With a touch of Auberon's hand, a solid stone wall in the bare-faced portion of the cliff rolled back to reveal a hidden room. As it did, and for the first time since Rehn's death, Hadrian bothered to notice his surroundings.

Auberon had led Hadrian, Royce, and Baxter up Berling's Way in the pouring rain. Hadrian didn't know where they were headed and didn't care. The flood of water rushing down the pavement served to remind him of that first night alone with Millie: the way the storm had trapped the two of them in that darkened doorway and how nice and warm she felt when pressing against him. Millie was different: ambitious, brave, playful, exciting, and incredibly talented. He felt she was just the sort of woman he could spend his life with. Someone who would challenge him, push them both to be more than either thought possible. He really suspected he might find happiness with her . . . right up until he realized she was only after the diary. Every time Hadrian thought of that book, his hands clenched into fists. That diary had caused the deaths of Lady Martel, Virgil Puck, and the courier. Then it had nearly killed Rehn Purim. Hadrian had told Rehn to give the diary to Falkirk to save the kid's life. He thought it had worked, but now Rehn was dead. If there was ever an evil book, the diary of Falkirk was it.

Hadrian was deep inside this moist and muddled world of hatred, regret, and pouring rain, when the sliding wall of stone drew his attention. Like an elephant balancing on a stool, it just wasn't something you saw every day. The power of this novelty would have worn off, leaving Hadrian to slip back into his comfortable depression, except for two additional things: one was the crowd of dwarfs inside who went abruptly silent at the sight of them; the other was the smell of ale.

Auberon led the way into what looked to be a well-to-do cave. An eerie green light illuminated the small space that was graced with a fine floor but rough-cut stone walls. Unlike the Turtle, this didn't appear to be a stylistic choice so much as laziness. In the same manner, the ceiling was low, and no effort had been made to smooth or finish the furrows and gouges left behind by a chisel, which endowed the ceiling with an interesting textured pattern. While all of this was intriguing, Hadrian's eyes were drawn to a stone counter laden with mugs, which looked enough like a bar to give him hope. Filling the place were more than a dozen dwarfs who stood shoulder to shoulder . . . motionless. Some held drinks nearly to their lips; others held mouths open as if about to speak; all heads were turned to face them; eyes stared in shock. But no one moved.

"Auberon!" The lady dwarf with the towel, who Hadrian remembered from the day before, broke the spell. She rushed out from behind the bar with that same towel slung over one shoulder. Her eyes were just as wide as the rest as she approached, holding her hands out as if to stop Auberon and his companions.

"Good day to you, Sloan," Auberon greeted her.

"Auberon! Are ya outta yer mind?"

"Relax, dear. Everything is fine," the old dwarf assured her.

"Fine? And how is it ya calculate that figure? I'd like ta know. By Drome's beard, nothing is anywhere near close ta being fine today." She pulled the towel off her shoulder, whipping it in the air. "Humans are abandoning the city like ants off a hot skillet. No one can get into Drumindor, and Gravis-bloody-Berling is gonna blow this whole place off the map. And now"— she whipped the end of her towel in their direction — "ya walk in here with them? The name of this place is Scram Scallie, and ya stroll in with three of them? Are ya daft, sir?"

Auberon smiled mischievously and gave her a wink. "Set the four of us up with a pint of your best ale, and I'll explain why it is you're going to kiss me as if I were a dashing young colt again."

The old dwarf shooed away those at the bar, and they scattered at his approach. When he reached the brass rail, he turned and faced the crowd. "First, allow me to introduce our friends. This is Royce Melborn, an assassin and thief of notorious reputation. And this is his partner, Hadrian Blackwater, a onetime soldier turned mercenary, and now he's a disillusioned seeker of truth. They were hired by Lord Byron to prevent Gravis from causing trouble."

"Not terribly good at their profession, are they?" Sloan accused as she walked back behind the bar and pulled mugs from the rack. She took her time doing it, as if she hoped serving them was a sentence that still had time to be repealed. "And who's the other one?"

"That's Karl Baxter, agent of Cornelius DeLur sent to keep an eye on them."

Sloan turned around with four empty mugs in her hands. "So, all three are worth about as much as a gold tenent made of wood. Is that what yer telling me? Maybe I ought ta wait before pouring these drinks until ya clean up this rainstorm puddle ya invited in."

Auberon leaned forward across the bar. "They're going to save us all, dear."

Sloan looked unconvinced. "Ya spent yer whole life trying ta free us from human tyranny. Even here, we knew of ya. Auberon the Avenger was a hero ta us all. Ya broke hearts when ya gave up. One of those was mine. Many a night I prayed ta Drome that ya would find passion again and rejoin the cause — that ya would do something, anything ta help us."

Auberon nodded. "I cursed Drome for that passion. It drove me to try to save our people from their indentured servitude, from the humiliation, and from forgetting who we once were. I spread hate like a plague. Hundreds died, the ones I killed and the ones who helped me do the killing. In the end, none of it helped, but it succeeded at making everything worse. After two hundred years of fighting, I only proved the rumors were true. That's why I quit, why I retired."

Sloan shook her head in disgust. "And today, of all days, ya come out of retirement . . . and what do ya do? Ya bring three humans into the Scallie."

"If what I just told you about them saving us isn't true, does it really matter if they know about the Scallie? And if it is the truth, don't you think they deserve a drink?"

This bit of logic left her trapped, and she filled the mugs.

Auberon handed the drinks out. Royce declined his, and it was left on the counter.

Sloan took note of this and glared at him. "It isn't poisoned, ya know. I'll admit I'm not pleased Auberon betrayed a thousand years of trust by showing ya the door ta our only safe haven — which is also a sacred shrine of sorts . . . or at least it was." She shot the old dwarf a stabbing look. "But if yer under this roof, and I'm serving ya, ya gonna get the best I've got. And it's served in a clean mug."

"No offense intended," Royce replied. "I've just never cared for any barley-based drinks. And it won't go to waste; Hadrian will drink it."

Sloan scrutinized them both as if trying to decide something. In doing so, she noticed Hadrian had already emptied his mug.

Sloan shrugged, then shook her head.

"How are they going to do it?" the tallest dwarf in the room asked.

Auberon took a sip from his mug, wiped a thin line of foam from his mustache, smiled, then once more winked. "They're going to climb the North Tower." He pointed at Royce and Hadrian. "I think Baxter will be on the Crown Jewel when it leaves tomorrow, yes?"

The ghost nodded.

"With everyone gone, who will make sure these two get the job done?" Sloan asked, her voice laced with cold cynicism.

"Ah." Auberon grinned at her, undaunted, and gestured at the room with his ale. "We will."

"We?"

"Aye, my dear. Starting right now, you and I and every Dromeian in Tur Del Fur will do whatever it takes to help these two."

Sloan shook her head. "I still don't understand what's going on in yer wee heid. The Unholy Trio, with an army of workers, a treasure house full of gold, and over two weeks ta work with, tried and failed ta do anything. What makes ya think these two have any chance at all?"

"I don't," Auberon admitted. "As I've often said, I'm an idiot. I spent centuries spilling blood only to realize I had become what I was trying to stop." Auberon put the mug down on the bar and looked hard at Sloan. "No one should ever take my advice or listen to my counsel. That much is clear. But that's not what I'm asking you to do because I'm not the one who's saying they're going to save us. I'm merely delivering the message."

"And who is that?" she asked with a sneer, her tone showing that she expected disappointment.

Auberon stood up straighter and in a clear voice declared to the room, "Beatrice Brundenlin, daughter of King Mideon."

The sneer vanished from Sloan's face. Confusion replaced it. Then her eyes shot to Royce and Hadrian, who she stared at as if they had just that moment materialized before her. "Yer not implying . . . these two, ya say?"

Auberon nodded. "Aye. These two."

Sloan moved out from behind the bar to gawk at them anew. "By Drome's beard, and ya say," she muttered, then asked, "it's them that's gonna climb the tower?"

"Day after tomorrow, I think. If we can get them equipped. They asked for rope and a few other things."

Royce nodded. "If we can start earlier, we will. No sense waiting until the last second. Just need the gear and for the rain to let up."

Sloan was walking in a circle around them, nodding her head. "Yes, yes"— she glanced at Auberon — "I can see it. Yes, and if we — they and us — manage this . . . " She looked at Auberon, her eyes bright. "If they all see what we do . . . "

"We might be saving a whole lot more than just a city."

Sloan and others began to nod. "What can we do ta help?"

"They're going to need an assortment of tools and things," Auberon said. "They can explain, even draw pictures if needed."

Royce nodded.

Sloan pulled over a crate and used it to climb on top of the bar, which brought her head close to the stone-chiseled ceiling. "Listen ta me, everyone!" she shouted. "Here we were up all night emptying the kegs, singing the old songs, toasting the end, and lamenting the burning of our world and our lives. And while we were preparing ta make our peace with Drome, wouldn't ya just know it, Auberon wasn't done fighting fer us. If ya want ta live, if ya want Tur Del Fur ta survive, ya will fetch yer tools, come back here, and do whatever these two men ask of ya." She slapped the ceiling with a palm. "By Drome's beard, we're not done yet!"

With that said, she jumped off the bar, grabbed hold of the old dwarf and kissed him.

"It's not a big deal," Hadrian said again. He was certain he'd repeated this at least once before, but he always had trouble with short-term memory and numbers when he drank. A perfect example was the empty mugs on the counter. He wasn't certain if they were his or someone else's because he had no idea how many he'd had. The number eluded him, but by the swing of his head, he could tell he'd had a pleasant number, yet far from enough. He also couldn't understand why the empties hadn't been cleared. Usually, the bartender did that to keep the counter tidy, but he reminded himself that this was no ordinary alehouse.

The lack of tables and chairs was a huge giveaway. This absence of seating left him standing, which was challenging given that the ceiling was a foot shorter than himself, forcing Hadrian to alternate between slouching and bowing his head. Luckily, everyone he talked to were dwarfs, and looking down was mandatory.

"Why are there no chairs?" he asked.

"Tradition," the thin dwarf with the short brown beard replied. Hadrian was all but certain his name was Trig the Younger. Hadrian had been introduced to so many and so quickly that, like the mugs, he'd lost track. "In ancient times, our people had a problem with drinking."

"Lack of beer?" Hadrian asked.

The dwarf chuckled. "Not too little, too much. Everyone drank all the time. People were passed out everywhere. Nothing got done 'cept the brewing of ale. So, the king — we had one then, that's how far back this goes — he ordered that no alehouses should have chairs. And he further proclaimed that anyone who couldn't stand couldn't remain in a public house. Most folks don't like to stand in one place for too long, and if you drink too much, standing at all becomes a challenge."

"I guess that makes sense."

"Yeah, and it's also too small in here for both people and furniture."

They both laughed, and Hadrian wondered if young Trig had made all that up or not.

"You're really gonna do it?" Kiln the Miner asked. He was a little fella with hands and arms that looked capable of choking a tree. "Climb Drumindor, I mean."

Hadrian nodded. "Like I said, it's not a big deal."

"Are ya sure about that? I'm asking because I don't think a scorpion could climb either one of them towers."

"You don't think so?"  Trig asked. He had become Hadrian's drinking partner, and this honor came with a certain obligation: to match his colleague in mugs and to defend his side of any argument. "Scorpions can climb anything, I think."

Heigal heard this and felt the need to add his opinion. "Can't climb smooth surfaces. They got these pincers on their feet." He made a claw out of his hand, opening and closing it. "They grab hold, but they got nothing to grab if it's smooth."

"What about a squirrel?"  Trig asked.

"Same thing. Still need something to grab."

"Okay, but how about a cockroach or — no — what about an ant? They go straight up anything. I bet an ant could climb it."

"Do you know how far the top of Drumindor would be to an ant, lad?" Heigal said. "It would take the thing a week. It'd die of starvation or thirst before reaching the top."

"That's assuming it didn't blow off."  This important observation was added by Loc, who stood beside Heigal. He was equally bound by the rules of drinking to side with his brass-rail associate.

"A slug then,"  Trig said. "A slug won't blow off."

Heigal shook his head. "A slug would move slower than an ant."

"Oh, you're right. But how about a spider? That's a wall crawler for you. And they can make a web and catch food on the way. What do you think of that?"

Those close enough to have heard the debate all shrugged, leaving Trig with a proud smile.

"Hear that?" Kiln said to Hadrian. "The lad here thinks you'll have an easy time of it. Just don't forget your web."

"Royce is as good as any spider," Hadrian said and looked around for the thief before remembering that Royce had left with Auberon and a few others. They were going to get started on crafting their equipment. No one saw any reason for Hadrian to go — especially Hadrian. He was more than satisfied with his prowess at climbing into mugs and had all the necessary gear.

"I certainly hope ya can manage it. I surely do," Sloan said. "But I fear that getting ta the bridge is only gonna be the start."

The tall dwarf heard this and waved a dismissive hand. "Bah!" he said. "Gravis Berling is an old, insane fool. And look at this man. Look at his swords!" He spoke with a tone of awe. "Why, it will be like a ruddy pig slaughter, it will."

"Watch yer mouth, Baric!" Sloan snapped. "This is just as much yer fault as anyone's."

"Mine?"

"Ya pushed Gravis into it. Insulting him, making fun, daring him. The poor soul has nothing. Lost his life's work, his home, and then his wife, and ya go on spitting on him. He's a Berling! His reputation is all he has. But ya had ta show him, didn't ya? And now he's showing you — showing all of us." Sloan looked near to tears as she leaned hard on the bar. "We've all suffered. Suffered so much that we're turning on each other when we should be . . . " She looked down and sniffled.

"What did you mean about getting to the bridge is only the start?" Hadrian asked.

"I don't know exactly," Sloan wiped her face with the towel, then held it over her mouth so that her words were muffled. "I just have this feeling, ya know? This sense of dread. Up until now, I was convinced we were all certain ta die, so that's understandable, isn't it?" She lowered the towel and looked about the little room with far-seeing eyes. "But it's more than that, really. I guess a lot of it comes from the fact I haven't been sleeping well. Keep having awful dreams — nightmares about something beneath the towers, pounding, as it — or maybe them — tries ta break out. It terrifies me, and I wake up screaming and crying like a child."

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

Sloan stopped speaking as she noticed all around the Scallie random conversations had stopped, and the room had gone frighteningly silent. Everyone was looking at her, wide-eyed.

"I'm not the only one who has had that dream, am I?"

The Bristol Foundry and Metal Works was located on the upper west side of the city. Located behind a row of identical warehouses, each featuring unlovely yards of ugly rusted rubbish, the place appeared out of step with the rest of the cliffside oasis. No flowers, no palms. Only dust and stone defined this neighborhood known as the Seventh-and-a-Half Tier — for no reason that anyone bothered to tell Royce. They were, however, quick to point out that it wasn't Bristol's foundry at all. It had belonged to Diederik Dolin, who had built it and whose family ran it for seven hundred years. Dolin, as it turned out, had the misfortune of being a dwarf. Apparently, this Alan Bristol fellow from Swanwick did not suffer the same curse, making it possible for him to purchase the workshop — not from Dolin, mind you, but — from the Unholy Trio. This was presented with all the melodrama of someone naïve enough to believe that power was only cruel to short people.

Royce was as sympathetic as any man in the rain listening to another soaked person complain about the weather. The dwarfs with him might perceive the situation differently, but then everyone saw everything through their own eyes. It made neither of them right but did make for an interesting, albeit a generally disagreeable, world. Yet even that was up for debate because there was such a thing as a Hadrian.

None of that mattered, as the entire tier was deserted. They hadn't seen so much as a stray cat since leaving Scram Scallie. And the rain couldn't be blamed. The storm had passed, although what remained was a humid drizzle that left a person unsure if they were soaked with rain or sweat.

To everyone's surprise, the foundry's gate was locked. Alan Bristol was apparently a complex man: optimistic enough to believe anything of value would survive the cataclysm, but also a pessimist in his expectation of being robbed. By virtue of this magnificently twisted worldview, Royce thought he might very well find a kindred spirit in Mister Alan Bristol.

While the small army of dwarfs began pulling hammers and chisels from belts and satchels, intent, he imagined, on burrowing through a wall or something, Royce unlocked the gate. News of this circulated by way of elbow jabs. Then they all looked at him as if he'd defied the natural order of things. Perhaps they thought him a witch — or worse, in cahoots with Alan Bristol. Auberon, who was the undisputed leader of this fellowship, spoke a few words in their language, and everyone went back to smiles and nods.

If anyone — anyone — had told me two months ago that I would be a member of a dwarven gang raiding an abandoned metal workshop at the bottom of the world in order to stave off annihilation, I would have . . . The thought hit a wall. Royce didn't have a clue how he would have reacted, but belief would not have been within the realm of possibilities.

The foundry was large — not traditional dwarf huge-beyond-reason — just big. The ceiling was three or four stories above, with metal beams running between stone pillars. Chains hung from the beams, as did massive buckets. A large wheel was connected to a massive bellows, which was motionless for now. There were piles of coal, wood, and metal ingots. A hoard of soot-covered iron tools that could easily double for implements of torture were neatly arranged on the walls. Wooden tables and benches with buckets, pulleys, hammers, and countless other devices Royce couldn't begin to classify furnished the place.

A number of the dwarfs grumbled at the sight. A few shook their heads, and one cursed, "Durim hiben!" This was one of the very few dwarven terms Royce knew — not the exact translation, but well enough to use it correctly in conversation. The same fellow followed the profanity saying, "What a mess!"  Then he shouted, "Get the lights on in here!"

The rest scattered.

Auberon directed Royce to one wall that looked to be made of black slate. A huge wooden box filled with chalks of various colors and sizes was mounted to the side of a moveable set of stairs, allowing access to the whole height of the board. "Draw what you need us to make."

Royce sketched the simple shapes of the pitons. In the past, he had made do with scraps of things he'd found over the years. Nails and iron door hinges worked, but gate latches were so ideal he used to steal them.

Beside him stood a bald dwarf with a wreath of bright hair and eyeglasses like those Arcadius played with. These were much bigger with thicker glass, and unlike the professor's, which lived on the end of his nose, the dwarf's pair covered and magnified his eyes, making him appear like a bearded owl. He tapped on the drawing of pitons, leaving dark dots on the blackboard. "And what are these thingamabobs used for?"

"I hammer them into cracks and hook a rope to them."

The dwarf studied the drawing. "That's what the hole is for? To run the rope through?"

Royce nodded.

"And you do this while dangling hundreds of feet up?"

Royce nodded again.

"Seems a bit fiddly." He scratched his ear. "You'll want something better. Something that will clip and snap, suitable for one-hand work."

"Aye," another dwarf agreed. He was shorter than the first and had a head of wild white hair that seemed to stand on end like a dandelion gone to seed. In his mouth, he chewed on an unlit pipe. "Snap and clip, that's the way for sure. Needs to be strong enough to hold the weight of a man but light enough to carry dozens of bundles up a wall."

"You'll also be wanting some V-shaped wedges of various widths and lengths to account for crack size," the fellow with the glasses said. "Need to get a good ping for maximum anchorage."

"How do you know all this?" Royce asked. "Have you climbed before?"

He shook his head. "No — I'm a dwarf."

Royce didn't know which question that answered — probably both.

More questions were asked about the harness.

"Gonna be in this a while?"

"Several hours, at least."

"Belt and leg loops will need to be adjustable to accommodate clothing depending on the weather. You'll want a thickly padded waist, as well as the leg loops, for comfort and support while you are hanging and waiting on your partner."

"Aye." Dandelion-head nodded. "Thick. Very thick and soft, like the breast of a dove."

Royce moved on to the hand claws and chalk bag. The dwarfs had improvements for everything, including how to carry rope, what sort of hammer to use, a better pack, the possibility of using a pick, and a lengthy discussion on footwear.

"What about the rope?" Royce asked. "I'm going to need a lot. Good quality is important, but it needs to be light."

"I'll talk to Elinbert," the bespectacled dwarf said. "He's the real genius when it comes to fibers."

"Oh, yes!" Cloud-head agreed with passion. "Elinbert is a wizard of wimbly-nimbly filament and fibril."

"Don't worry," Glasses said. "You'll get what you need."

"How long will all this take?" Royce asked.

"We'll work all night and through tomorrow. No one will sleep until this is done. You'll have everything no later than tomorrow night." He looked at the puffball beside him, who nodded — a thing that caused the cloud on his head to sway and shimmy.

"That will give us a night and a day to get up there and stop Gravis." Royce nodded. "Should work."

The dwarfs looked at each other. "No should about it. Three nights from now the Wolf Moon will be at its height, and Beatrice has never been wrong."

"It's the pounding that's awful," Trig was saying. "It seems so loud. So frightening. Louder than thunder, and you can feel it with your feet."

"In my nightmares, there are three of them," Heigal said. "And they stink of rotten eggs."

The whole of the alehouse was clustered tightly around the bar as each of them gave reports of their dreams. Only they didn't act like they were dreams. To Hadrian, they were like a group of blind men fashioning a common image from the combined impressions of tiny hands.

"They're old," Sloan said. "Beyond ancient. That's what I got. And they're evil."

This last bit resonated universally with the group. They all nodded agreement.

"But it's a dream," Hadrian said as he stood at the miniature bar. For him, the counter was low enough to be a seat, and he'd have liked to swing his thigh up and use it as one but knew that wouldn't go over well. "Dreams aren't real."

"If it isn't real . . . " Sloan said. "How is it we're all having the same one?"

They all nodded again, and Hadrian felt more like Royce as he faced a group of believers armed only with reason. He thought to say that they really weren't sharing the same dream but were simply scared and feeding off each other's anxiety. He saw them all groping for an answer that was less horrible than the all-too-ordinary-and-meaningless reality that one person's blind hate and horrific selfishness could be so cruel. That anyone could do this was unthinkable, but that the culprit was one of their own was too much to accept. In its place, they would welcome any other answer. A trio of nameless, ancient, and evil monsters was so much better than an aging, brokenhearted dwarf.

And Hadrian understood grief. He suffered his own nightmares. His centered around the smiling face of a young man who had tried to mend a bridge that he'd never burned. Instead of open arms, Hadrian had turned his back, making a happily-ever-after into a tragedy. But there was no pounding, no rotten egg smell, no sense of ancient evil on the rise. That was just a way of blaming others for his own mistakes. Such a thing was oh-so easy to do when a blunder threatened embarrassment; how much more enticing when a mistake had cost an innocent life?

Hadrian grabbed his dwarf-sized mug and emptied it. The ale was good but weak, and the tiny tankards slowed his drinking. He wanted to get blazingly drunk and then pass out. But he could already tell that wasn't going to happen. He sighed.

Sloan picked up his mug and, apparently taking his sigh as a sign of fear, stress, or worry, she laid her little hand on his. "Don't worry, ya will do it." She said this with a mother's comfort, then turned to refill the mug from the barrel. "Beatrice said so, and if that isn't enough, three nights from now is the height of the Wolf Moon." Sloan turned back with an encouraging smile and set the brimming mug before him as the whole of the group murmured their affirmation.

"And that all means what?" he asked.

Sloan smiled self-consciously. "Oh, sorry. I'm not used ta talking ta the non-initiated. Scram Scallie is a haven from big folk, and I never did get out much. So, I'm guessing ya never heard of Beatrice?"

Hadrian shook his head. This brought some jeers and scoffing sounds, but Sloan waved them down, chiding them with, "And I'm guessing ya know the names of all of their princesses, do ya?"

"Only the one," Baric bellowed, using his height to speak above the crowd. "And we'd all just as well forget her."

This brought a round of hearty and like-minded mug clapping.

Hadrian watched them, baffled. He knew of very few princesses. The only one he could name was King Amrath of Medford's daughter, Arista. But he seriously doubted they meant her as she was just a girl.

"A sorry state of affairs indeed." Sloan frowned. "Beatrice was a Belgriclungreian princess and . . . " She paused and studied him a moment. "Do ya know what Belgriclungreian means, laddie?"

Hadrian sheepishly shook his head. "I think I recall a fish vendor mentioning it once, but I can't remember the details."

"Ya certainly ought ta learn the word, as yer surrounded by the buggers right now." She lifted her chin and raised her voice. "And an awful lot we are."

The room erupted with false outrage.

"Ya know us best as dwarfs," Sloan went on, "which is a dash derogatory, but not nearly so bad as other names we've been called. Being the children of Drome, we're actually all Dromeians, but that was a long time ago. Drome had seven sons, ya see: Dorith, Bel, Brunden, Derin, Gric, Nye, and Lung. Each became a clan unto themselves with Dorith being the thane — that's the supreme chief of all the clans. Now, fer a long time we lived up north in the city of Neith, and Clan Dorith ruled, father ta son, with Clan Derin and Clan Nye supporting them. Eventually, the rest of us drifted south, spreading out across this peninsula. Then with the success of Drumindor, the Brundenlin clan took prominence. They forced the northern clans ta submit, and Linden of the Brundenlins became the first Dromeian king and started building a new, more central capital city that became known as Linden's Lot."

"You gonna bore the man with ten thousand years of history, are you?" Baric asked.

"Bah!" she replied. "He looks like the sort who appreciates a bit of knowledge. Unlike some folk."

This brought a wave of "oohs" from the gathering.

Sloan looked back at Hadrian, frowned, and sighed. "Anyway, ta make a long story short"— she gave a wicked glance at Baric — "Fer those of ya who have the attention span of a goldfish, there was a war with the elves, which made everyone kinda hate the Brundenlins. They were overthrown by the three other southern clans, namely the Bels, the Grics, and the Lungs. Fer a long time, folks called them by their clan names until the three names sort of merged into one and became the Belgriclungreians. Over the centuries the term extended itself and became the modern name fer all Dromeians — making Dromeian a rather archaic word usually used ta refer ta ancient times or when yer making a point ta include everyone. So, when I say that Beatrice was a Belgriclungreian princess, I mean she was a dwarf."

Trig shook his head. "Couldn't you have just said that?"

"Technically, Beatrice was a Brundenlin," Kiln said. "So, calling her a Belgriclungreian isn't even accurate."

"Sloan likes to call everyone Belgriclungreian because she's a Bel," Baric said.

"But Beatrice predates Belgriclungreian as a term, so it doesn't even come close to making sense," Kiln added.

"Oh, fer the love of Drome!" Sloan said. "It's close enough fer the likes of him, I think."

"Dwarf would have been close enough for the likes of him," Kiln said.

Sloan gave the miner a cross look, and Kiln made a show of closing his mouth and taking a step back.

Loc, who stood just to Hadrian's left, tugged on his sleeve. "It's not you," he whispered apologetically. "It's always like this."

"There now," Sloan said, disgusted. "Ya have made me go and forget the point of all this."

"Beatrice," Hadrian reminded her.

"Ah-ha!" Sloan tapped the end of her nose, then raised the same finger in triumph. "Beatrice! Yes! She was a prophet who lived over five thousand years ago, and she said ya would climb Drumindor. As all of her prophecies have proved accurate, we know this will happen."

"Five thousand years ago?" Hadrian said. "Is that even possible? The world is only — I mean — this is the year 2991, so how could —"

"That's the Novronian calendar yer using, deary," Sloan explained. "It doesn't even begin until the founding of the Novronian Empire. There's a whole lot of stuff that happened before that. The Belgriclungreian calendar goes back a mite farther. Fer us, this is the year 777,745."

"Really?" Hadrian glanced now at Loc as if he might be the only sane one in the room. "And when does your calendar start?"

"When Eton first shone on Elan," Sloan replied for him, "which I believe is a better place ta begin, don't you?" She thought a moment, then shrugged. "Granted, no one was actually there ta witness the event, so I'm not certain how accurate the counting is."

"A little late to start questioning it now, don't you think?" Baric asked.

"And the Wolf Moon?" Hadrian inquired. "What's that all about?"

"That's part of our calendar as well. The whole thing is based on the moon's phases, so there are twelve moons a year. We're halfway through the Wolf Moon. And everyone knows that if yer in trouble, there is no better friend shining on ya than that. Last month was the Snow Moon, and if ya were attempting yer climb then, I would've been concerned; that month always brings bad luck."

Hadrian felt he was going to regret the question, but . . . "What makes the Wolf Moon so good?"

Sloan pointed up at the ceiling as if it were the night sky. "The moon is Elan's sister." She said this as if he already ought to know.

Hadrian spread his hands, suggesting this didn't answer the question for him.

Sloan looked to the crowd with wide eyes and pointed at him as if to show off the novelty of what she'd just found. "The moon was once very powerful, but at the start of the universe, she sacrificed everything ta save Eton and Elan . . . " Sloan waited, watching him as if this comment would trigger some memory and he would exclaim, Ah-hah! or something. He didn't, and she shook her head. "Ah . . . well, afterward, the moon diminished ta a pale remnant of her former self, but she is still out there, watching and guarding. She's the savior goddess of martyrs and heroes, and at this time of the year, she is the closest she gets ta Elan. And it is on the full moon of this month when the wolves call ta her that she pays the most attention ta Elan and those of us who walk upon her."

"Okay, but what makes you think this moon goddess would help Royce and me? We're not Dromeians. We're scallie. Isn't that right?"

Sloan smiled at him. "I was starting ta think ya were a few trees short of a forest, but ya learn fast, at least." For the first time, Hadrian got the sense she was starting to warm up to him, and not just because he was destined to save the city. He also thought that if she did, then it was in spite of herself. "The moon is not a Belgriclungreian goddess; she is universal, like Eton and Elan."

"What is Eton?" Hadrian asked.

Sloan blinked and appeared — at least for a moment — to be stunned beyond the use of words.

"Before you answer," Kiln said, "might we get another round, lest we all die of thirst while you answer that one?"

"Yer treading on quicksand, laddie," Sloan said, but took their mugs just the same.

"Have you never been outside and looked up?" Baric asked Hadrian.

"Aye," Kiln said. "Never once noticed all that stuff up there? The sky, the sun, the stars. That's Eton. He's married to Elan, which is all that lies beneath Eton, and from them came everything else."

"And the moon is Elan's sister?" Hadrian asked.

"So maybe I was a bit premature with my assessment of yer mental prowess," Sloan said with her back to all of them as she worked the taps.

"Still don't see why the moon goddess would care about me and Royce." Hadrian drained his mug.

Sloan heard the hollow sound when he set the mug on the counter and snatched it up. "She's sort of the champion of lost causes, I suppose. They say she was very powerful once, but she lost everything, even the ability ta speak, when she sacrificed herself ta save her sister. Now she exists as a mute sentinel, forever guarding against that same evil." She set the full mug back on the counter and, sliding it to Hadrian, leaned over to whisper, "And that's something else I got from the dreams. That evil — part of it, at least — is what's pounding, trying ta get out. And that's why I think the moon will be on yer side."

Hadrian took the mug. "Here's to the moon, then."

"Ya don't believe a word I'm saying, do ya?"

She was absolutely right. It was hard enough for him to believe in the myths and fairy tales he was brought up with. Adopting foreign fables was asking too much. But he was enjoying the conversation. Her passion made it easier to momentarily throw off the blanket of guilt that threatened to smother him. Listening to her, there were whole seconds that went by in which he didn't think of Rehn.

Hadrian wiped the foam off his lips. "I'm not even convinced that you believe it yourself."

She grinned. "Okay, I retract me retraction concerning yer intelligence. Honestly, yer a hard person ta fathom. Being a bartender all me life, I pride myself on accurately evaluating a person at a glance. Pinning ya down is like trying ta grab a fish out of a clear pond. It looks simple at first, but once ya put a hand in, ya discover nothing about it is simple."

Hadrian shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a mystery."

Sloan wiped the counter in circular motions that slowed down as she went until she stopped altogether. Then she looked up. "There is one other thing."

"What's that?" Hadrian took another sip.

"Andvari Berling created Drumindor. Well, he and a few thousand Brundenlins. At the time, Linden — who went on ta become our first king — was chief of the Brundenlin clan. He funded and backed the project. Alberich Berling, Andvari's son, finished the two towers that made the city possible. And when it was finally done, Mideon, Linden's grandson, was king, and his father was named Math."

"So?" Hadrian asked, hoping he wouldn't be expected to remember all those names.

"So, why is it that where we are standing right now is called Tur Del Fur, which in case ya don't know is Dromeian fer the City of  Tur?" She whipped the towel back over her shoulder. "Who, by the white of Drome's beard, was Tur? And what contribution did this person make that was more significant than either of the Berlings or the Brundenlin kings?"

"You have a theory?"

"She always has a theory," Baric said.

"Given that I just thought of it now, I wouldn't call it anything so grand as that. Just a strange idea."

"Which is?"

"What if Andvari Berling had help? What if it wasn't even his idea ta create Drumindor? What if he never even wanted ta come down here ta what, in his day, would have been a desolate and treacherous point? I say this because it is a well-known fact that Andvari was as much a world explorer as I am. So what made him come? What made him climb down in a raging storm and forced him ta seek shelter in this place that was nothing but a small crack in the face of the cliff? What if it was someone named Tur, someone who wasn't a Dromeian, and as such, he could have been expunged from our history in everything except the name of the city?"

She rocked her head as if the ideas inside had gotten stuck and needed jarring. "And since I am already this far out on the what-if branch, let's take one more precarious step and ask . . . what if the reason had nothing ta do with taming the volcano so as ta allow fer a city ta be built and an obscure clan ta rise ta prominence? What if it was an open passage that needed ta be closed? A doorway that needed ta be locked ta prevent something awful from climbing out — what if Drumindor is really, Druma's Door?"

"It's hard for us to imagine," Hadrian recalled Royce saying, "but those two massive towers are not much more than a pair of pins in a tumbler lock."

For the first time since Hadrian looked upon Rehn's lifeless body lying in that bed, he had something else to worry about.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.