The Weeping Grounds: The Chronicles of Covent, #3

Chapter One:

Train of Chains

Brunswig squinted his heavy bushy brow against the beating sandstorm that raged across his hard, weathered features. The swirling ash and gray sands whipped around him, spitting in his face. A sandstorm had blown in from the Great Waste. The old Dwarf did only what any self-respecting Gutter Dwarf would do. He spit back and cursed the biting, stinging whirlwinds. The barren patches of dying brown grass bent under the brutal howling winds.

The old Dwarf grew tired of stringing sand out of his thick black beard. It filled ever crevice of his armor and yet he stood as still as a bulwark, his hands resting calmly on the shaft of his half-buried two-handed battleaxe. His boots felt like sandbags. His skin had hardened over time, going from white to sand-swept bronze. The finish on his black, spiked plate armor had long since rubbed away from too many years of trapping in these sand-blasted hills.

Brunswig covered his face and squinted fiercely.

The winds intensified. The sting of sand blew harder against his cheeks. He could not see more than two feet ahead. ‘The hills,’ he shook his head, ‘we’re not even in the waste. This is supposed to be the Ruksharden Hills. Curse your burning beard, Reddix. You have some cruel sense of humor.’

Brunswig let out a slight yawn.

The sand gave him a nasty case of cottonmouth. He cursed and spit fitfully. He knew better than to make such a rookie mistake out here so near the Great Waste. ‘What in the name of the mountain is taking them so long?’ he thought bitterly, ‘I’ll skin their hides!’

Brunswig glanced nervously about the blinding gray sand clouds. He didn’t like waiting around. Territorial tribes of Ruksharden could waylay them at any moment. Ruksharden were the fiercest of men in the Dwarf’s old eyes, the only human clan to withhold their allegiance to Doljinaar and they lived stubbornly out here in these dying lands. Duststorms had made their skin as tough as leather and meaner than a Gutter Dwarf.

And even worse things could wander in off the Great Waste. He hoped one of his dumb trappers didn’t mistake another O’bominn for a night mortal again. It had cost him two Gorums, four Dwarves and seven men the last time. And how could he forget about Braadok? ‘I know you’re out there somewhere,’ he thought, ‘we’ll catch you again.’

Brunswig heard the rattle of chains behind him. He spun around and brandished his battleaxe. He feared a revolt, but he was greeted only by the welcome sight of a train of beaten and shackled night mortals winding back through the dustclouds. The chains were just blowing in the wind. His prisoners waited under a heavily armed guard of two dozen men, thirty-six Dwarves and twelve Gorum slave-handlers.

Brunswig grinned. At least he’d fetch another fat bounty off this mob of nightskins. They had caught a crowd of mostly Doelms, tall and of good stock, not like the runts he had been catching as of late. He had also chained eleven Syssrah, poor and uneducated. There would be no repossession of nobility with this lot, making them good potentials for household slaves. He only had three Drakor, but like the Doelms, the arenas would pay well for them. The huge Gorum handlers had beaten the will out of this mob at least for now.

The storm cleared just long enough for Brunswig to make out a tall twelve-foot iron cage mounted atop a steel wagon. Several Gorums wrestled with the six flighty mules that drew the wagon, their simple pea-brained instincts screaming for shelter from the storm. Brunswig was beginning to wonder if the beasts were actually smarter than he was. The iron bars were reinforced with golemite, a rare metal mined by Dwarves ten times stronger than standard steel. The grin dropped right off his beard. He scowled more fiercely than the storm’s cutting winds.

The cage remained empty, only sand collected on its floor. Braadok had once been held in that cage and he was the reason they came out here in the first place. He alone was worth far more than this rabble. He was a specimen even larger than any of the Gutter Dwarf’s imposing Gorums. A Minotaur. He looked even more nervously around knowing that Braadok too could be lurking anywhere in these sands.

Slavelord, slavelord! his captain called from behind him.

Brunswig’s heart lit up with hope. They must have found Braadok! He turned around, but not even his Dwarven eyes could pierce the slashing windblown sands.

Captain Dugan emerged from the swirling dust clouds. The long-haired, clean shaven Brigorian man saluted the old Dwarf and waited.

Brunswig hocked up a big loogie and spit in the sand. He let Dugan wait as usual to the point of awkwardness. The ex-Doljinn captain still needed to get a clue. He had spent one too many years in the Doljinaarian legions and hadn’t yet realized the rest of the world did not run on protocol. Brunswig had always thought him to be too soft and dutiful for his once rebellious bloodline, but he could trust Dugan far further than he could toss any other Gutter Dwarf.

Brunswig said at last, Spit it out, Captain!

The trappers return!

Good, we’ll see what manner of scum these brutes dredged up this time. It had better be that escaped Mino or I’ll skin their hides!

Brunswig peered impatiently around Dugan. He saw nothing at first. He gleaned the sounds of scuffling over the shrieking sandstorm. He heard grunts and groaning. He could tell another body crumpled under the pounding of huge Gorum fists. He heard growls and roars, but sadly nothing that resembled the thunderous bovine low of a bull Minotaur.

Six huge, eight-foot forms emerged from the storm: Brunswig’s pride Gorums. Another two dozen human and Dwarven trackers returned with the big green brutes.

The Gorum trappers lumbered forward, lean and chiseled, far unlike their usual fat and lazy nature. The Gutter Dwarves had trained them well, just as all Dwarves often rubbed off on the gluttonous race. His Gorums’ only weakness was the typical beer-bellies they acquired from living among such heavy-drinkers, but Brunswig could care less about their bellies, so long as each Gorum could pound the slaves back into line. Their huge hands dragged nets through the sand behind them. Gorum hands were freakishly large, big enough to ham-fist a show pig and squish it like jelly. Gorum hands were perfect for handling nightskins.

Three Drakor lay ensnared in those nets, but not Braadok. More fools who had tried to slip into Doljinaar from their eastern wastelands. He felt a twinge of disappointment, but then weighed the value of his latest catch. ‘This nearly makes up for the price of one bull Minotaur, nearly,’ he thought, ‘perhaps, I’ll forgo the pleasure of skinning these Gorums for now.’

Drakor! he said, Good! Shackle them up with the others and clip their wings. He turned to the Gorums. He patted the nearest trapper’s back, but at his height he only reached the calf. A fine catch, he praised them, not easy throws in these winds.

The Gorums emptied their nets.

The first Drakor hit the sand unconscious. He wore the wares of a metalsmith, a skilled craftsman, or so Brunswig hoped. The next Drakor was a scrawny scout of little use, but dragon-men always sold well. Once butchered, their horns and skins could be harvested to make goods. The scout bled so hard, he squirmed in shock in the sands and Brunswig wondered whether he’d last the long march back to the dungeons. But the third Drakor had been a heavily armored warrior. Well, before the Gorum pounding had reduced his black plate armor to a dissembled heap of loose straps and scrap metals.

Brunswig caught an alert gleam in the warrior’s eyes.

Watch that one, he warned.

The Drakoran warrior hit the ground running. He flapped his battered wings and took off.

A Gorum brought his huge fists down in a double-handed hammer blow. The handler struck the dragon-man hard in the back. The slavelord cringed at the sound of bones crunching in the wings. The Drakor hit the ground hard. He moaned and rolled in terrible agony.

The sandstorm blew harder, kicking up more loose sand.

The officers covered their eyes again. The Gorums wrapped their disproportionally large hands around the dragon-men’s waists and pinned them down. Three Dwarves shambled over holding clips.

The Drakoran warrior thrashed and struggled, but his handler held him fast. He screamed out as a Dwarf snapped the clip through his wings. The Drakoran scout cried a faint half-cry, but the metalsmith didn’t even rouse. Several men shackled the dragon-men to the line. A Gorum slung the comatose metalsmith over his huge shoulder and carried him like a sack of potatoes. They forced the other two to walk with the heavy prodding of rods, whips and the huge swatting of Gorum hands.

We should head in for the day,’ Dugan suggested, Braadok is probably long gone by now. The search is hopeless in these blasted whirlwinds."

Bah! He’s out here I can smell him!

We shouldn’t question our fortunes, My Lord. We’ve had a good haul. Forty shackled and we have only twelve Gorum handlers. We could not handle Braadok on top of this lot!

Gutless pig! Brunswig growled, You only wish to run because you do not have the stones to face him! He would have sold for a fortune in the games!

Dugan frowned fiercely, but he buttoned his lips. After all, good soldiers never argued with their commanding officers.

Brunswig grimaced. The elements bore the weight of a far fiercer argument. He braced himself as another gust of billowing sands closed in around them. He could no longer see past his nose. The slavelord cursed. His captain was right. They would never find Braadok in these conditions. Better to search another day when the sandstorms weren’t raging across the hills. Besides Braadok was smart for a Minotaur. The Dwarf just had a hard time swallowing the loss.

My Liege, I beg you. We must head for shelter! Dugan shouted, though his words got lost on the howling winds.

We’ve got that Grumling he escaped with! Brunswig shouted back, Braadok can’t be far! He clung to a bare thread of hope he knew.

‘Better go check on the Grumling,’ he thought. He turned around and stumbled back towards the slave lines.

His slavers watched the night mortals, but none dared attempt to escape. Not in this. Everyone stood frozen in their places, shielding their faces, from the merciless wave after wave of sand spray. The sheer act of standing, or breathing for that matter required total concentration.

Brunswig stamped stubbornly along. Everyone wanted out of this accursed sandstorm except him. He reached the empty cage. His heart leapt out of an icy whirlpool of pointless, directionless worry. Rumsfeld was gone! He rattled off every curse known to the Gutter Dwarves of which the list was endless, then he noticed the chain rattling in the wind. This chain was far smaller than the others on the slave line. It had been attached to a bar on the cage and ran under the prison wagon. Rumsfeld, that little worm, must be cowering under the wagon again.

The Dwarf stomped up angrily to the prison wagon. He grabbed the chain and yanked hard.

A lanky short green night mortal, not much taller than a Dwarf, stumbled out. He seemed shorter because he walked hobbled over and bow-legged. ‘Grumlings!’ Brunswig thought in disgust. Some considered Grumlings to be a long warped cousin of Dwarves, as Doelms were to humans, or Dark Elves to Elves, but Dwarves detested this comparison. Uplanders often mistakenly associated the two races together because they both lived underground, and the old Dwarf suspected, both species grew beards. A rather unfair observation as most uplanders understood little of the world below and the vast mysteries buried in the great deeps.

Rumsfeld stared up at Brunswig with wide terror-filled oval eyes. His pupilless eyes shone like torch-lit emeralds in a dark cavern. The Grumling cringed and covered his face. The chain had been fastened to a slave collar around his neck. He wore tattered leathers. He was bald, as the species seemed incapable of growing hair atop their heads, but his beard was enormously long, touching his toes in fact.

Brunswig rubbed his own beard for comparison. Grumling beards were noticeably thinner than the far fuller Dwarven beards, but far longer coiling all the way down to their toes. He thought they looked like ridiculous green mountain goats with those chins and wished the circus would just show up and haul the embarrassing race away. Grumlings sold for little value on the slave markets, even in the underrealms, but this one had been kept for bait.

Brunswig seized Rumsfeld by his silly beard. Stand out here in the open where he can see you! I won’t have my bait hiding under a wagon!

He won’t come! Rumsfeld squealed in that high-pitched tenor voice that grated universally on all Dwarven nerves.

Oh, yes he will, Brunswig grinned darkly. He wasn’t sure why, but Braadok had developed a soft spot for the revolting little imp.

Rumsfeld’s long thin lips grimaced and he shrunk away. The slavelord knew the Grumling couldn’t deny the Minotaur’s strange affection for him.

Just then a jarring bovine low pierced the swirling dusts.

Brunswig swung around axe ready. He heard a horrible crunch that resembled the sound of a hammer smacking into a wall of flesh. The Dwarf ducked. A battered Gorum sailed through the air. His enormous mangled form flopped over a dune dead. Brunswig heard more screams followed by the heavy crunches of armor. More bodies flew—Dwarves and men. The other slavers scrambled to meet this new threat, but the sandstorm clouded the battlefield.

Brunswig ran towards the commotion. He saw several eight-foot forms battling against an even grander foe through the gloom. ‘Braadok!’ the Dwarf knew. He heard the Minotaur’s terrifying battle cries. He could distinguish between the shifting shadows as he drew closer. Braadok’s tall and terrible horned form loomed over the skirmish.

Braadok walloped another Gorum who disappeared from view. The other Gorum grabbed the bull-man’s hammer. Braadok drove the Gorum face first into the sand. The Gorum struggled, but the red Minotaur held his face in the sand until he suffocated. Braadok retrieved his hammer. Men and Dwarves fled for their lives. The slavelord scowled. Cowards!

Brunswig froze in his tracks. He saw two shoots of steam spew from the Minotaur’s snout and cut through the raging sandstorm.

The blood drained from the Dwarf’s face. The chilling realization wracked his soul that the Gorums were dead and he was all that stood between the huge Minotaur and Rumsfeld. Worse, Braadok noticed him. The Dwarf felt last night’s ale freeze in his blood as the Mino charged.

Time slowed down to a crawl.

The Minotaur’s huge bullhead and long curved black horns held the slavelord in stunned enthrall. Death looked strangely beautiful.

Braadok was an impressive nine-foot bull Minotaur with legs as thick as tree trunks. A curly wooly mane grew down his monstrously broad neck and spread over his huge hulking shoulders. Braadok raised an immense Dwarven made iron hammer that had been forged for Gorums.

Brunswig knew he stood no chance of parrying. That iron held enough mass to batter down drawbridges and in the hands of a Minotaur? Braadok wore nothing, but a ragged loincloth and his huge muscles bulged under skin tougher than hard leather. Only enchanted blades could pierce minohide and Brunswig’s axe didn’t fall into so privileged a category.

Braadok steamed out his ringed snout. His hooves kicked up the dust. He had nearly reached the paralyzed slavelord.

Brunswig closed his eyes and waited to die. Several huge bodies whipped past him. He heard Braadok loose a splitting low in challenge. He heard another huge body take an immense blow. He recognized the guttural cry of a Gorum. He heard bodies smacking together followed by scuffling. He felt sand kicked into his face and he finally opened his eyes. Six more Gorum handlers had come to his rescue. One lay dead on the hill, but Braadok had been stripped of his hammer.

The Minotaur steamed hotly and wrestled with the five other Gorums. They grabbed at his trunk-like neck, arms and legs.

Braadok shoved them violently away, but the Gorums kept coming. Gorums were nearly as large as Minotaur. One Gorum held the Mino’s arm behind his back. Braadok punched another Gorum in the face knocking out his only remaining tooth. Another Gorum grabbed hold of his leg and held on tight. Braadok wriggled and struggled to move. He shoved one more Gorum away only to have another grab hold of his free arm.

The Minotaur’s snout spewed exhausted shoots of steam.

The Gorums managed to wrestle him down to one knee. The Gorums pummeled him with their huge ham-fisted hands.

Braadok groaned.

Brunswig hissed in excitement, Yes!

The slavelord heard Rumsfeld shriek from back at the wagon, Nooooo!

Brunswig grinned madly.

Braadok threw his head forward. He gored a Gorum with one of his horns. The brute gasped, blood shooting out. He fell over and died, but the final kill cost the Mino dearly. Another Gorum managed to grab hold of his horns and they wrestled him down into the sand.

Two other Gorums crawled onto his back and pinned him down. They now controlled his horns, arms and legs. He struggled. The men and Dwarves had returned with more Gorums. They piled on top of the Minotaur until they were sure he could not move at all.

Captain Dugan walked up and shot Braadok full of a rhino’s dose of tranquilizer.

The ale’s on me tonight, boys! Brunswig shouted. At long last he’d auction up a live bull Minotaur. The coliseum would pay well. He watched in elation as Braadok squeezed a fist of sand until his fingers went finally lax. Get him back to the wagon, he ordered, double his chains and triple his guard this time. We’re taking a bull Minotaur to Kurn!

His fellow slavers let out a hoot of victory. The Gorums dragged Braadok away while the others went back to tend to the other slaves.

Brunswig beamed brightly as he heard Rumsfeld’s soft crying in the wind. He was about to turn and gloat at the pathetic creature when he saw another body shift in the sands. He squinted fiercely through the sandstorm. ‘Is that a wounded man?’ he wondered, ‘Mino blows rarely leave anyone alive.’ Nevertheless, he thought he’d better check it out.

The old Dwarf clutched his battleaxe and trudged through the sand. He reached a wounded half-buried figure. He stared hard at the figure. The figure was tall, a man most likely. He was shocked to discern dark skin in the sand. Too dark for any human nationality, even for a Derve he noted. But what race was this? He raised his battleaxe prepared to defend himself. The Ruksharden aren’t this dark of skin and he wasn’t dressed like Brunswig’s men.

The slavelord feared he may have uncovered an O’bominn, but then the sands blew away revealing a half-starved back scored with the scars of many lashes. He saw the weak figure roll over and raise a hand as if calling for help. Two pointed ears poked through his long filthy black hair which spilled over the figure’s scrawny malnourished shoulders.

‘An Elf!’ Brunswig realized, ‘but why is his skin so dark?’ The Elf wore nothing but tattered rags, his ribs were so starved his skin looked like it hung off the bone. He was unarmed. An iron slave’s collar had been fastened around the Elf’s neck. ‘But your skin is so black,’ his thoughts trailed off, ‘almost like a…’

The Elf opened his eyes and a pair of solid glowing yellow eyes burned weakly.

A Dark Elf! Brunswig gasped, at first in fear then in excited prospect. This Dark Elf looked harmless, on the brink of death, but where did he come from? Jui-Sae was clear on the far side of the continent. A Dark Elf was even a rarer find in these parts than a bull Minotaur! The old Dwarf had doubled, no tripled his bounty. ‘What luck!’ he beamed brightly and marveled, ‘Reddix must be smiling on me today after all.’

Brunswig reached the Dark Elf. He kept his hand on his axe, but pulled the Dark Elf onto his broad shoulder. You’re dying out here, he said, come with me and you’ll live.

The Dark Elf coughed, but muttered no reply. He merely closed his eyes and leaned heavily on the Dwarf’s shoulder.

Brunswig limped forward with the Dark Elf on his shoulder. His lips broke into a wicked grin. There, there, he said aloud patting him on his boney back, we’ll nurse you back to health. Then he thought quietly, ‘and chain you up with the others.’ Brunswig was going to be richer than he had ever dared dream. He reveled so deeply in his fantasies of fortune and glory he completely missed the subtle burning gleam in the Dark Elf’s eyes…

The Dark Elf screamed out just as another lacerating whiplash cut deeply into his back. He trembled in horrible agony, his emaciated arms pulled outstretched and shackled to the black stone ceiling of a deep underground interrogation cell. He hung limply, his eyes rolled up into his head, as the sweat and blood from the multiple lashes trickled down his back. The blood dripped into a cruel cold puddle forming on the hard callous stone floor.

The Dwarven jailer paused in his lashes and turned to Brunswig who stood in front of the anguished near naked prisoner.

The slavelord nodded.

The jailer brought his leather whip back and struck hard again.

Blood splattered against the wall.

The Dark Elf screamed out again. He threw his head back and then his chin fell forward limp. He heaved laboriously. The only signs that he still clung to consciousness were the determined grimace in his gritted teeth and the dull glow between the squints in his eyes.

A pair of Gorum slave-handlers guarded the door, but Brunswig doubted he needed them. The jailer drew his whip back again, but Brunswig shook his head. The old Dwarf didn’t think the Dark Elf could take many more lashes. He would not kill his prize, though he was starting to regret wasting perfectly good portions on this underfed scrap. He wasn’t sure where the willpower came from that kept the Dark Elf alive.

Brunswig walked up to the Dark Elf. He grabbed the prisoner’s nasty sweat-drenched, blood-matted hair and yanked his head back. I am not going to ask you again, worm! he whispered hotly, Who are you and where did you come from?

I told you! the Dark Elf coughed, spitting up more blood. My name is Drell! I am a— he stammered, I’m a slave of Daar—us—druin!

LIAR! Brunswig screamed in the Dark Elf’s ear.

Drell cringed fiercely.

Brunswig was well aware of the depths of Elvish hearing. He hoped his loud voice would rattle some sense into that stubborn noggin of his. Brunswig pulled hard on the hair again, jerking the Dark Elf’s head back. This time he spoke softly, "You see, Drell, I’ve been hauling slaves for over three hundred years and in all my long years I have never seen a Dark Elven slave! How is it you were the only one dumb enough to get caught?"

I was—I was—

Spit it out! Brunswig ordered. He let go of the Dark Elf and shoved the side of his face. He backed off and gave his prisoner a foot to breathe.

The Dark Elf swept several ragged breaths of air into his lungs. He managed at last, born a slave out west. My parents were enslaved by—by Druids in Karus Forest after they fled Jui-Sae for a better life. They died toiling among the Druids. I’ve known slavery all my life, but last spring I, um, ah escaped.

You’d better not be lying to me, worm! Brunswig growled, Daarusdruin is always on the move. We’ll have a horrendous time confirming such a tale!

It’s the truth! I swear it! Drell shouted back, I’m a second generation slave! I have never seen the black forests of my people! My mother and father hailed from the small town of Nefar—just a speck of dirt on the map!

Nefar? Never heard of it!

My mother said it was a—a thieves’ town located just north of the forest border, a hidden town in a mountain, he gasped, valley.

YOU LIE! Brunswig bellowed. He snapped his fingers.

The jailer cracked a bloodthirsty Gutter Dwarf grin and drew his whip back.

No! Drell screamed, Please! The Dark Elf cringed fiercely, shaking like a blubbering coward. Brunswig thought he smelled the reek of urine running down the prisoner’s leg. ‘How pathetic!’ he thought in disgust.

The whip cracked and bit deeply into Drell’s back.

Drell screamed out. More blood splattered. He yanked hard at his chains, but they would not budge. He balled and begged.

Brunswig nodded.

Lash! Lash! The jailer started whipping the Dark Elf even fiercer.

Drell trembled at first, growling through the pain and then bawling and blubbering like a useless wretch. I swear! he screamed over and over again. He coughed and spit up more blood. His chin seemed to drop off unconscious. He dangled barely moving.

Brunswig glanced down at the floor. A puddle of urine had formed. The slavelord scowled in disgust. So far the Dark Elf had in no way lived up to the notorious reputation of his people. Perhaps, he was telling the truth. He had been raised out west, in which case he was a harmless fly. Brunswig wondered at what this revelation would mean to his money pouches. He would have to think long and hard of what to do with this slave. He raised his hand and at last the jailer stopped.

Don’t make me whip you to death, Welf! he warned, I’ll skin your hide and sell your black bones! Save us all the headache!

Please, Drell barely managed.

Now tell me, worm! Brunswig said, How is it a dumb scrap like you managed to escape an order as powerful as the Druids?

Drell didn’t answer for long moments. He merely hung there, his eyes rolled up into his head. He opened his eyelids and a faint yellow glow pierced the room, a pale candle of strength Brunswig didn’t know the Dark Elf still possessed. He might have been alarmed by this strength if his voice did not sound so broken. The slavelord beamed, sharing the bloodthirsty Gutter Dwarf smirk of his kin. He waited patiently until Drell mustered the strength to spit out his last few words.

I fled! Drell said, coughing up more blood. The blood ran down his cheek, but he continued, I fled while my master was in meditation. I headed east in hopes of finding my people. I tried to cross the Great Waste, but I got lost in the sandstorms. I wandered for three weeks and nearly died!

Brunswig studied the Dark Elf’s face long and hard. He stared deeply at those dark bloodied and beaten features until he felt he had explored every crevice. So this household slave had simply slipped away? Perhaps, he’d have to watch this Dark Elf after all.

Drell’s shadowy people had a way of slipping off into the night, but this Elf was untrained. Though his body had been obviously hardened by years of hard labor, the starvation and dehydration had nearly taken him. It would be weeks before this slave would be well enough to attempt an escape, but the old Dwarf was confident not even a Dark Elf could escape from here. Not down in the Dungeons of Ogden or on the slave ships on the Sea of Mourning.

Brunswig finally cracked a smile. HA! he laughed, So you tried to cross the Great Waste, did ya? You Dark Elves proved to be just as stupid as the rest of em’ big dumb dark brutes! Well, I’m going to give you what’s coming to ya! I’m going to give ya what all you nightskins deserve! He marched up to Drell. He balled his gauntlet and punched the Dark Elf hard in the gut.

Drell spit up more blood. It hit Brunswig on the breastplate, but the Dark Elf finally lost consciousness. His eyes closed and he hung completely limp. The slavelord turned to the Gorums. Clean him up, he ordered, and drag him back to his cell!

Chapter Two:

The Boring Worm

Brunswig peered out through the black iron bars of the caged hoist as it plunged him deeper into the subterranean Gutter Dwarven city. He stared another hundred feet down the city’s immense central shaft and wondered when he might ever reach the bottom. Black iron oil lanterns hanging from equally black chains lit the multiple levels, casting down floor after floor into what seemed a bottomless pit.

Ogden could be best described as the inside of a giant empty ale barrel, damp and full of foul odors, of which the Gutter Dwarves jested they had drunk dry long ago. He watched as black-bearded Gutter Dwarves, stubby dressed up Dwarfesses and half-armored Gorums bustled amongst the lantern light on the crowded levels. Drunken laughter and boisterous drinking songs rang out from every level. Ogden buzzed with activity during happy hour and such an hour dragged so late into the night guests doubted Gutter Dwarves ever slept at all.

The slavelord was on his way to the bar to meet his men, but he was in the foulest of drinking moods. He wondered if there was something seriously wrong with him. Drinking after all was the Gutter Dwarves’ favorite pastime. He had left the dungeons above just a few minutes ago, staying far beyond his duty on tonight of all nights! He wondered what ailed him. After capturing Braadok, and now a Dark Elf, he supposed he should possess the most jovial of temperaments, but Drell’s story kept flopping around in his head like a fish out of water.

Brunswig felt deeply unsettled about the whole matter. Something didn’t sit well with him. Every creak and squeak of the many pull chains hoisting the elevator grated on his already raw nerves. He had nearly snapped the head off several already smashed bar-hoppers as soon as they got on the lift. He wondered again what was wrong with him. He too should be indulging in the nightly Ogden tradition, but he couldn’t shake the sick feeling out of the pit in his stomach. His men had bulked at his choice of tavern, after all Ogden had a hundred far more reputable bars, but they had reluctantly agreed to meet him at his requested drinking hole anyway. He had his reasons.

The old Dwarf hadn’t even bothered to clean the blood off his breastplate, nor scrub it out from underneath his fingernails. He had yet to draw attention in Ogden. Blood was a fairly common sight in this city. Gutter Dwarves were prone to brawling and then there was of course the nature of their work. Many worked as slave trappers in the wastes, handlers in the dungeons or slave drivers in the deep mines. The slave trade had been woven into the lifeblood of the city and Ogden had grown rich over it. ‘Now,’ he thought, ‘if we can all keep from getting too fat and too drunk, we may at last claw our way out of the gutter life.’ Brunswig’s pride swelled at the thought of his men’s’ hard-nosed discipline, which had kept the night mortal monsters inline even in the face of jarring hangovers from the night before.

Brunswig’s dignity burned as he thought about the thankless service the brave Dwarves of Ogden provided to Doljinaar. The Gutter Dwarves were, after all, the true frontlines of the borderlands. They prevented thousands of night mortals every year from infiltrating Karus Forest and adopting lives of murderous brigandry. Ogden lay further east than Doljinaar’s patrols at Thorbanon and yet Gutter Dwarves received nothing, but ridicule for their daily bloodshed and sacrifice.

The West looked down upon Gutter Dwarves. They called them guttermouths, cheats and scoundrels. Brunswig used several more colorful words to describe the ingrates parading around upland on their high horses who didn’t have the foggiest