, Gorr,’ Thane Brach Antillus said from beneath his staggeringly enormous blonde beard, ‘ye ‘ave to admit tha’ the simple weight o’ testimony against the defendant is enough to prove ‘is guilt. Besides – why would Gorgrim murder ‘is own father? Folk saw ‘em together jus’ a few hours before, right outside these doors!’

Thane Magmapael sighed and fell silent, shaking his head in disagreement. ‘I don’t like it,’ he said. ‘Somethin’ is fishy ‘bout all this.’

In the pause that followed, Benyar became resigned to his fate. One-hundred years in the Durhzal Dungeons, he thought. Tha’ or it’ll be the axe. Benyar was unsure which he would prefer. At least there’s a small chance o’ escape from Durhzal.

‘I’ve ‘eard enough,’ King Boragsson’s voice rocked the chamber, rumbling and powerful. The silence seemed to get quieter in the wake of the powerful Dwarf’s booming echo of speech. Benyar lifted his eyes to look at the resplendent Dwarf, with his thick white beard and enormous golden crown of office. ‘I am ready to pass judgement ‘avin’ listened to the advice of the Ironrend Covenant.’

The wrinkled, balding Gnomish scribe sitting just behind the king’s throne, so deep in shadow Benyar had not seen him, rose to his feet and passed the king a long roll of parchment – the proceedings from the trial. King Boragsson II barely so much as glanced at the Man-sized piece of parchment before handing it back to the scribe. He fixed his cold, hard gaze on Benyar and spoke again: ‘Benyar, formerly o’ the Volostag house-clan, disowned son o’ the late Thane Thored Thored Volostag an’ ‘is wife, Lady Amelie, an’ former brother of Thane Gorgrim Volostag; I find ye guilty on account of all the crimes ye ‘ave committed. In the five-hundred and ninety-ninth year o’ the Bright Epoch of the Dwarf and Gnome-folk, on the day your brother, Gorgrim, returned from the Pits – the first soul to do so in many years – out of anger and jealously, ye murdered your father, Thane Thored.

‘Bitter that ye had been disowned for your beliefs – that the Halfling-folk should seek the ‘elp of Men in their battles with the goblins of the Below, itself treasonous and slanderous talk – ye struck out against the man who ‘ad formerly been yer father an’ killed ‘im. Ye were caught in the act by your brother, Thane Gorgrim, who fought ye off and drove ye from the Volostag house-clan home.’

There was a pause again as King Boragsson II eyed Benyar up and down. Beside him, Thane Gorr Magmapael shook his large, ginger-haired head slowly and played with the cuff of his expensive red robe. The rest of the Ironrend Covenant gazed at Benyar down the lengths of their noses, waiting for the king to pass sentence upon Benyar.

At last, the king spoke again. ‘This feud that ‘as led to the death of a famed and well-loved thane was brought about through jealousy an’ spite. I think it only fittin’ that we see whether or nae ye are ‘alf the Dwarf that Thane Gorgrim is.’ Boragsson glared down from where he stood before his throne. Benyar dropped his dark-haired and bearded head, looking at the intricately mosaicked floor.

For a moment, there was complete silence. Only the far-off rumble of the river of molten rock flowing beneath the High Chamber filled the air, as all those present looked at one another, waiting with bated breath to see what the king would say next. Then, King Boragsson stepped forwards and stood as straight and proud as he could, his white beard gleaming and shining in the brazier-light.

‘Bring forth the Heartstone!’ the king yelled at the top of his lungs.

Benyar felt the colour drain from his face and for a few moments he thought his heart had stopped beating. In silent shock he knelt, stipped to the wait in the middle of the High Chamber, staring wide-eyed at the king. ‘My king, ye cannae mean to-…’

‘Silence,’ King Boragsson II commanded. ‘This is your punishment.’

From the shadows came four Ironrenders. The heavy metal boots about their feet clanked upon the stone as they crossed towards Benyar. Between them, upon a great golden plinth, they held a huge, dark hunk of black obsidian. It was the size of a Dwarf, and had been left uncut and undecorated. Its edges glinted translucent purple in the light thrown up by the huge fire pit behind Benyar; shadowy, dark and ominous.

‘This stone was found in the middle o’ this cavern when it was dug out two-thousand years ago, back in the First Epoch, and ‘as forever since been known as the Heartstone,’ King Boragsson II said from where he stood by his throne. ‘It is what we Halflings are: strong, enduring, tempered, yet beautiful and powerful. Place your hand upon it, Benyar the Outcast.’

The huge lump of black stone was placed down before Benyar by the four Ironrenders. With tears in his eyes, Benyar reached forward with his shackled hands and placed them both upon the warm surface of the dark, glass-like rock.

            ‘Repeat after me,’ King Boragsson II said. ‘I am Benyar, and I ‘ave wronged my people.’

            Benyar swallowed. His lips trembled and his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. ‘I am Benyar,’ he said in little more than a whisper, ‘and I ‘ave wronged my people.’

            ‘With this oath I aim to set right, through glory, what harm I ‘ave done to the Halflings,’ King Boragsson continued as soon as Benyar finished.

            ‘Through this oath I aim to set right, through glory, what harm I ‘ave done to the Halflings.’

            ‘Never will I return…’

            ‘Never…’ Benyar choked back a sob. ‘Never will I return…’

            ‘Unless I bear a glory for my people tha’ is greater in magnitude than the crimes I committed against them, taken from the darkest, most foul places in the Stone itself.’

Tears pouring down his face and hands trembling, Benyar continued. ‘Unless I bear a glory for my people tha’ is greater in magnitude than the crimes I committed against them, taken from the darkest, most foul places in the Stone itself.’

‘By the Heartstone, my life is forfeit. From this day until the day I return, I am dead. May the Stone take my remains,’ King Boragsson II continued, unfazed and undaunted by Benyar’s tears.

 ‘By the Heartstone,’ Benyar said through wracking sobs, ‘my life is forfeit. From this day until the day I return, I am dead. May the Stone take my remains.’

King Boragsson II raised his noble head and its weighty crown high and looked down upon Benyar. ‘I am Stonesworn,’ he said.

Benyar clamped his eyes and mouth shut for a few moments, taking several quick, shallow breaths as he tried to control himself. He could feel every single person in the High Chamber waiting for him to speak, waiting for him to condemn himself to death. He could feel the ice-cold gaze of the king upon him, and the unwelcoming eyes of the Ironrend Covenant boring into him.

He had no choice. He had to say it. He would only make it worse for himself if he protested or fought back. They might just kill me now, he thought as he screwed his eyes shut even harder. They may just save whatever monsters are lurkin’ down there in the Pits the job.

But then Benyar thought of his younger brother. He thought of the betrayal that had led him here. No, Benyar told himself. I will do this, an’ then I will return. An’ when I do, I’ll prove it was Gorgrim who did this. I’ll show them all ‘ow wrong they were-…

‘Benyar,’ the king’s stern voice broke into his thoughts. ‘Say the last line now.’

Benyar looked up and straight into King Boragsson’s eyes. Blinking the way the last of his tears, he let his anger and hate boil inside of him until he was gripping the obsidian hard enough to turn his large knuckles white. He ground his teeth together and clenched his jaw, readying himself to say the final line of his oath.

‘I am Stonesworn.’

*

Benyar had only ever stood upon the precipice of the Pits once before in his life. To get to the Pits, one had to walk towards the Great Mines, the source of all the Syladrian Halflings’ wealth, and then turn south. A long walk through an old, abandoned mineshaft would lead the intrepid adventurer out into a wide cavern with a huge natural lake of greenish water in the middle of it. Yet, on the far side of the water, known as the Lake of Tears, was the entrance to the Pits.

            ‘They called it the Lake of Tears because, so the legend says, the families of those who died in the Pits all gathered here and wept,’ Benyar remembered Ermoldulus telling him. ‘So many were lost, and such was their grief that their tears became this great lake.’

            At the time, Benyar had only nodded. His eyes had been fixed on the entrance to the Pits itself. The enormous cave-like maw leered out of the dark rock, hissing as drafts of wind blew up from the maze of tunnels and caverns below. Benyar had watched and waited with his entire house-clan only weeks ago as Gorgrim and his dozen companions had walked past the huge, fang-like stalactites and stalagmites that guarded the Pits’ entrance into the wide, downward-spiralling cave.

            ‘Wha’ ‘appened down there?’ he had asked the old Gnomish servant as he watched his brother’s figure disappear into the gloom. He had seemed so young then – fresh-faced and with a pride-puffed chest. He had hoisted his sword in his hands and turned to wave to his house-clan before vanishing into the shadows.

            Ermoldulus had blinked his large, heavy lidded eyes and, with great care, had glanced at the figures around him. Dropping his voice to ensure no-one could properly hear, the Gnome had then turned to Benyar. ‘The Pits were mines, originally. The oldest, deepest, and those most used by the Halflings of the First and Dark Epochs. They were soon stripped or their resources, but it became traditional for miners to be sent deeper into the Pits. There were terrible cave-collapses, mutinies, and thousands of Dwarf-folk simply got lost in the shadows and never returned. No-one who came out was ever the same again.

‘Yet the episode that the Pits are best known for happened in the one-hundred and fiftieth year of the Dark Epoch. The son of King Torunsson II, Thane Udgarr, travelled into the Pits on a whim by himself. Days later, he returned – raving and babbling, driven mad by the shadows. No-one could make sense of a word he said, and within a week he was found dead in his house-clan home; he had opened his wrists and his throat with his father’s sword. In grief, King Torunsson II, of Rockhammer house-clan, closed the Pits to all but the Stonesworn and those with the express consent of the Ironrend Covenant. But to this day no-one knows for sure what’s down there,’ the old Gnome had said.

‘Some of the stories say that the Pits all lead to a great goblin city. Others claim that your darkest fears come alive, made manifest in the gloom.’ Ermoldulus had quickly stopped and shaken his head. ‘Myth and rumour – they are simply a dangerous place. Your brother is a strong, level-headed young fellow. He shall return.’

            On the day he entered, Benyar had been alone. No-one had come to watch him set off on his journey down into darkness – only the half-dozen Ironrenders who had escorted him cross-city from the Durhzal Dungeons. They had used a small wooden boat to cross the Lake of Tears and approach the entrance to the Pits, where twenty Dwarf warriors guarded the great stone maw at all times – as much to keep the Stonesworn in as to keep the monsters and whatever else lay in the Below from getting out.

            Just before he had entered the terrifying cave-entrance, the captain of the Dwarf men who had escorted him produced a familiar-looking weapon. ‘Your brother sends this,’ he had said from under his full-faced helmet, his waist-length grey beard bouncing. From behind the thick cloak he wore, the captain had produced Lightstorm, the weapon that Thane Gorgrim had retrieved from the Pits himself. ‘I’ve no idea why ‘ee’s so keen to get rid o’ it again. Tha’, or maybe he feels bad for tossin’ yer treacherous arse out the window.’

            Benyar had said nothing as he took the hammer. It was either meant as a gesture of remorse, genuinely intended to help him on his way, or a reminder of the shame he had brought his family as its second Stonesworn son. Damn ye, Gorgrim, he had thought with a sigh as he had eyed the gold-plated sun etched onto the side of the weapon. May the Great Creator ‘imself unmake your very bones.

He had his own sword at his hip, hanging from a long, cross-body leather belt he wore covered in pouches he had filled full of essentials: a tiny tinderbox, a whetstone, a small knife, and as much food as he could cram into the gaps in-between. He also wore his own chainmail hauberk, reinforced at the chest, legs and shoulders with heavy plate-forged armour. He wore a humble helmet – a small, open-faced pot-helmet with two large goat-horns protruding from either temple. I’ll be fine against a few dozen goblins, he thought to himself, but no’ anythin’ larger.

            He had entered the Pits what felt like forever ago. For what seemed like weeks, Benyar had wandered through the darkness, sucking moisture from stalagmites and chewing on tough, dry cave-fungus for sustenance. He had encountered nothing, only far-off whispers and echoing scuffles that taunted and lingered upon his mind like a millipede crawling through his brain.

            Everything was pitch-black. For hours upon hours, he stumbled blindly forwards. Ever-downwards, and ever-frightened Benyar scraped this way and that with his hands and he fumbled for guidance. He heard bones snap and crumble beneath his feet – Dwarf, Gnome, goblin or other, he could not tell, for the mineshafts he scrambled down were so dark. In the eternal gloom, every sound he made seemed ten-thousand times louder. Benyar was certain that at any moment an entire army of pale-skinned, slit-nosed goblins would descend upon him, shrieking and bawling as they waved pillaged Dwarf-weapons and crude iron implements of death about their heads.

Eventually, after what felt like aeons in the dark, his eyes began to accustom to the gloom. Or ‘as it simply got lighter? I cannae tell. Shapes became distinguishable: more sharp stalactites and stalagmites reaching up and down towards him. He was long out of the Dwarf-made cave-system, that much was certain. Benyar had walked much further than he had first thought, and every inch of it had been done with his grandfather’s hammer in his hands.

He stopped for rest a few times, never sure where he was, nor if it was safe. The shadows flickered and moved, slithering this way and that across rocky cavern walls and behind the great piles of boulders and mounds of rock that littered the hundreds of miles of natural caverns. Every shimmer in the shadows sent waves of fear pulsing through Benyar’s mind, and dozens of times he came to his senses cowering behind something – a low rock, a fat pillar of rock-wall, the bones of a long-forgotten Dwarf. I am a Volostag. I am a warrior.

As Benyar staggered ever-downwards in his quest for redemption and glory, time became his mortal enemy – trying to keep track of it was like trying to catch mist. He would walk, rest, and wake, each one to shadow and darkness. The ever-shifting shades of black and perpetual deep-dark of the Pits slowly became his only friend – the only thing he could count on. It was always there, and, just as it concealed the bones of thousands of dead creatures, it also concealed him. Not like time, Benyar caught himself thinking. Time will betray you. Shadows are security.

            His voice was horrid, so for a while he stopped using it. With every trip and stumble, Benyar found himself crying out – his empty, hollow voice bounced about the long, looping entrails of stone he was lost within. He sounded as if he had already died and been forced to return as some terrible form of shade or spectre, sent back to forever haunt the long, dark caverns and caves of the Pits. I could have died, Benyar thought as he stopped and ran his hands over the shadowy bones of a thousand-year-old Dwarf. These could be my bones. The bones of a Volostag. The bones of a warrior.

            After an unknown length of time spent staggering through the darkness, Benyar had given up on all hope of ever seeing Khur-Karzana again. He had eaten all the food he had brought with him, though he had found a musty old leather pack which he had filled with every kind of cave mould and moss he had come across. He had also happened across a half-full wineskin, so ancient and aged that its taste was rancid, but numbed the ever-present terror that plagued his head. That had quickly vanished, though for one night he had not been plagued by awful nightmares. He had awoken hours later with a hammering headache. At least I’m alive, he had thought as he had risen, shaky and scared. I am still a Volostag. I am still a warrior. I’m not a corpse, not yet.

            Something he had noticed during his voyage into the Pits was that the deeper he went, the brighter the caverns seem to become. Once or twice, he passed huge lakes of molten rock, bubbling and rumbling quietly to themselves, casting aside Benyar’s shadow-friends and revealing the cold, hard solitude of the endless cave-system he was trapped in. The light showed him misery; it reminded Benyar of his failures, of where he was, of what he had done wrong.

            ‘Lightstorm,’ he said as he rested in the far-off corner of some long-forgotten cave. ‘What a stupid name. Ye give no light, an’ light is for the foolish. Light shows everyone what ye’ve done wrong, it shows everyone who ye’ve let down, it shows-…’ Benyar caught himself babbling and bit his tongue.

Don’t go mad. I am a Volostag. I am a warrior.  

            More time passed. Benyar staggered ever downwards into the Below. At some point, he was vaguely aware of happening across something alive. Was it a Dwarf? A time-lost Gnome? A goblin? He could neither see it nor hear it, but whatever it was, he killed it. It broke under his hammer like a pot dropped from a roof onto a cobbled road. I am a Volostag. I am a warrior, he thought as he felt the skull of whatever it was shatter under his hammer. ‘The shadows hid me,’ Benyar hissed to himself as he kicked at whatever it was he had killed. Without so much as glancing at it, he continued forwards.

More time passed – Benyar knew not how much. Time’s always passin’ me. It never stops to ‘elp. It never stops to give directions. It’s always goin’, always in a hurry. The shadows are always there. The shadows are friend, Benyar thought as he sat down heavily on some darkness-shrouded rock. He held his grandfather’s hammer in his hands, twirling the heavy weapon between his hands as he did so. He could not put it down – putting it down made him feel weak, made him feel unsafe.

‘Grandfather wouldn’t mind if I renamed ye, I’m sure,’ Benyar said as he sat in the shadows of another long-forgotten cave. The shadows twitched and shifted across the low, dark walls. From somewhere came the quiet drip-drip of water into a pool.  ‘Lightstorm – there’s no light ‘ere, how can there ever be a storm?’ Benyar said and laughed at his own piece of deduction. He continued to twirl the weapon in his hands for a few more moments before pausing to think. ‘Wha’ about…’ Benyar paused to think, running his fingers through his messy beard. The plaits and braids had long come loose and frizzy, and most of the rings and beads had fallen out. ‘I’ll call ye Shadow’s Tempest – there’s plenty o’ shadows for ye.’

Pleased with himself, Benyar looked at the hammer. ‘There, now ye can take yer power from the shadow – ye can summons storms to crush my enemies, ye can-…’

Stop.

Benyar blinked. ‘Who’s there?’ he said, getting to his feet and holding Shadow’s Tempest in his hands. ‘Show yourself, ye coward!’

You’re losin’ your mind, Benyar. Get a grip. I am a Volostag. I am a warrior.

‘I am shadow,’ Benyar hissed into the darkness. ‘Anything that was before is from Up. Everything from Up is treacherous. Everything.’

Not everything-…

‘Father. Brother.’

Listen to yourself, ye’re losing yer mind! Just stop and think for a moment – ye’ve a job to do: find some treasure, kill something big, you can do it! Take it back to the king an’ ye’ll be free from this nightmare. You can drive out the shadows an-…

‘There is nothin’ down here!’ Benyar leapt to his feet and screamed at the cavern. ‘I’ve been walking for weeks an’ weeks! I’ve killed one wee lil’ thing – wha’ even was tha’? A goblin? It doesn’t matter – there’s nothin’ ‘ere! Only the drip-drip of the water and the groan of time.’ Benyar began to claw at his ears until he felt blood on his fingers. ‘The Stone itself is talkin’! It’s callin’ me a failure! It’s-…’

The stone can’t talk. Ye know tha’.

Benyar suddenly froze. There was a scuffle – something somewhere moved. ‘Did ye ‘ear tha’?’ he whispered.

Of course I heard it – I’m ye, ye prick! We are Volostag! We are warrior!

Benyar froze, his maddened mouth and eyes wide. He held his breath, and there it was again! The shadows were revealing it to him – through their inky black bodies, noise came. Far-off feet, something walking, someone moving. No – some things moving.

Look, there.

Benyar spun about. Behind him, the long, low cavern he was in continued, gradually narrowing to a tight passageway. It just large enough to swing an axe in, and was framed with a faint, flickering orange light. From the shadows within came the hiss of whispering, dark voices.

Glory, Benyar thought. Maybe it’s a goblin raidin’-party, bound for the mines. If we jus’ follow ‘em an’ kill ‘em in sight o’ all the miners and guards, we’ll surely have our oath lifted-…

‘The light,’ he whispered. ‘The light cannot be here, it cannot exist here!’

What? Stop.

Benyar began to walk forwards, hoisting his hammer in his hands. ‘Shadow’s Tempest will extinguish the hideous light in a storm o’ darkness!’

You must stop! You don’t know wha’s down there!

Ignoring himself, Benyar stumbled forwards. He began to growl and snarl as he ran through the darkness. The shadows about him amplified his voice – he sounded ferocious, like some terrible cave-beast of old, slavering and snarling at the scent of flesh. ‘We’ll slay ‘em all,’ he hissed, ‘we’ll slay ‘em all for the Great Shadow.’

He dived into the narrowing passageway and stumbled forwards, the light about him growing stronger and stronger. Soon, he could hear individual voices – high-pitched, hoarse, and grating. They spoke in a tongue Benyar could not recognise, and their words were a hostile hiss upon the ears. Shuffling footsteps accompanied the foreign words – the gentle rattle of half-disturbed stones caused by light, bare feet.  ‘Ye cannae be here,’ Benyar heard himself growl. ‘Ye cannae bring the hated light before the Great Shadow.’

Then the light was there, bright and terrible. About it stood twenty pale creatures, Gnome-sized and spindle-limbed. They had large, jet-black eyes and mouths full of horrid, razor-sharp teeth that hissed and spat like the terrible flame they carried with them. Their nostrils were slits in their hideous, marred faces, from which long tendrils of snot hung. Mismatched bits of armour covered various parts of their bodies. Some wore crude, dented iron about their horrid, pallid-coloured and near-bald heads and chests – bent breastplates pillaged from the corpses of ancient Dwarf and Gnome warriors. Others had opted for wrapping moulding pieces of dark cloth about their faces and bodies, covering their sharp, uneven ears and thin, insipid frames.

‘Goblin scum! Sacrifices for the Great Shadow!’ Benyar yelled as loud as he could as he sprinted forwards, the rocks under his feet never tripping him. The shadows hold ‘em. The Great Shadow keeps me safe. The goblins began to shriek furiously when Benyar burst from his side-passage with a bone-chilling roar. Temporarily blinded by the glare of the torch, Benyar sightlessly charged into the fray of goblins, blindly swinging his hammer with overzealous force.

For the first few seconds, he only had the sense of sound and the weight of his hammer to guide him. He felt bones crumble and heard fang-filled mouths scream as Shadow’s Tempest bludgeoned its way through the many goblins. He heard them screech and scream in terror, and even felt a few weak blows from their ineffective weapons bounce off his helmet. ‘The Great Shadow reclaim ye!’ he cried. ‘Take ye back to the darkness! Take ye back to the Great Shadow!’

Listen to yourself!

‘Death! Shadows take ye all!’ Benyar roared. Slowly, as he continued to whirl and flail amongst the party of goblins, his vision returned to him. He had smashed the head clean from the shoulders of the torch-bearing goblin, and the fiery brand it held had fallen to the floor. By the time he could see clearly, over half the goblins were dead. Their pallid, broken bodies littered the narrow passageway. Their crude and stolen armours were broken, wrapped about their bony bodies in a mangle of poorly-forged iron and pilfered steel.

The last few goblins began to panic and flee, tossing their weak weapons aside and disappearing into the shadows. ‘Deeper no!’ they cried in the Dwarf-tongue as they ran. ‘Deeper no! Deeper no!’

‘Shadows take ye!’ Benyar cried, continuing to swing and flail his hammer this way and that, even though the goblins were long gone. He felt the heavy hammer split rock and shatter boulders as he continued to flail, lost in a blind, senseless fury. He screamed and howled, his voice taking on a haunting, eerie echo in the long, dark tunnels. His own roars and yells drowned out the screeches of the last few remaining goblins. ‘Sacrifices to the Great Shadow! Sacrifice! Sacrifice!’

Stop!

Suddenly he was falling. The stones under his feet slipped and he tumbled, landing hard against the rock. His hammer flew from his hand and he bashed his head painfully upon a loose boulder. Stunned, Benyar lay in the half-light thrown up by the lone, guttering torch and gazed up into the shadows that shrouded the roof of the passage above him.

Taking long, slow breaths, Benyar slowly came to his senses. I am a Volostag. I am a warrior. He looked around him at the carnage he had wrought. The weak light of the single torch touched upon the broken faces and shattered bodies of the dozen or-so goblins he had slain. They lay about him in a bloody arc of twisted iron and rent flesh, their greyish innards oozing over the cold, hard ground of the long, downwards-spiralling stone passage.  

Slowly, Benyar rolled onto his knees and let out a long, low moan. ‘Wha’s ‘appenin’ to me?’ he said in a whisper. His eyes fell to his blood-drenched hands, then down to the floor – slick with red ichor. The savagery of his attack came back to him, the unprecedented fury with which he had savaged the goblins. He had not even known they were goblins when he had attacked – but he knew he had done so for the Great Shadow.

‘The Great Shadow…’ Benyar’s whimper trailed off and he slumped forwards, suddenly wracked with sobs. ‘I’m going to die down here,’ he whispered, clutching at the bloody stones. ‘By the Great Creator, I’m goin’ to die down ‘ere. Arganon, preserve your child of Stone!’

Misery washed over Benyar. The spaces in his mind which had been held by his now-retreating lunacy filled with sorrow. Wracked with terrible grief and self-pity, Benyar fell to the floor once more. He felt thick goblin blood soak his mail and tunic underneath, wetting his thick, scraggly beard and slathering across his face. ‘I’m goin’ to die,’ he whispered. ‘I’m goin’-…’

Look up.

Benyar slowly raised his head from where he lay. The last remnants of the torchlight that lit the narrow cave-passageway illuminated something before him. The faint glow from the burning brand danced upon well-forged silver, glinted over details, inscriptions and carvings. ‘By the Stone,’ Benyar breathed, ‘wha’ is this?’

He scrambled to his feet and practically threw himself upon the object. It was heavy in his hands, and his fingers felt the familiar, reassuring texture of hard, well-cut wood. Lifting his charge, Benyar stumbled to where the gradually failing torch had been dropped and placed the object down beside it. When the last of the light touched what he held, he could not believe his eyes.

The chest was sublime in its beauty. Each edge and corner was wrought with silver and gemstones – vibrant purple amethysts and glittering green emeralds shone up at him. There was a large lock and latch upon the front of the hefty chest, set into the hard, near-black wood that made up the rest of the container. It was incredibly ornate in its design and beyond any level of craftsmanship Benyar had ever seen. It was not Dwarven in origin, nor was it Gnomish, for there was a level of intricacy in the detail that was beyond any Halfling craftsman that Benyar had ever seen or heard of.

As he admired the lock on the chest, a flicker of the light drew his eyes to the pattern wrought between the lid and the trunk of the heavy container. The silver had been wrought to look like terrible, sharp fangs, and between those fangs were hundreds upon hundreds of tiny figures, made to look as if they were being crushed by the chest’s horrendous silver jaws.

Think of what could be within! Benyar found himself thinking. Hands scrabbling, he tried to heave the chest open, but the lock would not give. He tried again, but still it remained sealed. With a grunt, Benyar placed the chest aside and found where he had dropped his hammer. What was I calling it? he thought as he felt the reassuring weight of the bloody weapon in his hand. Shadow’s Edge? Shadow’s Tempest? He shook his head, appalled by his own weak-mindedness, and lifted the hammer high over his head.

Benyar brought the weapon down onto the chest with all his might. He heard a great, loud crack that sent a juddering reverberation up his arms. The chest had not broken – his heavy blow had not even chipped the wood, nor dented the silver at the chest’s edges. The hammer suddenly became very light in his hands, and as Benyar lifted it to strike again, he realised it had snapped clean in two. ‘No!’ he cried, looking about desperately. ‘No, it cannae be!’

The head of the hammer had snapped clean off the haft and lay a few paces away in the shadows. With a dozen Dwarven curse-words, Benyar hurled the haft of the hammer aside and seized hold of the chest with both hands. He picked it up and cast it against the stone wall, yet the chest seemed to be completely impervious to his efforts. ‘Open, damn ye!’ he cried. ‘Open, an’ I may be able to leave this accursed place! Open!’

            Calm, he heard himself think. The goblins brought it up from further down the passage. Go down there an’ see if ye can find a key. If not, take it back to the surface – the king an’ the Ironrend Covenant will be impressed ye’ve found a magical chest.

            ‘Yes,’ Benyar took a few deep, steadying breaths. He grabbed the goblin party’s dropped torch – as weak as its light was – and hoisted the chest up under his left arm. ‘I can do this,’ he said. ‘I can do this. I can go home.’ He set off down the passage which the goblins had come from. As he went, he could feel his sword in its sheath tapping against his leg with every pace he took. I can do this. I am a Volostag. I am a warrior.

            Down he went again into the twisting and winding network of narrow tunnels that led deeper and deeper underneath the Syladras Mountains, torch thrust before him. In truth, Benyar had no idea where he was. He had no clue if he was even under the Syladras Mountains anymore – he could have walked a thousand miles north, south, east, or west, and he would have no way of knowing.

            The deeper he went, the more the shadows and gloom seemed to press in around him. Gripping his torch as if it were the only thing keeping him alive, Benyar strode onwards and deeper. He passed more ancient skeletons on his downwards-bound journey, though for a time they became infrequent and far-between. Some seemed to glare at him as he crept past, the faint light of his torch offending their cold, sightless faces. Shadows retreated into their eye-sockets before springing out again to swathe again in darkness what areas had been lit by Benyar’s torch as he passed.

            They whispered to him as he went, asking him to put his torch down and to re-join them in the blackness. Benyar felt cold, ethereal fingers on his face, his brow, and the back of his neck. Each one made him cry out in alarm and stumble forwards faster, slipping and tripping on spikes of stone and shards of rock as he scrambled ever deeper into the Pits. ‘Don’t go mad,’ he whispered to himself as he went, ‘don’t go mad. I am a Volostag. I am a warrior.’

            You’re going mad.

            Benyar ignored the icy sweat on his brow and the doubt gnawing at his mind as he went. Am I mad already? He thought. Was I mad? Have I always been? Would I even know? He swallowed and pitched ever-deeper into the dizzying dark. ‘Don’t go mad. Don’t go mad.’

            And then there was light. Quite suddenly, as Benyar rounded a narrow corner in the endless spider-web of cave systems, he saw a glow coming from the far end of the dark and rough passageway. It was not a warming yellow, nor did it flicker and dance like torchlight, but it was light nonetheless. It was a low light; an eerie, dark purple in hue. With nowhere to go but forwards, Benyar continued to walk. Slowly, he edged forwards inch by inch. With his torch thrust before him like a sword and the invincible chest under his arm, Benyar tried to avoid the hissing shadows around him. ‘Focus on your feet,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Don’t trip. Don’t fall. Don’t listen to the shadows.’

            They can hear you think.

            Benyar swallowed and stopped for a moment, screwing his eyes shut and trying to keep the thoughts out – they sounded like his own, but they felt like someone else’s. He tried to think of home, but when he did he saw only blackness. He tried to picture his mother and his sisters, but when their faces came to him their eyes were nothing but pits in which only shadows swirled and seethed. ‘Shadows can’t move and talk,’ he told himself as he fell to his knees, eyes still screwed shut. ‘Shadows can’t-…they can’t-…’

            But when he opened his eyes again, the dark walls of the underground passageway were swirling and shifting. Like liquid smoke, the shadows about him slithered and hissed as they glided over each other and around Benyar. With a cry, the young, terrified Dwarf hauled himself to his feet and started forwards at a run. He cast his torch aside and surrender to the shadows about him in a last-ditch effort to reach the far-off, purple haze of light. He felt the darkness tug at his frame as he ran, pulling at his beard and scratching at his eyes. Benyar pulled his sword from its sheath and slashed wildly this way and that, but to no avail.

Phantom fingers pulled at his body, but insane determination drove Benyar forwards. Quite suddenly, he felt the space around him change: no-longer was he walking over loose and uneven rock. There was solid, flat stone underneath his feet, and the walls either side of him evened out and flattened. The mysterious purple light from the end of the corridor was now much nearer, and illuminated an obviously crafted space: the walls were of great chiselled and smoothed slabs, as was the floor. Benyar could see the shadows creeping about in the cracks between the huge tiles, and he felt his stomach turn.

With the last of his energy, he ran towards the light. He could see it clearly ahead of him: there was a tall, narrow archway at the end of the long passageway, carved into the rock. Similarly to the chest under Benyar’s arm, it was decorated with hundreds of tiny figures, all writhing and screaming as if in great pain. As Benyar stepped into the light, the terrible hiss of the shadows ceased, and for a few moments everything was calm.

He stood still, glancing about him. The shadows seemed not to dare touch the dark purple light, and their scratching claws left him be. A great weight seemed to lift from his mind and for the first time in what felt like aeons, Benyar was himself. I’m not goin’ mad, he thought as he clutched the chest he had found under one arm, and his sword in his free hand. I’m not goin’ mad. I am a Volostag. I am a warrior.

‘Yes, you are.’

The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. The words were already in Benyar’s head before they were at his ears, and the great rumble of sound that rocked his consciousness drove him to the floor. His sword fell from his hands and the chest slipped from under his arm as he slumped to his knees and clamped his hands over his ears – little good did it do, for the colossal echo was in his mind. ‘No!’ he cried. ‘No! I am Benyar! I am not mad, I am-…’

Benyar’s words trailed off as he lifted his gaze and looked beyond the archway which he had slumped down before. There was a tall, rectangular room beyond. The walls were like the archway: frozen hands and faces reached out from the very stone, contorted as if in agony, as if scrabbling desperately for aid in the moment that they were turned to rock. Every hand and face was directed towards the centre of the small, square chamber, where a single stone seat four times the size of a regular chair was.

But it was the thing in that chair from which the purple light seemed to emanate. Now it moved, great tendrils of gloom once again distorted everything, slithering and curling through the low purple light. The being from which the darkness emanated was enormous – twice as large as a Man and wrought entirely of shadow. Two jet-black horns coiled around a face made only of blackness in which two burning red eyes were set, whilst the rest of its colossal frame swirled and shifted with the darkness it seemed to control.

‘The Great Shadow,’ Benyar whispered through trembling lips. As he raised his gaze, for a fraction moment he locked eyes with the terrifying creature. A million images flashed through his mind – in a moment he saw the rise and fall of a hundred-thousand empires, the birth and destruction of kingdoms, and more blood than he could ever imagine. Tides and rivers of red ran across unknown lands, getting ever deeper and deeper. Soldiers drank from it, then they themselves drowned. Fire, water, earth, air, the stone, the stars all came and went, yet the tides of blood rose and rose. A great red ocean that got higher and higher, swallowing everything, consuming the mountains, drowning the entire world.

With a shriek, Benyar tore his eyes away from those terrible red flames set in the shadow’s face. He lay on his back, staring up at the far-off ceiling above his head. ‘No,’ he said in a babble. ‘No, no, no, no, no.’

The shadow spoke again – if the aura that washed over Benyar’s mind could be called speaking. ‘Such a rudimentary creature,’ the great rumble of voice said. ‘So fragile. You writhe and wriggle like the worms that shall devour your carcass. You alight upon my existence like a particle of dust on the wind. You are nothing, and shall neither be remembered nor cared for.’

Benyar lay on his back, tears pouring from his eyes. His whole body shook and quaked with a mindless horror like nothing he had ever imagined. ‘Ye’re no’ ‘ere,’ he whispered through his dry, cracked lips. ‘Ye’re no’ real.’

            The shadow’s laugh tore the world apart. Benyar watched helplessly as the stone arms and faces reaching from the walls about him began to scream and writhe, grabbing and pulling at the air. ‘I am as real as your terror,’ the voice came again, turning the remnants of reality to dust with its magnitude. ‘I am as real as the insanity that crawls and gnaws its way through your limited mind like maggots burrowing into a corpse.’

            One of the stone hands grabbed Benyar by his hair. He screamed as he felt himself dragged backwards. Desperately, he tried to find something to grasp onto, but the floor was smooth. Another hand gripped him around his chin, then two got hold of his shoulders. The young Dwarf screamed in horror as he felt dozens of stone fingers claw at his flesh. He was dragged up against the wall and held there. Stone hands forced his head to look towards that terrible seat of rock and the shadow-being upon it. Benyar directed his eyes away, looking at everything else in the room, for anything was better than the thing in the stone seat.

            ‘What…what are ye…?’ Benyar managed to splutter.

            The great shadow-being in the seat seemed to shift a little. For a moment, it was everywhere and nowhere – in the seat, on all the walls, inside Benyar’s mind. ‘You could not even comprehend what I am,’ the aura-voice cracked through Benyar’s shattered world. ‘I exist. I have done for longer than you could ever imagine, and I will do forever more – even though I am but a fragment.’

            ‘Please,’ Benyar said, ‘I jus’ want to go home. I jus’ want-… I jus’…’

            There was a flash and suddenly Benyar was no-longer in the chamber. It was as if the walls and floor had vanished to reveal a bird’s-eye view of Khur-Karzana, though invisible arms still clung to him. Benyar could see the High Chamber, the bridge, his own house, and hundreds of Syladrian Halflings upon the streets.

The great shadow-creature was still there, sitting in his seat which seemed to float hundreds of feet above the city. ‘Your people,’ it seemed to say. Benyar became aware that somehow the shadow was looking at everything. Its fiery red gaze was upon every single Syladrian Halfling at once, and each only for a glance. Yet in that glance, the shadow seemed to learn everything. His malicious red eyes flashed in keyholes, through windows, and around cracks in doors as it saw everything and everyone.

‘So short-lived – mere twitches in the movement of the great cosmic eye,’ the shadow-being said. ‘Each and every one; basic, undeveloped. You creatures are nothing. You mean nothing.’

Benyar looked away, though the stone hands about him jerked his head around again, forcing him to look down upon the world under the Syladras Mountains. I am a Volostag. I am a warrior. Benyar clamped his eyes shut and filled his mind with the thought. I am a Volostag. I am a warrior. I am a Volostag. I am a warrior.

You are nothing and you mean nothing.

Benyar let out a cry and fell. He was back in the terrible chamber, face-down on the stone floor. The hands and faces in the walls had stilled, and no-more was he being clutched at and pulled around by things that should not move. He tried to stagger to his feet and run, but his whole form felt as if it were being pinned down by a huge weight. I’m going mad, Benyar thought as he clutched at his face. I’m losin’ my mind.

You’ve already lost it.

‘No!’ Benyar cried. ‘I am Volostag! I am a warrior! I can’t-… I have to get out! I must open the chest an’ take it to the king, I-…’

Again came the laugh that rocked the world. The shadow-being leaned forwards from its seat, its ethereal, horned head and burning red eyes mere inches from Benyar’s tear and sweat-soaked face. ‘Then open it,’ it said in its voice that defied all reality. ‘Pick it up and try the lock.’

Benyar scrambled to his knees and looked for the chest. He found it here he had dropped it by the archway to the haunting room of purple light and shadows. Wearily, and moaning in terror and pain as he went, he crawled to the chest and took it in his hands. No more did it feel heavy – instead, it was impossibly light. He could feel the shadow in its chair looking at him; those burning eyes were both hot and cold upon his form, reading his every thought and every memory.

Open it, a voice said in Benyar’s mind. Open it.

Hands trembling uncontrollably, Benyar placed his fingers on the lid of the chest. He could feel something inside it, something moving, something alive. A ka-thump, ka-thump of a heartbeat pulsated through the wood and silver of the chest and into his palm. Gently, gripped by fear and sheer lunacy, Benyar pushed the lid backwards.

Shadows and screams poured from the chest. Benyar hurled the container aside and shrieked in fear. The great tendrils of smoke-like darkness came for him, pouring into his mouth, his eyes, his ears and chest. It stifled his breath and blinded him, tightening his throat and sending his whole body into a fitting spasm.

With one final moan, Benyar pitched backwards again, lying upon the stone. The terrible, all-consuming laugh came once more, making the whole world shake. Benyar felt his very soul quake as the great force rocked his reality. As he fell, his helmet with its battered goat horns rolled from his head as more and more of the darkness forced its way into his body. Paralysed by maddening fear, Benyar lay still as shadow took over his world. I’ve gone mad, he thought. I’ve gone mad.

Benyar plunged downwards as the world around him fell away. He could see nothing – only shadows and utter darkness. He could feel rock whizzing past him as the world grew colder and colder. Still the shadows were locked to him, pouring into him. He was the host upon which the inky parasite was feasting, draining from him everything he had: his memory, his hopes, his fears, his very life and soul. I’ve gone mad, he found himself thinking again. By the Great Creator ‘imself, I’ve lost my mind,

The final thing Benyar knew before total darkness took him was a last, mocking thought. No, it said to his warped and shattered mind. No, you haven’t.