I do not own this story, Sunjinjo is the author and therefore she deserves all the credit for it. Enjoy.

The Fist Closes Part 4

That night, just after the sun had set but before the last light had died away, they entered a wasteland of cracked rock where sand worms would have to be very desperate to come after them. Huge rock formations and loose boulders scattered their long shadows across the landscape, and it was in a half-circle of these sheltering rocks that Estell's group made camp. They didn't need new water yet, but still Masud wrenched the sand worm scale he'd taken along on his back between one of the writhing cracks and lifted a superficial piece of rock, to bare the red sand beneath. Isil had to sing a while, but eventually the Minion gate still bloomed.

Estell decided to wait with his questions to the blues for now; the group needed food first. The evening meal for the elves was taken along from the domain and its orchard by the Minions, and the Overlord invited Masud and Ramah to join them. The Ruborians supplied their meal with a few lizards Ramah had killed with a rapid flick of a throwing knife, however. As he watched the Ruborians roast the little creatures, he realized that, even though he didn't eat meat, he respected them for doing so. He silently wondered what it'd be like to eat a creature that'd been alive just before.

He figured not to utter those thoughts. Instead he turned to another subject. "Here we are, two blue-eyed princes with nothing to inherit from our fathers." Ramah had told him what had happened in Kerma.

The Ruborian smiled at him. "You did inherit something. The Minions, the gem… and if I have any part in it, I'll help you take the rest as well. The other Minions, a domain, a Tower Heart…"

"And I will aid you," Estell nodded. "If I ever gain full strength we'll turn to Kerma again, and we won't turn away that time."

Masud placed a hand on Ramah's shoulder and looked at Estell with dark eyes. "Thank you for that promise, Sire."

"I'm no Sire," Estell smiled. "The title hardly fits me."

"Just wait until you sit the dark throne," Ramah countered.

"Darkness is not his inheritance," a new voice spoke up. Estell turned and met Talmar's purple eyes. "I mean no offense, but if we reach full strength it's our intention to reclaim the elven lands and leave the Minions to their own business then. Elves and Minions are not meant to work together."

"Talmar…" Estell hesitated. He remembered his earlier promise to his elven companions, but if he could bring Ramah back to his own city, as the rightful king he was… he knew all too well how the young Ruborian must feel. It was also never a bad idea to raise up one's allies. Ramah spoke before he could give a voice to these thoughts, however.

"This elf and the Minions were meant to work together. He's Sayron's son, Jinx' successor, that's why we follow him."

Talmar's mouth twisted. "You loved Jinx, I heard. Don't you see she's the cause of all this trouble, the trouble that's finally reached you as well? She provoked the dwarves. Thanks to her, the Iron Fist rolled over the land. And us elves have known far more misery because of her."

Ramah looked at him without emotion. "Jinx saved all our lives. Even now, we owe her everything, even you."

"Pray, tell me why."

"She cleared the Wasteland. Without her there would be no Ruboria. Without her, your queen never could have landed here, sheltered here after the dwarves sank your fleet."

"The blue Minions did that," Estell spoke up, trying to change the subject while pondering his opinion on the former. "And now it appears they have another talent next to healing and manipulating substances like the blue ooze." He turned to a small group of blues, sitting higher up the rock that sheltered them. Silt was already looking back at him, large yellow eyes glowing slightly in the settling dusk. A waxing moon was behind him, bloated and pale.

As Estell gave him a grateful smile and invited him to come closer, he smiled back and hopped from the rock. Drip and a few others followed.

"Minions… we wouldn't be here without you. Especially you, Silt. You couldn't have picked a better moment to discover your gift."

"Thank you, Master. But I have some work to do when it comes to controlling it."

"That's alright, first let's take in the fact something totally new just fell from the sky. Did you discuss it with Gnarl, in the domain?"

"No," Gnarl replied grumpily, in Silt's place. "He wanted to wait until now. But I'm glad you see the value of this, Sire."

"He can become as intangible as Shadow, and pass through everything save the things he was already touching," Drip explained. "If he's holding some of us, we go with him, but I think we'll be able to learn to do it ourselves when given the time."

"And it makes you invisible as well?"

"To those without magic. In your eyes, we'd glow," Silt spoke. "So we have to be careful, but it'd be most useful in Stodir." He briefly flickered and then illustrated his gift; his entire body glowed a pale blue, but the rocks around him weren't illuminated; it seemed he didn't radiate any light at all. Estell outstretched his hand and saw it pass right through Silt; he didn't feel anything, just a faint coolness that reminded him of the blue clan's healing magic.

He smiled. "I have a second Shadow. This can't go wrong. Teach the others."

"Certainly, Master."

Estell finished his meal. "Thud, my compliments, this is better than it ever got in the Sanctuary. How did you know to use those spices?"

The fat Minion grinned at him from his rock. "Silt was so kind to steal a satchel full of jars of djinn essence as he raced through the camp, Master. From now on, you'll eat exactly what you crave."

Estell burst out laughing. "You see? This can't go wrong!"

The next day, a few days' travel further north, a group of dwarves beheld the first permanent hills they'd seen in years. Their falcicorn-drawn sled had been fitted with wheels a few days back at the Ruborian border, and now sped between the foothills of the Golden Mountain Range in the morning light. They'd already passed through some villages and small cities, and had met the dark-skinned sand dwarves and thin-bearded hill dwarves they now shared the road with; the closer they came to Stodir, the lighter the skin of the merchants and travellers became, and the fuller their beards. The roads kept getting better as well; deeper into the range they weren't even flattened or hacked from the slopes anymore, but naturally occurring glaciers had been turned into broad, flat and gently winding roads. It'd be a relief to feel the sled's wheels roll over those once more.

There was only one dwarf who wasn't glad to see the realm of his ancestors. Borvar might be bringing a load of elven slaves to Stodir, but one of them kept addressing the issue that bothered him; the load he didn't have.

"Thorlond will never forgive you for losing the blues."

Borvar briefly looked back at the wares and stared into emerald eyes. Sora hadn't actually spoken; he'd gagged her a day ago as her words were starting to drive him mad. Her eyes kept boring into his, however, and her gaze made her words echo in his head… all the words he didn't want to hear. "The king will never forgive you. Those Minions were invaluable, and now the Overlord has them. You'll never see them again, save for at the battle that'll inevitably be upon you one day. He's coming. You've lost your position, you've failed and you can never put this right."

The dwarf pondered blindfolding her too, but he'd know those eyes were still there, green and accusing and knowing. He couldn't put them out; the king would want to have the slaves intact.

"Kerma has fallen by my order," he rumbled at her. The message had reached them on the road; he fiercely hoped it'd put the king in a good mood. "If a city under an actual king wasn't ready for us, what chance does your grass-green Overlord have? Thorlond will be grateful to me for seeing him and knowing what he looks like, and crush him before long, like the insect he is."

His words did nothing to change the expression in the harsh green eyes. Borvar stared back and gradually felt the entire weight of Stodir's volcano press down on him. And he knew he wouldn't be glad to see the smoking crater on the horizon, a few days from now.

He hated the pale blonde elf for it, with every fibre of his being.

"Blindfold her," he growled, and he turned to stare out over the road. It didn't help. The eyes were scorched onto the back of his own and wouldn't budge until the king offered him a pardon… which he would. Surely.

The next few days passed Estell in a haze of sand and speed, one dawn after another. With Ramah by their side, the elves raced north virtually unhindered, helped by the knowledge of the desert the Ruborians offered them in order to shelter from sand storms and travel across sand-concealed plateaus where no sand worms would burrow beneath them. Their mounts took them across gorges and the dry cracked beds of wadis, and then through shallow streams surrounded by blinding green. The further north they went, the more fertile the land became, and eventually the environment was rich and gentle enough to sustain small villages, coaxing Estell's group into evasive manoeuvres. The elves had had enough of civilization for the time being.

Eventually they arrived at a river too broad and deep to cross on their falcicorns, and according to Ramah swimming was a bad idea as well. The Kermese water serpents might have been tamed to obey the royal family, but this far north even the prince knew better than to dare enter their domain. They camped on the shore for a night, vigilant and patient.

The following morning, Estell called a group of blue Minions from the fertile soil and the flower gate it could sustain. They swam up the river and climbed aboard the first felucca of that day unnoticed. With a combination of silvery daggers and invisibility provided by Silt and all that touched him, they took the small ship, and that morning Estell sent the falcicorns back to his domain.

The felucca provided the young elf with a pleasant breather. Every evening they stopped at the riverbanks, summoning a flower gate that'd provide them dinner, and in the light of the setting sun and the stars mirroring themselves in the river Estell almost wished he could stay here forever, at peace, without responsibilities. But each time he looked west, where the sun set into a distant ocean, he saw the red fireball sinking into Stodir's black crater, like in his vision. He missed Sora's optimism more than he could say. And even beside that – the thought made him smile involuntarily – Gnarl would never leave him be if he gave up now, no matter how much the advisor insisted on calling him 'Master' and 'Sire' and swear his undying loyalty and humility.

The river took them further and further downstream towards the western ocean, and closer and closer to the point where they'd be directly south of Stodir. One night, Estell followed Ramah's gaze west, from the felucca's deck, and he knew it was time.

"How much longer?"

"One day, maybe two." The Ruborian prince caught his gaze. "The felucca is a river ship, and the sea is rough between here and Stodir. We'll have to go on over land."

"Entering through the harbours seemed like a bad idea anyway," Estell remarked.

Ramah gave him a look. "We have to get in somehow. The mountain, valley and hill gates will be guarded firmly as well."

"We'll come up with something."

"Time to do so is starting to run out."

Estell looked at Ramah ponderously. "Well, with just elves we'd get plenty of attention. Elves don't have a say. But Ruborians do."

The Ruborian prince started smiling. "You want to pretend you're mine?"

"Well, you're clearly of noble birth." Estell nodded at Ramah's rich clothes; he'd parted with his copper-coloured armour, but where he'd look even more princely wearing it, he clearly wasn't a peasant farmer now either. "And you have Masud with you as a bodyguard… you're a perfect pair of slave traders. And we want to get to the slave market."

"I can't go ahead and sell you."

"We just need to get into contact with Minions that can lead us to the Hives… and hopefully, the place where Sora is then." Estell twisted his mouth and stared at the red and purple horizon. "I can't foresee what'll happen after. I'll just have to have faith that Evil…"

"…always finds a way," Gnarl finished.

"Hello, Gnarl. I should've known you were listening in on us."

"I didn't want to let you know, but you taking over my motto just moves my heart." Gnarl sniffed. "Though, you posing as a slave…"

Estell placed his hands on the rail of the small ship. "It's a reasonable plan."

"Unless Borvar has passed on a description of your outstanding looks and they're on the hunt for a white-haired elf, and roll up your sleeve to find the amber gem. Not a great many elves have Lord Sayron's hair."

"Let's hope he didn't."

Ramah looked at his long pale hair. "Or we dye it before we head for the gates. In my city, many women do so, if they're born with a different colour than they'd like to have."

Estell raised his eyebrows; as an elf, the concept was foreign to him, as everyone was content with the appearance they'd been granted at birth. "…How do they do this? Do you have a recipe?"

"Galangal root, walnut oil and the ash of burnt oakapples. For black hair, that is."

"We have all of that in the domain."

Ramah grinned. "Then we won't just have two princes with blue eyes, but two princes with black hair soon."

"If we didn't have you, Ramah." Gnarl sounded so appreciative Estell felt almost jealous.

Ramah turned out to be correct about the duration of their voyage; the next day, late in the afternoon, the felucca sailed down a delta and the group caught sight of the sea, beyond lush fields of reed and papyrus. There they left the ship and called the falcicorns back up from the domain, well-fed and watered, and more than ready for the final part of the journey, straight on north into the mountains. Estell took a long last look at the delta and the dryer lands beyond; a far cry from the golden Sea of Sand. He knew he wouldn't see that desert for a while, not until he'd saved Sora and the Minions from Stodir, in any case. For the first time in over a decade he left Ruboria for a colder, harsher land. As he turned back north he could see the foothills in the distance, and beyond them, so far away and hazy they might as well be lofty clouds, the first jagged behemoths of the Golden Mountain Range, snow on their rough shoulders and summits.

It was in those first mountains that he dyed his hair, a few days later. Ramah's concoction took all night to do its job, but the results were striking; his hair was as dark as Shadow, gleaming blue and black. Estell found it very strange, but he also suddenly felt closer to Talmar, Ramah and – no matter how far away she might be – his mother, Fay. "Now I resemble my father in nothing."

"You resemble him far more than you know, my boy," was Gnarl's almost solemn reply. "Whatever you do, you will always be his son. And he'd be proud if he could see you now."

Their path along the sea spared them the worst climbs and descents the Range could throw at them, but just like in the Sea of Sand they often had to make detours to go around villages and cities. Added to that came the dwarven roads, that wound through valleys and passes and always lurked in the spots where they'd wanted to steer clear of the roughest landscapes, full of travellers and merchants Estell didn't want to draw the attention of.

Travelling around the roads did slow them down considerably, and now it really got through to Estell that they weren't going to intercept Sora before she entered Stodir – something he'd been hoping for up to now. Only now did he realize they were far too slow and how much of a head start Borvar had had. They'd probably already reached the dwarven capital. He couldn't slack off now, however, and not just because Gnarl scarcely did anything but reminisce about the red and brown Minions. He just kept bothering Estell while his falcicorns carefully put one hoof before the other between a steep rock wall and an even steeper precipice, at the head of the group of travellers.

"Simmer and Sear were inseparable, you have to know, so Simmer was crushed when his friend lost an arm and was removed from the horde. Giblet took him under his wing in the forge, and eventually surprised him with a metal arm. Now… well, the red leader, Hoarse, died when Jinx fell, so I wouldn't be surprised if Sear was the new leader, ironically."

"He has the biggest flame?" Estell had caught that prerequisite for becoming the red leader. He placed a comforting hand on his mount's neck. The falcicorn was nervous, but not really frightened. The Radaraz mounts were quite hardy.

"He's been sending everything to that one hand for years, and he's grown quite rapidly as well. I believe he already had the biggest flame before Hoarse even died, but that arm… he can't climb too well without his salamander."

"And it is… dead? Or still in the Netherworld?" Estell had heard about the Netherworld; a huge cavity beneath the world, where gravity was relative and both magma and icy water rushed down into ever more distant depths. A place of fire and darkness. To him, an elf from the shady forests of the world, it sounded like hell.

Gnarl paused. "Probably dead. They're probably all dead, what with the Netherworld in dwarven hands." He sounded increasingly glum. "The salamanders, the toad colony, the giant spiders… Ramul's little ones," he sighed. Estell raised his eyebrows, but didn't inquire further. Gnarl sounded really melancholic now.

"At least the Minions are alive," he tried to cheer the advisor. "Do you think the brown leader survived?"

"…Kniff?" Gnarl uttered a very strange laugh. "I don't know. Even if he made it out of the Netherworld, I have no idea."

Estell looked to his side, into the precipice, then back up to where the crumbling grey rock walls met and reduced the pale blue sky to a triangle. As they rounded the gorge, more and more of it became visible. "Hm? What could've killed him?"

"Sorrow. He loved Lady Jinx."

"They all did…"

"Kniff loved her more than most."

Estell kept looking at the sky. His falcicorn stepped on dutifully, and part of a dark grey cloud came to light, reminding Estell of a thunderstorm. He grimaced; he could think of little worse, up here in the mountains. Then more of the cloud became visible, and his eyes widened. "Gnarl…"

"What is it?" The grey Minion briefly fell silent, staring at the grey cloud through Estell's eyes. "Ooh…"

The storm cloud curved down halfway, and turned out to be more than a weather phenomenon. The bottom showed the faintest hint of an orange glow, originating from the mountain beneath it. There, in the triangle of sky beneath the rock walls before the group, something mightier than the surrounding mountains reached for the heavens, both taller and more massive, and crowned with a gaping crater. Estell could almost see the blinding sun sinking away into it. He narrowed his eyes, and a thin smile curved around his mouth.
"Friends… I give you Stodir."

(STODIR)

Borvar Ucat Zuden hadn't been back to the capital of his own realm in years, and in his absence it'd all grown even more grand and impressive than how he remembered it. He had to restrain himself not to stare around and up like a tourist – he was a high-ranking member of his clan. But he just kept thinking that no matter how much he'd tried to surround himself with gold, jewels and grand architecture, back in Napata, he could never have matched true dwarven glory. It made him feel sober.

However, the first halls contained no beer he'd be able to enjoy. The first hall beyond the Golden Gates was a passage wider than the length of an adult sand worm, and so tall clouds could almost drift along the ceiling, flanked by immense statues of former kings that all strangely resembled Thorlond. A suffocating stream of travellers, merchants and slaves coursed through that passage, wall to wall, and also across the great bridge that ran though the heads of the war hammers the huge statues held up high. Borvar and his escort moved over the broad road, still in their sled; the glacier road seamlessly passed into the entrance.
The hall of arrival, deeper in the mountainside, was even greater and wider than the entrance, the distant walls lit by carefully regulated streams of magma led into geometrical patterns, every stream crusted with gold, obsidian and gems. The people who'd settled in this hall regularly looked up at that display hungrily; the only thing they were hungrier for was what lay beyond Stodir's innermost gates, in the crater itself. The poorer merchants weren't allowed in there, however, but were forced to set up their stalls here, and draw the attention of the stream of men and dwarves as they flocked to the gates. There was beer here, but it was of no quality compared to what was waiting for Borvar in the crater.

At the Golden Gates, the Ruling Hammer of Napata had passed on his business, and he'd been provided with an escort that now made sure he could pass through the masses reasonably quickly, towards the giant gates, hewn from the living rock of the mountain, leading into the crater. Borvar betrayed nothing, but his heart was beating uncomfortably rapidly. I need a drink.

The gates reached halfway up to the distant ceiling, but they weren't open all the way; that was a rare occasion, reserved for events like the leaving and returning of the king himself. Now they were only slightly ajar – which still meant an opening of about seven meters wide.
The falcicorns pulled the sled through, and Borvar took a deep breath as he saw all of Stodir spread out before him.

They'd passed through the mountainside and entered the crater, the city being hewn from and constructed on the inner side, with a sense of craftsmanship only ever displayed by the dwarven realm. The volcano, from mountain's peak to mountain's core all the way at the magma in the far depth, was divided into seven mighty rings, one above another. There was one for every one of the dwarven clans, in many cases draped in banners and decorated with reliefs and statues referring to their sigil and craft. Flames the colour of their banners flickered along the walls and in fire pits, fed by a variety of metals and materials from the outstretched mining networks beneath the mountain. Every ring buzzed with activity, as they offered a home to both the dwarves of their clan and the trade they brought into the city.

The deeper a ring was situated, the higher the esteem the clan enjoyed. Closest to the outside air was clan Deb Nar with their farmers, working the fertile land outside the mountain and never having enough consideration for the grain and hop that ended up in Ucat Zuden's beer. Closest to the magma in the depths was clan Nazush Neth, the soldiers, warriors and masters of the siege engines. This was also the clan the king had belonged to. They enjoyed a position closest to the eight level, the magma itself, and the royal island in the heart of the shining orange lake, connected to the mountainside with two mighty bridges, one above the other. The lower bridge was meant for visitors, the upper for the king himself, a way to travel from the island to the elevator system connecting all the rings, and also to the place Borvar had been told Thorlond was now; a place even higher up than Deb Nar's level.

The volcano was crowned, inside and out, by an angular fortress surrounding the entire crater opening, decorated with reliefs in gold and obsidian on the inside, featuring the king's emblem often and prominently – a golden fist, shining in the light of fire bowls flaring in gold and pale red. On the outside, the fortress was decorated with war machines. Borvar had been able to admire them while approaching the mountain; like everything else, the defences were even more imposing than when he'd left for Ruboria.

The mountain gate through which they'd entered Stodir came out on the level of Noth Bomrek, the slave masters and traders, and Borvar and his escort had a good view of the markets as they passed over to the sloping road leading up to the next ring. To the left and right, rows of chained men, elves, the occasional troll and even the odd yeti were marched off or displayed on platforms, all marked with the characteristic brand on their right shoulder blade to signify they'd passed through Stodir once. It took the shape of Thorlond's fist, and Borvar permitted himself a thin smile of victory beneath his lush beard as he looked back at his wares. Every elf in the sled had been branded at the Golden Gates, and since then the pale blonde girl hadn't looked at him anymore. She was still gagged, but her blindfold had been taken off.

They reached the slope and ascended to the level of Ucat Zuden, Borvar's own clan. Here, the empty space in the middle of the crater was crossed by a collection of the heaviest chains Stodir had to offer, suspending huge steel bowls in midair, covered with shining bronze and yellow topaz on the outside to refer to the contents; the best grizdal or bathing beer in the world, even better than what Borvar had used in Napata. Broad walkways led over the chains, connecting the city to the baths, and Borvar looked at the bathers jealously; his escort wouldn't allow him to join them, not even for a moment. He was going directly to the king in his fortress.

Above Ucat Zuden's level was Fer Kin, the tamers, a clan that was highly esteemed but wasn't situated too deep out of practical reasons. They had a deeper base for Stodir's more fiery fauna, but here, higher up in the mountain, the boulder beasts and giant boar and stranger creatures were kept, watched over by the less experienced members of Fer Kin; animals from the days when machines had been less advanced, and were still around just in case, out of tradition, or to deal with pests or round up cattle. And, Borvar caught himself thinking, to keep certain things on the royal island in check. There was always that huge treasury…

Above Fer Kin was the level of Deb Nar, which had secured that position thanks to the disdain of the other clans – beer was obviously more important than food and could even replace it in some cases – and because it was quite useful to have them close to the fortress.

The fortress was neutral ground, a place of discussion between clan leaders, and the king's seat of audiences; very few visitors were ever admitted to the royal island and the invaluable secrets down there.

Borvar was looking up without pause now. The fortress hulked over him and Stodir both, black and angular against the smoky sky, alive with gleaming golden decorations and the banners of Datan Dur and Nazush Neth, with their golden fist and red axe-and-crossbow.
From Deb Nar's level an elevator system led up, straight into the fortress, and it was there the escort now led the sled. Here Borvar was forced to leave the sled and all its passengers behind; only the escort was coming along, and more to force him into the right direction than to protect him. The last he exchanged a glance with was the blond elf with the hateful green eyes; he'd almost convinced himself all this would turn out as well as it could for him, and very badly for her. She was the one to be branded, chained and gagged. He was the one bringing invaluable information.

As he ascended above Stodir he had an increasingly amazing view over the rings, glowing dully in the light of the magma beneath and shimmering with many-hued fires and precious metals. This view also was a reason for the king to hold court up here and not in his deep palace; it was an advantage to overlook the entire city when making decisions about it.
Borvar took a longing look at his clan's level, the hanging baths standing out against the crater's glow. I need a bath. Even a simple mug of ucat-elgram would be welcome.

Then the city vanished behind layers and layers of gleaming black rock. They'd entered the fortress. Not much later the elevator stopped, and they stepped into Stodir's crown jewel.

The beating heart of that crown jewel was a grand eight-sided room, hewn from living rock, every wall decorated with different banners, trophies and references to one of the great clans of Stodir. Inlaid patterns in the floor led the eye towards an eight-sided table at which eight dwarves were seated, guardsmen and servants at their sides and behind the tall backs of their luxuriant chairs. The ones seated were opulent and proud, round of belly and full of beard, covered in stunning sets of armour, ablaze with precious metals and gemstones, rings around their fingers and moustaches and carrying ceremonial weaponry at their belts, the one even more imposing than the other. There was one seat rising head and shoulders above the rest, however, carved from the blackest, smoothest obsidian and inlaid with so much gold it caught every glimmer of light in the hall and scattered it to all sides. Here an individual was seated who might be a dwarf, but still gave the impression he would stand a head taller than most men. He was clad in golden armour, every inch of which was decorated in stunning relief; the clenched fist of Datan Dur had been worked into his breast plate multiple times, and his shoulderpieces were shaped like knuckles as well. Black and red fabrics and a luxuriant dark beard flowed over his armour, the latter interwoven with red gold and onyx. On his head, the ruler of Stodir and most of the known world bore a strangely irregular crown, angular shards missing from its entire circumference, so the gaps caught the light and sparkled just as much as gemstones would've done.

At this moment king Thorlond was listening to an envoy from clan Kel Udos, the engineers, who'd returned to Stodir earlier that day. The dwarf was clad in a blue cloak, hemmed with silver, and a broad smile. "My king, I bring good tidings from Arcadiopolis. Fridlia Kel Udos grants us a son."

The king never betrayed much emotion, but a movement that could indicate a smile did pass through his beard now, and a glistening appeared in his deep-set eyes. Six years ago the Empire had fallen for his Iron Fist, and former Emperor Sayron had not been seen since. His son, Sardok, had been reinstated as his successor, and not that much later he'd married a dwarven woman; Fridlia Kel Udos, blond of hair, blue of eye, and soft of beard. Now the two realms had been tied together even more firmly. The king nodded at the messenger.

"What is the child's name?" his voice rumbled, deep and heavy like a distant landslide, but with an underlying tone of warmth.

"Thrynaz, my king."

Thorlond actually smiled at that, and an approving murmur coursed through the other clan leaders. "Honour. A good name." He raised up the gilded mug before him. "Give the man an ucat-hazcal!" One of the lower members of Ucat Zuden came rushing in with the requested brew, traditionally drunk at victories. The other leaders raised their mugs and drank with the king and the messenger. Thorlond clanged his mug back to the table. "To the songs he may inspire!"

"Thrynaz Kel Udos," the hall chimed.

"Now," the king rumbled as the messenger left, "who requests my attention next?"

"Borvar Ucat Zuden, my king, Ruling Hammer of Napata."

The king's mood seemed to keel over. "Bring him in."

When Borvar entered, he didn't look like the dwarf Thorlond remembered installing as his Hammer in Ruboria. He'd grown fatter; not just round like a healthy dwarf, but fat. His eyes were watery and the king even thought he saw his hands trembling. He ought to be parched for a beer… but the king only granted that favour to visitors bringing news that gladdened him. If they did not, he had water for them, or something worse.

"Borvar Ucat Zuden," Thorlond spoke, the warm tone of his voice now ominously close to scorching temperatures. "What news from Ruboria? I heard you'd captured the blue Hive and clan, and you would bring me Kerma." He'd long since heard of Kerma's fate, but he wanted to hear what Borvar would tell him.

"My king," Borvar started, the tremble of his hands audible in his voice as well. "The riders I'd sent south indeed found the blue Hive, in a delta halfway to Saipern, and it took them months to get the thing and the Minions to Napata. I used the Minions to suppress an outbreak of leprosy in my city…"

"Where are they now?" Thorlond interrupted him from his tall black seat. The clan leaders had all turned to look at Borvar, and only Lord Hangvul, the leader of Ucat Zuden, seemed to have pity on him. Helmar Nazush Neth was chuckling audibly.

"I… I don't have them with me, my king. They were taken from me."

"From your own palace." Thorlond's eyes seemed to grow darker, their glistening more fierce.

Borvar's jaw tensed. He briefly cast down his gaze, but then fell to one knee, looking up at the king. "It was the new Overlord, your Majesty, he revealed himself when we weren't ready, he was gone before we knew…"

Now the king leant forward over the angular table. "A new Overlord? Who?"

"A white-haired elf, Majesty, my men tell me his name is Estell."

Thorlond leant back and kept silent for a moment, his expression completely neutral. Borvar was forced to wait, his mouth growing dryer with the second.

As the king spoke again he didn't look at Borvar; his gaze lingered just above the Ruling Hammer of Napata. "We knew this would happen, Borvar. We knew one of the beardless rats would rise again, and that he'd go after one of the Hives. It was even exceptionally obvious it'd be the blue Hive, as the brown and red ones are here, well-guarded, and the green is very far beyond the reach of a beginner, even an Overlord. This is a beginner. This is an elf, a people with almost no experience living life without chains. And you let him escape with the Hive."

Borvar struggled for breath and words. "I've captured his companions… they wait in chains outside the fortress, with Deb Nar… chained and branded…"

"You've let me down, Borvar. More than you know." The king shook his head, but then smiled. Nothing so valuable as tradition. He clapped his hands. "Still, I think a drink is in order."

Borvar's eyes lit up with insane hope. That expression changed as a dull glow flared on both sides of the huge black-and-golden royal seat, reflecting in the smooth floor, and two small figures came hurrying in. From their clawed feet to their barely curved horns, they didn't even measure up to the seat of Thorlond's chair, but as they outstretched their hands to the king he could just reach the gleaming pot they were carrying. Their palms were glowing, and a bubbling coursed through the contents. The pot's steel didn't react at all, however; these reds were of the 'cooled' type. They had been born smaller and with a lower body temperature than any Minion under Overlady Jinx, as they hadn't landed in magma after their birth, and they'd never seen a battle, let alone fought in one. They'd never cast fireballs, never felt the devouring fire of their brethren, or that from a salamander's maw, or that of the Netherworld itself. There were no Minions in the Netherworld anymore; the brown and red Hives were right here in Stodir, and if a Hive did not stand in the bastion of an Overlord, the Minions were forced to stick around. Both clans were effectively chained to Stodir.

These two, by the names of Wick and Tallow, functioned as candle keepers, always busy tending the fires in the council hall and the huge angular chandelier above the eight-sided table, climbing over the walls and making sure no light went out. Nobody really ever paid any attention to them, but they knew what would happen if they were to make a mistake. The basins further into the fortress were deep, cold and dark, and there were always more 'cooled' reds rolling from the Hive, at the level of Kel Aval and their forges.

Aside from candle keepers they were also tasked with keeping warm the beverage the king could offer his visitors, aside from the many kinds of beer he offered when the news gladdened him, and the water he offered when it did not. When the news made him shake his head and narrow his eyes, the visitor was offered inky black coffee, and everyone knew the nature of the situation when that happened.

"My good Borvar, I think you'll appreciate this Ruborian specialty – you must long to return to Napata. No frills, and so strong the spoon stands up in it."

Borvar stared at the cup he was presented with; the contents were as black as his future. He did feel a spontaneous nostalgia for hot and sandy Napata. He still dared to look at the king as he scrambled back to his feet. "I am your Ruling Hammer and have won you a new capital… I had hoped…"

"…you could become the Hammer of Kerma? You forget it wasn't really you who won me the city, Borvar. That was Kragnar Nazush Neth." The king exchanged a look with the leader of the clan in question. "And it will be Kragnar Nazush Neth who gets the position. Better yet, he shall have Napata too."

"I bring you the finest elven slaves, strong, some even still magically gifted…"

"And I thank you for them. But I'm sending you with the Tromm-uzgul all the same."

Thorlond watched as Borvar's escort entered and dragged the former Ruling Hammer from the hall backwards, and didn't react at all to the noise this was accompanied by. He briefly smiled in his beard, and turned to Helmar Nazush Neth as soon as Borvar was gone. Hangvul Ucat Zuden still stared at the doors, slightly paler than before, but Helmar was grinning.

"It has begun. The hunt is on, my friend. Strengthen the protection of the Hives and keep all your eyes open for a white-haired elf."

"Certainly, sire."

On a glacier road snaking along the bottom of a green valley, part of a fan-shaped network with the volcano at its heart, a black-haired elf looked up at Stodir. His hands were firmly tied and attached to his falcicorn's headdress, and he was riding at the back of a group of similarly tied elves in the small slave caravan of a Ruborian nobleman, but he still was in charge of the expedition.

A few days ago, just before they'd joined the travellers on the road, Estell and Ramah had chosen seven 'slaves'; Estell himself, Talmar, Arandor, Isil, Miril the former healer, Ructa who wanted to try and regain her plant-singing gifts and was determined to see Isil in action, and Indil whose magic had once focused on animals, and who hoped to see more exotic fauna in Stodir. The others had returned to the domain.

The roads had been regularly interrupted by watchtowers for over a day's travel, and in this valley their path was truly well-guarded. All the gates had been open thus far, but at each of them random travelers were picked from the crowd and examined. Estell thought he'd caught someone saying there was extra attention for elves, and he was glad he'd dyed his hair.

Now, half a day later than he'd estimated, they were finally about to pass through the Golden Gates. Stodir loomed ahead, the heart of the valley network, a monster in green and grey. The mountain slopes were rough and scarcely forested; the main part of the trees was felled regularly, but bushes and rough grass did always have a foothold. Where the mountains that bordered the valley were capped in white, Stodir stood out with a lifeless landscape of rock and ash where the snowline should have been, all the way up to where the black fortress of the dwarves surrounded the crater's opening.

The Golden Gates were a smaller echo of the fortress, just as angular and imposing, and not just one pair. Eight times over the way to Stodir was interrupted, and at every pair of gates the valley itself was blocked by a wall, seemingly very well suited for defences in case of an attack from this side. Now, just a few archers patrolled there, but as they wielded automatic crossbows and worse, Estell wasn't about to get on their bad side.

The Gates they passed thus far hadn't actually been made of gold, but various metals were woven through the stone instead, probably for decoration as well as to strengthen the rock; Estell thought to recognize the gleam of arcanium, a metal that made almost everything it was worked into stronger and never rusted or weakened. As they went on, still without being taken aside, they passed gates interwoven with metals in all kinds of strange hues and gleams. Eventually Estell could see the final two gates ahead of him; the first being streaked with a strange blue metal, the veins extending to the outside and crafted into sharp, but strangely elegant protrusions, not matching the angular dwarven style at all. This style was almost organic, and made him think of the elven arts.

The very last gate, beyond which the road led directly into the mountain, finally illustrated the title of the Golden Gates. The dark stone was interwoven with gold there, a metal which might be worth less than many of the previous kinds, but there was so much of it that that was completely justified. The veins were broader here than those of all the others combined, and something told Estell that it was more than just superficial decoration, probably extending far into the rock. For just a moment, he wondered what it'd look like if the Gates were heated and all of it would spill out like a scorching tide.

Then he dared to look up at Stodir once again, now that it was that much closer, and he realized his neck hurt slightly as he tried to take in the complete spectacle, from the gate to the top of the fortress surrounding the crater. Only now all the siege weapons surrounding the fortress in turn caught his eye, and the ones protruding from the mountain slopes halfway up; ballistae completely unrelated to the flimsy wooden toys of the Empire, giant flamethrowers that made him shiver at the mere thought of the inferno they could turn the slopes into, and eventually that of which Gnarl had told him, but nothing might have truly prepared him for; the magma cannons. The size of the mountain made it hard to estimate their size, but Estell remembered Gnarl's choice of words – 'large enough to launch the Salamander King when curled up'. He knew all about the Salamander King; the gargantuan creature had been his mother's protector, in the Last Sanctuary beneath the Wasteland.
The air around the mountain summit whirred with dwarven airships, glistening steel and bronze, hanging beneath their huge balloons in all the bold colours of the dwarven clans. Estell could not help but stare up as his falcicorn stepped dutifully after the others, and he felt himself shrink with every step. He was a country boy, even compared to the most wretched slave on this road. He'd never seen this much civilization and industry in one place, and he wanted to oppose this? He might as well try to blow king Thorlond off his feet…

It took a moment before he realized his mount had suddenly halted, not far from the huge last Golden Gate. He looked down along the slope and saw Ramah and Masud, as the leaders, had been taken aside at the gate with the blue, strangely organic metal. His heart skipped a beat as his falcicorn and those of the other 'slaves' regrouped in a semicircle behind their 'master'. He saw a dwarven gatekeeper approaching the Ruborians, an individual with a skin almost as dark as his companions', and a relatively thin, black beard. A sand dwarf, he thought.

"A cargo of elves from the desert, gentlemen?" he started, in the common tongue as if to offer a middle ground between Ruborian and dwarven.

Ramah nodded at him politely. "We intercepted them at an oasis nearby Kerma. Escaped from Kemetiwel-masters."

"Are you sure?" the dwarf asked, and at that moment Estell knew Borvar had arrived and told everyone about them. "Do they know nothing about the queen's hideout?" he went on, as if to confirm Estell's train of thought.

"Afraid not, sir. Most of them have been on the market since a young age."

"Who are you, exactly?"

Ramah exchanged glances with Masud. "My name is Kurat, and this is Hayawan. We're Radaraz of the Zalam tribe, from the Deep Sea of Sand." He rolled up his sleeve. "In case you needed further proof, sir." The scars the young sand worm had inflicted on him gleamed off his arm, pale against his dark skin, clearly years old. Estell sent a silent prayer of thanks to the blue Minions as the dwarf nodded at once, a knowing look in his eyes.

"Of course, gentlemen. More than clear. Be on your way, be welcome in proud Stodir."

Ramah nodded at him again and spurred his mount into motion, his 'slaves' trailing behind in a long column as they made their way through the masses. They passed through the blue gate, and Estell could scarcely believe their luck, even though he was no longer the white-haired elf the dwarves were looking for. He caught Ramah's eyes as the Ruborian briefly looked back, and he managed a small smile. Ramah winked encouragingly. Then he looked ahead again, to the golden gate. The last and largest passage loomed ahead, but the most imposing of the gates seemed to be purely decorative after all, as nobody was halted here. Everyone streamed on unhindered between the decorated gates, inlaid with geometrical patterns and the sigil of king Thorlond's clan – the golden fist. Ramah and his 'slaves' could walk on as well. Nothing stood between them and Stodir's true entrance, a pair of huge stone doors opening into the tunnel into the mountainside.

Well, nothing but a few groups of dwarves taking care of each cargo of slaves, that was. Estell widened his eyes as he saw what was happening before him, and he mustered the courage to spur on his falcicorn and ride next to Ramah. "Ramah…"

The Ruborian prince was looking uncertain as well. "Not good."

Ahead of them, every slave was branded with a fist-shaped mark on the right shoulder, and the air was filled with hisses and screams from which the huge golden gate had shielded them earlier. That was probably the reason it took place here, at the end of the road – the dwarves didn't want to spoil the imposing atmosphere of the rest of the way and the grandeur of Stodir itself with the pitiful screams of slaves. The unfortunate men, elves and stranger were also bestowed with heavy jangling chains, which worried Estell even more than the branding. He could take the pain if it'd bring him closer to Sora, though he'd like to spare the rest of his group… but being chained that heavily, their plan to contact the Minions and sneak closer to the Hives would surely fail miserably.

Ramah looked around feverishly. A moment later his eyes lingered on a mountain path to the right of the main gates, where a thin trickle of travellers filtered up – mainly dwarves probably returning home to a higher level of the mountain, who didn't care much for the crowds of the main road and first halls. The Ruborian prince sent the group along with them, and the falcicorns' hooves dug themselves between the rocks and gravel of a less polished path. After a while between the dwarves – who gave them little attention – they took a totally abandoned new turn, even less negotiable and strewn with the mountain's rubble.

They went on for a brief while, made sure no one could see them, and dismounted between a smooth rock face and a rough cliff. Estell thankfully stretched his legs between the loose rocks, though his heart was beating uncomfortably fast. He could not go too far from his falcicorn, as his hands were still bound to it by means of a longer rope. "How do we get in? In a way that leaves us capable to actually do something?"

Gnarl grumbled. "There have to be more ways into the mountain. The entrances those dwarves are taking are probably off-limits to us, but…"

"Hidden passages?" Ramah suggested. "Though it's improbable we find those before one of those airships sees us and thinks us too suspicious." He gazed up – the mountaintop was still swarming with the balloons, like flies around a pile of dung. He paced to and fro briefly and then leant against a chunk of rough basalt protruding from the rock face, a hand on his forehead. "We can't go back, in any case."

"I don't think the ground here's suitable for a flower gate," Isil agreed in a small voice.

"And even if you were to return now, the dwarves would be quick to find the gate and undo this whole voyage," Gnarl added. "We have to get in."

Then, as if in answer to his words, a muted chuckle went up, as if from deep underground.

Estell stiffened. "What was that?"

Ramah had flown back, and now stood exactly between the precipice and the chunk of basalt. Then a stony crunch coursed through the mountainside, and thin fiery veins became visible in that basalt. And the rock started to unfold itself.

None of the elves or Ruborians had anywhere to run as arms several meters wide flung out to the left and right, and a huge, dirty black apparition towered over them higher and higher. Small, red-hot eyes opened and looked down at them, with an expression of mild interest.

Then the rock giant bent over, a basalt hand closed around Estell and plucked him off the ground and from his bonds like a fly. And as the elf struggled and screamed in the crushing grip, the creature strolled up the mountainside with thundering footfalls, away from the group and towards the smoke and ash of the summit.

And there goes the Overlord… well he didn't last long did he? Let's hope he stays alive otherwise this is going to be a short story. Please review readers.