Episode 033: The King of Hammers (Text)

When we last left our heroes…NUTMEG, GELMAHTA, and SISTER DONDALLA set out for the Hammerhand Holds to seek the aid of the dwarves who dwell therein. GEL disguised himself as a dwarven woman, much to NUTMEG’s irritation. They played a dangerous game of cross and double-cross with YORDATH AXEBREAKER, and GEL, searching for evidence against YORDATH, plummeted out a window to near-certain doom…

Table of Contents

• Chapter 1 – In Which They Break Their Fast Without Gel
• Chapter 2 – In Which Several Impressive Statues Loom Over Them
• Chapter 3 – In Which They Talk to the Guy About the Thing
• Chapter 4 – In Which They See This Matter Through to the End

Chapter 1 – In Which They Break Their Fast Without Gel

Nutmeg was beginning to panic. 

Not like panic panic – he was super tough and muscular and cool and ever since that incident in the jungle he had started working on breathing exercises to avoid total annihilation of the ego. But a little bit of panic. A panickling. 

He was breaking his fast with the other dwarves of the Gleaming Blades in the mess hall, wolfing down greasy bacon and fried eggs. Sister D sat beside him, barely touching her food. Many dwarves were coming and going, chatting and laughing. A few tried to make conversation with Nutmeg, but he shook them off with a glower and a grunt. 

Where was Gel? 

They’d waited up for him last night, but when he didn’t show an hour after midnight, Nutmeg had prowled the halls as best he could, patrolling for Gel. He’d found gangs of completely soused dwarves, he’d found a few couples mid-act, he even found a secret room behind a tapestry where Yordath kept some really interesting art pieces. But no sign of Gel. Sister D had checked the perimeter of the keep under the guise of protecting their wagonload of coin and gems, but she’d returned empty-handed. With some worry in his heart, he’d gone to sleep, telling himself that Gel was just doing some crazy shit and would be back in the morning. 

But now it was morning, and time to go see the Hammermaster, and Gel was nowhere to be found. 

The bacon and eggs should’ve tasted heavenly. But Nutmeg found they had no taste at all. How could he have let this happen? How could he have let Gel go off on his own and get into trouble? He hadn’t caused enough of a distraction in the hall, he was sure of it, and now – now what? Gel wouldn’t’ve just run off. He had a mission. He loved missions. Little freak was nuts for missions. And Nutmeg had a hard time believing that any of the dwarves in the Gleaming Keep were a match for Gel. Mighty warriors they might be, but Gel was Gel. 

Sister D patted his hand. “I prayed to Palladius this morning.”

“Did you?”

“I made an offering of incense to Palladius and everything. A prayer of divination. He – I don’t know where Gel is, but Palladius has the sense that all will be well.”

“You don’t look convinced.”

“Well…” Sister D looked embarrassed, her cheeks flushed. “I’m not sure Palladius likes Gel all that much. I’m a Sunlit Crusader. I am charged with righting all wrongs. Gel…has done some wrongs.”

“Hey, so have I.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“How do you square that?”

“You matter to me,” she said, simply. “And so does Gel. And Lucy, for that matter. Without you – well, I think the three of you have put me on a path ordained by Palladius. Stopping this Daghda entity. But that doesn’t mean Palladius is totally cool with all the things you and Gel and Lucy have ever done.”

“Huh. Fair, I suppose. So we just gotta go on faith?”

“That’s right.” 

They quieted as Yordath approached them, Redda Gemcutter at his side. Today the lord of the Gleaming Keep was dressed in fine, almost ceremonial robes, with a golden belt cinched at his waist and gold pins in his topknotted hair. He took a seat opposite them at the table; Redda sat beside him, her flaming hair a little wilder than it had been the night before. 

“Friends. You slept well?”

“We did.”

“And today’s task – you’re ready?”

“We’ll go see to the Hammermaster as soon as we’ve broken our fast,” promised Nutmeg. “But we’re – we’re waiting for our companion. Gellette. Have you seen her?”

Yordath’s brow furrowed. “No – no, not since last night. I, heh, I had some ideas – but didn’t see her in my chambers. Redda, have you seen her?”

She shook her head. “No, not since the party. Hope she turns up okay.”

“You’re still able to act, though?” Yordath sounded almost embarrassingly eager. “Can you still do it?”

“Of course, dude. No question.”

“Good, good. Here’s how we’ll do it – once you’ve gone, I’ll muster the company. We’ll wait a mile down the road from the Hammer Hall. Once the deed is done, get word to me, and I’ll arrive to take control. It won’t do to leave instability for too long.”

“Sure, sure, whatever. Down the road.”

“Excellent.” Yordath sat back. “Redda, anything to add?”

She cast a critical eye over Sister D’s raiment. “Do you have anything more sneaky you could wear? Something less…yellow?”

“I’ll leave my cloak in my pack, if that’s what you mean,” said Sister D.

It was only once Yordath and Redda were gone that Nutmeg slapped a hand to his forehead. 

“Holy shit. Holy shit, D. I think I know where Gel is.”

“Really?”

He stood, stealing a piece of bacon from D’s plate. “Yeah. Let’s get to the Hammermaster. Today’s going to be fun.” 

Chapter 2 – In Which Several Impressive Statues Loom Over Them

They returned to the main road from the Gleaming Keep and followed it south, deeper into the verge of the Wyvernspine Mountains. Prairie-grass grew thick and gold here, and there were little juts and pillars of rock dotting the landscape. The farmland was more plentiful, as were the little stone houses and keeps clustered around small lakes and rills. They entered into the arms of the Holds proper, where two ridges of rock encircled the many holdfasts and clan dwellings. Bronze towers poked from the mountainsides, and the road became better-paved. More dwarves worked and traveled here, and all of them bid Nutmeg a good day – some in Dwarfese, which he was beginning to pick up a little. 

Their destination loomed ahead of them, obvious and stark. A great bronze staircase was set into the face of the mountains; pillars of bronze and dwarrowbrass-decorated stone marched up to the foot of the staircase. Great chunks of quartz capped each pillar, glinting and glittering in the sun. The gate in the mountain itself stood wide open like a yawning mouth; the gates were easily thirty feet high, a pair of doors large enough to march two piggybacking elephants comfortably through. This was far more glorious than Khaddakar had been. A true Dwarven hold. 

They stopped a few hundred yards from the foot of the stairs. Guards in extremely heavy-looking armor flanked the stairs, and there was a small crowd of folk waiting, presumably, for access to the Hall beyond. 

“We’re not going to kill him, right?” asked Sister D. 

“Hell no. Gods. Definitely not. We’re going to tell him what his dickhead brother is up to and convince him to help Barrendell.”

“We don’t have the proof that Gel was looking for, though. It’ll just be our word against Yordath’s.”

“Pretty sure Gel’s got it under control. And hey, I’m a convincing kinda guy.” 

“That’s really encouraging.”

Nutmeg snapped his fingers. “Hey – wait a sec. Yordath’s stupid plan. I wasn’t paying much attention because of the whole Gel thing but hey. Why the fuck is he following us here with an army behind him? Isn’t that suspicious as hell?”

“Oh, yeah, I guess it is.”

“Shit.” Nutmeg shook his head. “He’s planning to double-cross us. Probably march in and kill us once he gets word Guthrik is dead. We’ll be loose ends, after all. And he definitely doesn’t like me.”

“So we’re in a tighter spot than we thought we were. Yordath might just do a coup if we take too long anyway.”

“Fuck.” Nutmeg sighed. “Okay. Whatever. One problem at a time. Gel can handle Yordath for us, hopefully.” 

They approached the guards at the foot of the stair. The two guards looked similar to the warriors of the Gleaming Blades – heavy plate armor, with snarling war-masks covering their faces and steel axes at their belts. These guys had some serious gilding on their plates, though, and gemstones embedded in the eyes of the war-masks. 

“Who approaches?” 

“Name’s Torvald,” said Nutmeg. “This here is my priestly companion, Sister Dondalla. Lord Yordath sent us with a message for his brother from the Gleaming Keep this morning.”

“Very well.” The guard actually seemed mellow. Maybe these guys didn’t see that much action. “The Hammermaster is holding court today. Go on up.”

“Oh for real? No complicated demonstration of my identity and or loyalties or whatever?”

“Nope. Open court.”

“Sweet.” 

There were an enormous number of stairs, and Nutmeg’s legs were starting to feel the burn when they finally reached the gate. He turned and looked back. The Holds were spread out below him now, all the keeps and towers and farms. In the distance, he could just make out the telltale shine of the Gleaming Keep – and the column of warriors taking to the road, marked by a cloud of dust. Time was slipping away. They’d have to be fast. And good. 

The Hammer Hall, the seat of the Hammerhand Holds, was a true dwarven palace. Stepping in through the great gate, their skin grew clammy immediately; the heat of the summer gave way to the ceaseless chill of the stone halls. The entryway was decorated with statues of dwarves – twenty feet tall, easily, towering over all who dared cross the threshold. Nutmeg counted – fifteen statues in all, a procession that approached the next doorway. This entry chamber yawned high to a dizzying ceiling, and a dozen doors at least lined the walls, although the great doorway to the throne room was extremely obvious, ringed with torches and gems and dwarrowbrass and all sorts of fantastic decorations. 

Each of the dwarven statues had a little plaque at its feet, written in runes. Nutmeg stopped at the first statue and squinted up. It was a wild-looking dwarf, this one, a huge battleaxe raised high. Garnets or rubies or something glittered on the edge of the axeblade, and were set into the stone in a cunning fashion, giving the appearance of lithified blood.

“Hey who’s this jamoke?” asked Nutmeg. “Can you read that?”

Sister D squinted. “Uhh. I can’t – one second.” She closed her eyes and bowed her head. “Palladius – the gift of tongues, I beseech thee, grant unto me.” There was a flash. Her eyes, ears, and mouth all glowed for a moment with a bright and golden light. 

“Shit, could you always do that?”

“No. Prayer has taught me much, Nutmeg.” 

“Well sick. So who is this guy?”

“‘Here Stands Kalakoz, First Emperor, the Bloody Axe, Destroyer of the Ten Thousand, Smith-King of Vahallidar, Anvil of the Gods, Reaver Foremost.’”

“Oh cool.” Nutmeg looked down the line of statues. “Must be all the emperors and empresses, I guess.” 

“Do you want me to read all the plaques?” 

“I mean, I’d hate to waste your prayer on one measly plaque.” 

They went down the line, and Sister Dondalla read him the names and titles of the fifteen emperors. Some he’d heard, some he hadn’t. Kolradda the Woad-Daubed. Caladhash Long-Tooth. Brynmizar of the Tortoiseshell Helm. Falshatta the Interminable. The line ended with Hokaddaz the Bald. His statue was a little smaller than the others, and certainly not flattering. Nutmeg ran a hand through his own hair. Would he go bald one day? He hoped not. Being extremely hairy was a big part of his whole schtick. 

“Died nineteen years before the Lions took power in Ra-Hest,” finished Sister D. “I don’t know that reckoning.”

“A long-ass time ago,” said Nutmeg. “Come on. Let’s talk to the guy about the thing.” 

Chapter 3 – In Which They Talk to the Guy About the Thing

The throne room was nearly a hundred yards long. Nutmeg had plenty of time to appreciate the people on the dais, the stonework on the columns, the fifty-odd guards lining the walls of the room. The dais itself was built of white marble, clearly imported from somewhere, but Nutmeg could see no seam between the marble and the natural stone. Upon the dais was a great high-backed seat, a throne wrought of iron and dwarrowbrass. Nutmeg caught the scent of well-seasoned meat – the kitchens were close by. Nice touch. 

A dwarf sat the ancient throne. He had Yordath’s look – the black hair, the stern brow – but where Yordath was a large, beefy dwarf, this was one who looked hewn from stone. Not lean exactly – few dwarves were lean, it seemed – but polished and weathered. His cloak and tabard were of rich purple velvet and cloth-of-gold, and there were many rings on his fingers. One hand rested on a little scepter or something that sat in his lap, partially covered by his robes. The other hand drummed on the arm of the throne impatiently as the dwarf below the dais spoke to his liege lord. 

“…and it bain’t even harvest yet but can’t find no workers worth salt,” complained the dwarf. “Not with yore jobs down mine and pit. The work is all well and good but we need grain, too, m’lord.” 

“Pay them more.” Guthrik Hammerhand’s voice was flinty and clear. 

“Cain’t,” explained the dwarf. The Hammermaster sighed.

“I understand, I understand. Fine. I’ll slow the work on the deep halls until the harvest is complete. Is that all?”

“Of course, thank you, thank you m’lord.” 

“Out.” Guthrik flicked a finger, and the dwarf scurried away. The Hammermaster turned to another dwarf. This one stood just beside and behind the throne, partially in shadow. “Well, Iron Priest? Was that too hasty?”

This dwarf wore long black robes, hooded, and a gray beard trailed down nearly to his knees. “Perhaps,” he said. “The Pukall will return in greater numbers. I have foreseen it.” 

“Rocks and hard places,” cursed the Hammermaster. “You there! Next in line! Come on. Haven’t all day.” 

Nutmeg and Sister D bowed low. They looked at each other. 

“You first?”

“Yeah I can go, unless -”

“No no that sounds good, go ahead.”

Nutmeg cleared his throat. “Uh, most esteemed Hammermaster Guthrik Hammerhand, I presume?”

“Obviously.” The lord of the hall squinted. “Who are you?”

“Well,” Nutmeg took a deep breath, “My name is Nutmeg, this is Sister Dondalla. We represent the Hob Gob Killin’ Mob, a bold and brave company of heroes defending the Hestor Vale from the invasion of the Red Hand, a horde of hobgoblins and other nasty fuckos led and accompanied by large dragons.”

The Hammermaster blinked. “You – hm. You’re not of the Holds, are you? A Diasporant? From where do you hail?”

“Durnehvaaz,” said Nutmeg. “Though it’s called Dwarroway these days.” 

“That’s a long way to travel.”

“Yeah I mean we’re pretty cool itinerant warriors looking for evil to defeat, or whatever. Listen, we’re trying to muster the Vale for a big stand at Barrendell. Break the horde there. We think we can do it. But we’ll need your help. Soldiers, et cetera.”

“A horde.” Guthrik sounded unimpressed. “We’ve heard some rumor from the western roads – rumors of the goblin clans gathering, and war-drums in the hills. But the threat cannot be so dire. The goblins have no leader, no discipline.” 

“They do now,” said Nutmeg. “Not even a week ago they crossed the Hestor and burned Tanner’s Crossing. It’s a full-on army, dude.”

“The Diasporant of Durnehvaaz speaks truth,” advised the hooded, cloaked dwarf at the Hammermaster’s side. “But, my liege: the deep tunnels. The Pukall. We cannot neglect the task at hand.”

Guthrik nodded. “Aye. Aye. Nutmeg of Durnehvaaz, you are a wanderer. You do not know of our struggles.” He gestured with the little scepter that had been buried in his robes. “Thirty years ago, I set out to recover the lost city of Thundrogar. This hall in which we sit today was but the market-hall at the gates of the great city – but when the empire fell, the Pukall came from the deep places to take the city from us, and cast us out upon the mountainside. We surrendered the depths of Thundrogar to those false-dwarves, and to the other deep things which emerged from the unguarded pits and mines. 

“We have made great strides. Driven the Pukall back. My brother in particular has won great honors and slain many foes. But Foreseer Aardos here -” he gestured to the hooded dwarf – “sees within the seeing-stone that darker days are still to come. I cannot leave the Holds undefended. I cannot commit soldiers to this…battle at Barrendell. Not on the word of a mere Diasporant.”

“A seeing-stone? What, like a crystal ball?”

The hooded dwarf smiled unkindly. “If that helps you understand it, yes.”

“Well shit I got one of those.” Nutmeg tossed his pack down and began rifling through it. He threw down a sack of coin, his ration-pack (stained with crumbs and oils), a length of rope, half a sponge, Pierre (who scuttled around his feet, much to the consternation of the guards all around them), and even a little packet of signore dusto before finally producing the crystal ball from the Mad Monk’s Tomb. Beside it was the decorated cog-hammer he’d gotten from the Pukall of Khaddakar; he picked it up and thrust it through his belt. “See?”

Guthrik sat forward. The hooded dwarf threw his hood back, revealing a lined and weathered face, mouth gaped in shock and surprise. 

“By Moraz!” swore the priest. “It’s – a seeing-stone. Of the old empire!”

“Yeah I mean this one’s attuned to the front doors. Hey, I wonder: Thundrogar.” 

Light swirled and danced within the crystal ball. Then the clouds within the ball parted, and revealed the very stairway they’d ascended to reach the Hammermaster. 

“How – what – who are you?”

“I’m Nutmeg.” He looked to Sister D. She shrugged. 

“And – at your belt.” Aardos the priest stepped down from the dais, pointing with a trembling finger. “It cannot be. You have misled us. You carry a cog-hammer. You are a Hammermaster in your own right.”

And indeed, Nutmeg realized, Guthrik’s scepter was no scepter at all. It was a twin to his own hammer: a smith’s hammer, the length of his forearm, flat on both ends, made of dwarrowbrass, decorated with cogs and gears. 

“Oh cool. Yeah I have some questions about that. But can we refocus on the horde thing?”

Guthrik gestured with the scepter. “Aardos. Fetch your stone.”

The priest hurried away, and returned moments later with a crystal ball. It was a little larger than Nutmeg’s, and the mists within it swirled like flames, red and orange, crackling. Aardos spoke a word in guttural Ancient Dwarfese, and the ball hung in the air, floating, rotating slowly. 

“Who commands this horde?” asked Aardos. “My stone – we can see far. Past and future are tangled within it, but it is a powerful tool, if Moraz allows us a vision.”

“Well, that’s complicated. There’s a big red dragon – Agharagoth. Uhh there’s a guy named Awrnwn. But they all serve this uh god thing? Evil deity or whatever? Called Daghda.”

“Daghda,” breathed Aardos. 

All the light in the hall dimmed. Torches flickered down to bare embers. The crystal glowed, but the red and orange light was gone. Now it was a sickly green light, almost black. Something roiled in the depths of the crystal. Tentacles and black smoke. Like a mass of eels in a pot of ink. Yellowish bruise-light leaked from between the tentacles. Nutmeg felt a great and awful emptiness in the pit of his stomach, like someone had carved a hole where his feelings should be. Shapes formed in the roil: a river, burning bright, while dark shapes wheeled overhead. Tanner’s Crossing. Then more: Barrendell, its many spires and lion banners consumed by dark flame. Kal Rammath, the trees of the elves, rotting and burning. The Holds. Humber. Lands beyond, strange lands, and then Dwarroway itself, and then beyond, and beyond, and all the world was swallowed by the roiling mass of Daghda, Daghda the unmaker, the annihilator. 

“Enough!” cried Guthrik. “Aardos, end it!” 

The priest called a word of command. The crystal ball fell still, then darkened, then bled back to the red and orange of the forge. The torches in the hall winked back to life. 

“My liege,” said Aardos. “This – I believe we cannot ignore this.” 

“Hell yeah,” said Nutmeg. 

Guthrik sat, fingers steepled, leaning forward. HIs elbows rested on his knees. “I would prefer to trust you,” he said. “To believe what I see. But – to take the word of a stranger, a Diasporant such as yourself – to let the course of our Holds be steered by a rudderless wanderer. You carry a cog-hammer, you carry a stone – but who are you, truly?”

“I told you. I’m Nutmeg. Of -”

“Yes, yes. Of course. But take Aardos. I know his father. His mother. His lineage, tracing back to the days of the empire.” Guthrik gave the priest a solemn nod. “He is as kin to me. You? You are not my kin, or of my clans, or a citizen of the Holds.”

Nutmeg clenched and unclenched his jaw as the Hammermaster spoke. When Guthrik was done, he opened his mouth to speak – but found Sister D beat him to the punch.

“Nutmeg speaks the truth to you, and you cast it aside? What kind of leader are you? You saw Daghda in the crystal ball. You know what’s coming now, same as us. But you’re too proud to take advice from a dwarf who isn’t your kin? Well, I think you shouldn’t rate your kin so highly. Your brother tried to hire us to kill you.” 

Silence fell over the hall. Guthrik’s eyes glittered dangerously in the torchlight. “Excuse me?”

Nutmeg had never felt so proud of Sister D. “She’s right, dude. Your brother sucks ass. Yo, Aardos, I assume you can tell if I’m lying or whatever, right?”

“You did not resist the mental snare I cast upon this place, so yes, I can tell if you are lying.”

“Oh what the hell? A mental snare? Not cool.”

“Nutmeg, I think that’s beside the point.”

“Fair fair. Okay. Yeah, well, then you can tell if I’m lying. I’m not. Your brother Yordath hired us to kill you because he’s been plotting with this broad out of Barrendell, Lady LeRue, to take over the Holds on her behalf. We’re supposed to kill you in the throne room and then send for him; he’s camped just outside, down the road.” 

Guthrik’s face had become very solemn indeed. He sat back against the iron throne, the hammer held upright in his hand. “Your words are like fire in the wilderness – you clear out the undergrowth, but not without burning. Aardos, you are certain these words are truth?”

“I will make a more serious test.” So saying, Aardos stepped down from the dais and raised a hand towards Nutmeg. “This will not hurt. Not unless you lie.”

A shimmering golden dome issued forth from Aardos’ outstretched hand and settled over Nutmeg and Sister D. For a moment, Nutmeg felt the priest in his mind, a presence, like a bothersome neighbor knocking at the door and asking to borrow a cup of sugar. Nutmeg looked to Sister D. She nodded. Nutmeg let Aardos in and opened his metaphorical pantry of sugar. 

“I swear to you on this cog-hammer, your brother Yordath tried to hire us to kill you.”

Guthrik sneered. “You don’t know what you swear upon. Aardos?”

The priest nodded. “The Hammermaster of Durnehvaaz speaks true.”

“Hammermaster.” Guthrik snorted. “A pretender. A homeless dwarf with a long-lost relic. But fine. I cannot argue with the tests of the gods.”

“We have actual proof, too. Letters and stuff. Send for Yordath and Redda, tell em to, you know, come check out your corpse or whatever.”

“Very well,” said Guthrik. “Very well. We shall do as you say. But should I find that this is some trick – ghalbos!” He called a command in Dwarfese, and the fifty-odd guards all raised their crossbows at once, aiming them at Nutmeg and Sister D. “I will not hesitate. Remain where you are until my brother arrives. We will see this matter through to the end.”

Chapter 4 – In Which They See This Matter Through to the End

They didn’t have to wait long. 

Nutmeg and D stood before the empty throne. The fifty guards still lined the hall, their great crossbows ready and waiting. Nutmeg picked his teeth. The guards were taciturn, and had resisted Nutmeg’s few feeble attempts at conversation. But they at least seemed to regard him with a fearful suspicion as opposed to derision. 

Foreseer Aardos stood beside them. He had not stopped staring at Nutmeg. 

“So uh that’s a cool crystal ball you got there.” 

“One of the greatest ever forged,” agreed Aardos. “Thankfully preserved by my predecessors when the deep halls fell.”

“Nice, nice. So what’s up with these little hammers, then?” 

Aardos shook his head. “More than I can tell now, I promise you that. But silence. Yordath comes.” 

At the far end of the hall, two figures appeared silhouetted in the doorway. Nutmeg knew them on sight: Yordath Axebreaker, resplendent in his plate armor, and Redda Gemcutter, her long red hair tied up behind her head, dressed in a bulky robe. 

“Aardos!” called Yordath, approaching down the length of the hall. “What is the meaning of this? Is it true? My brother…?” He was a pretty good actor, this guy. Not that good – even Nutmeg could hear a little glee in his voice – but convincing enough. 

As arranged, they waited in silence until Yordath was halfway down the hall. 

Then Guthrik stepped out from behind the throne. 

Yordath and Redda stopped dead in their tracks. “What is the meaning of this?” demanded Yordath. “First a messenger tells me my brother is dead – and now I find him alive and well, thank the gods? What has happened here?”

“You tell us, assweed,” said Nutmeg. “You’re the one who wanted us to kill him.” 

“Perfidy! Lies!” 

“Peace, Yordath.” Guthrik took his seat in the throne. In one hand he held the cog-hammer; in the other, he held a jeweled dagger, a blade that looked more ceremonial than purposeful. “These travelers have made an accusation. We will have the truth of it.” 

“There’s no truth to be found from these miscreant mercenaries,” declared Yordath. “I threw them out of my keep this morning when they made their vile offer – assassination! And now for petty vengeance they’ve come to you, to mislead you, to -”

“Aw stuff it,” said Nutmeg. “Sister D, you have the letter from the wagon guys?” Sister D produced the letter they’d taken off the dead soldiers. “Yeah, so, this letter was an offer to hire the Gleaming Blades to serve this Lady LeRue of Barrendell, who appears to be trying to do a coup over there or something.”

“There’s no law against me corresponding with a noblewoman of Barrendell,” groused Yordath. 

“This is true,” said Guthrik. “You promised me proof.” 

“Alrighty. Yo! Gel! It’s time, dude.” 

Redda Gemcutter stepped forward. As she did, she spoke a word of arcane command. Her features shimmered, and transformed. She was Gellette now, an entirely different dwarven woman. Yordath gasped. 

“You!”

Another word of command, and Gellette became Gel at last: tall, thin and pale, with silvery-white hair and those dark, unsettling eyes. Gel drew a dagger and sliced down the length of the bulky robe, stepped out, and revealed his black sickle-moon leather armor beneath. 

“Who…what?” Yordath’s face had gone ash-gray. 

“The name’s Gelmahta.”

“We – where’s Redda? What did you do with her?”

“I actually did not kill her,” said Gel. He rooted around in his pack, and produced a sheaf of papers. “I just tied her up and stole some of her clothes and stuff. No worries. She’s back at the keep.” 

“But we – we – you kissed me!”

Nutmeg snorted. Gel shrugged. “Yeah, I mean, it wasn’t my first choice, but deep cover is deep cover. I commit to a role.” 

“Enough of this.” Guthrik pounded the cog-hammer on the arm of the throne, and the hall rang with a high, piercing note. “Explain yourself, elf.” 

“Yeah so, I roll with these guys, Hob Gob Killin’ Mob, I infiltrated Yordath’s office, yadda yadda yadda, here’s a bunch of letters to and from Lade LeRue about the coup in the Holds and the coup in Barrendell.” He waved the papers around. “Nutmeg, who gets these?”

“Aardos, you want em?” Foreseer Aardos stepped forward and took them, studying them quickly. Yordath started to back away. Gel whipped up his shortsword. 

“Easy there big guy. You’re not going anywhere.”

Guthrik, too, was reading the letters. Without looking up, he raised his hand. “Ghalbos!” He pointed at Yordath. 

All fifty guards raised their crossbows and aimed them at the Lord of the Gleaming Keep. 

“Gel you might want to step over here, dude.”

“Oh shit. Yeah, I can see that. Nice bows, guys. Really good stuff.” 

Guthrik looked up at last and met his brother’s gaze. “Yordath. This is rank treachery. I trusted you to hold the surface while I delved, and this is how you repay me?”

“I – it was all Redda’s idea, I barely -”

“I don’t believe that for a moment.” 

Yordath stared down the hall. His eyes gleamed with a mad, wild light. “Well. Fine. So be it. I will have this throne by one means or another – die, Guthrik!” He broke into a sudden run, his greatsword drawn, booted feet thudding on the stone.

He made it two paces before the bolts hit him. 

The sound was the worst part. A cacophony of steel on steel as the bolts punched into the heavy plate. Perhaps a third of them fell, deflected by the armor. The rest pierced through. And Yordath howled, stumbling. His sword clattered to the ground. Guthrik’s face was wan and drawn but he never looked away. 

When Yordath at last crumpled to the ground, Guthrik stood from the throne. 

“Nutmeg. May I borrow your battleaxe?” 

“Call me Hammermaster.”

Guthrik gave him a look filled with fire and hate. For half a second, Nutmeg wondered if he’d gone too far. But fuck this guy. Him and his snooty attitude. 

“Hammermaster Nutmeg, then. Your axe.”

Nutmeg offered it up. Guthrik inspected the blade, nodded. He strode to his brother’s body and, with a single stroke, separated the head. He lingered for just a moment, staring down at Yordath, and then turned back to the dais, offering the axe back to Nutmeg. 

“Aardos! Send for the rest of my brother’s warriors. They will pledge fealty here before his broken body or they will suffer his fate. You had best take your leave, Hob Gob Killing Mob. Seven hundred dwarves will join you at Barrendell ere the funeral proceedings draw to a close.”

Nutmeg had a thousand questions for Aardos. But Sister D and Gel looked more than ready to depart, and the air in the hall was grim. He bowed. 

“Guthrik – Hammermaster Guthrik – sorry about your brother. It’s been…real.”

“Hammermaster Nutmeg. Moraz watch your battleaxe and keep your blade sharp.”

“Yeah uh same to you.” 

The hall was eerily quiet as they walked the long, long way past the body of Yordath, past the fifty guards, the columns. Nutmeg cleared his throat. 

“So you uh made out with Yordath, then?”

“Oh whatever. Redda did. I didn’t. I was playing a role. What’s up with the Hammermaster stuff?”

“I’m like the King of Hammers or something,” said Nutmeg. “You should probably bow around me.”

“Fat chance.”