“Steady, Ryzel,” their flyer Oslo crooned. “Steady. She’s not yet familiar with your scent.”

“Nor will she have to,” Thael replied as he clambered up the ladder lashed to the wrynn’s flank, whose head turned to watch Thael with one bright orange tinged eye.

“How are your wings?” Verena grinned atop the Perch, the platform where Wraiths rode atop the wrynn.

“Good as they’ll ever be,” Thael grunted, sitting down upon the leathered seat next to Verena and Ircham, belting himself tight in place. He placed his pack into the alcove underneath and shut the latch.

Oslo uttered one word, “Eimear.”

The great bird spread its wings and with a powerful frenzied beating leapt into the air, exploding upward with a burst of several hundred feet. Thael, for all his experience, could not help but stare down at the widening view of the valley, intersected by streams into rivers and finally the mountain range spiking up into the horizon. The waterfall Thael had dropped down day after day for all those years wept past the craggy rock, tinted blue as its namesake, the Azure Peak. Moonlight bathed the mountains in its white glow, the countless stars each shining, neither one achieving dominance in the purpled ribboning heavens.

The buffeting chill winds, constant falling and rising of the wrynn’s wingbeats, coupled with the increasing pressure in Thael’s ears would not jar his steady breath. For steady did he breathe, until he nodded off into a half hazed slumber.

The tint of sunlight ebbed through the dark, and Thael flickered his eyes open to the encroaching dawn. They were now a hundred feet and falling ever closer to the ground, rolling grass plains that peaked to green hills swallowing low mountainsides of grey rock.

The wrynn descended, talons ploughing deep through the spraying earth, Thael gritting his teeth as his insides lurched to stillness from the swooping force of their landing. Once they dismounted with their gear Verena took point, ever shadowed by Ircham. Oslo remained mounted upon the deck of the Perch.

“I’ll regroup with the Order!” the Flyer hollered over the howling wind. “You need an extraction, just tell me when! Eimear!”

With his last word the wrynn bounded skyward, disappearing past the hills.

“Alright, let’s move,” Verena said. They trundled up the craggy gradient of moss cushioned rocks until they reached the maw of a cave wide enough to enter single file. Ircham held out his lamp, sparking to life once more. The wind whistled into the tunnel’s entrance, a continuous dripping of water that rippled with each boot’s step.

Verena raised a fist, Ircham doing the same before Thael as they shuffled to a halt. She drew out something that gleamed in the lantern’s light, a hand sized sphere of brightsteel etched in runic. With slow care, Verena placed the brightsteel into a hole at the wall’s center that receded with the cracking stone.

The runic markings upon the brightsteel emanated with blue power, shining through the cracks of the wall until the ball of metal sifted into dust and the splinters of rock shattered and crumbled into itself to reveal an open doorway.

“Quickly!” Verena called out, dashing forward, followed by Ircham and then Thael. Nireih leapt through just before the stone rumbled back into its unbreachable form, tumbling in an agile roll before Thael.

A squared rail-less stairwell plummeted into darkness. The stone walls glowed with the same blue light, softer illumination than the doorway, soon fading as they passed. Ircham stowed away his lantern, its flame hissing itself to extinguishment.

Thael lost count of their steps, scuffling boots and broken breaths their only solace from the quiet. The stairway ended at a cavernous hall, a smoldering brazier outlining two squat shadows that stood at their arrival.

Knotted beards draped past their black leather tunics, dark beady eyes that squinted up with scowling suspicion. Dwarves. One spoke in their guttural language, Grivnyrr, “Took them fucking long enough.”

Verena said, “I would apologize, but I know the concept is unfamiliar to your folk.”

The other dwarf grunted, rasping instead in Cadish, “I am Shercagh. Follow me.”

Shercagh turned and marched past without preamble, the other dwarf sitting back down upon his metal stool and continuing to stoke the brazier.

The floor of the great hall did not bend nor slope, just continued straight ahead. The dwarf held a halberd taller than himself made whole of brightsteel. Thael knew such a weapon weighed more than any normal man, yet the dwarf wielded it as a walking stick, a light regular tapping against the smooth stone floor glowing the same bluish light at their steps.

“You have questions,” Shercagh said.

“I do,” Verena replied, unflustered by the dwarf’s callousness. "Do you know where the Arch Prince is located?”

“No. Do I look like his Keeper?”

“But you know Dres Laneith. You know which tunnels to take, which routes best lead to another.”

“Yes.”

“Why help us, Shercagh?”

“My clan owes a debt to your King, geilgrüb. Until that debt is paid with his grüb’s life, I am sworn to serve.”

“I am the Arch King’s will. Do you serve me, then, Shercagh?”

“Yes.” The dwarf’s answer was a flat, hoarse acceptance.

“Then tell me where you think the Prince would be held based upon your knowledge of the city.”

The halberd’s end continued tapping amidst Shercagh’s silence. Tap. Tap.

“The High Tower, in the Ministers’ Hold. There is only one way in and out, one door from the ground to the top. No windows, no openings for your pet monsters. It would be a kazlinath, a glorious death, yes? But it would not save your Prince.”

“Where is this High Tower within the Hold?” Verena continued.

“In the Hold’s garden, at its center.”

“I don’t believe that Ambrose would have gone to the trouble of building such a tower without a view,” Verena murmured. “There must be an entry point somewhere in the Prince’s quarters, if he’s even held there. Thael, what do you think of our options?”

“We’re going in blind Verena,” Thael growled. “We haven’t even scouted the enemy territory and you’re plunging headfirst into an obvious trap. How else do you think they’ve managed to gut up half the Order? We only have one chance before they blockade the city. One chance.”

“Alright, Thael. Say the Prince is not in the High Tower. What then?”

“We gather information as we always did.”

“Some things never change, do they Thael?”

“People never change, just their faces. Give them enough pain to scream over, and their words eventually all ring true.”

“Where should we begin?” Verena questioned.

“Are all the Ministers within the Hold?” Thael asked Shercagh.

“There have been no public appearances since your Prince was taken,” said the dwarf. “A curfew by dusk was set a week’s past. The city is silent, and afraid.”

Thael shook his head. “The Hold is too heavily fortified, and we need more information. Searching for the Prince within our timespan would be impossible. What we need is someone who may not know the Prince’s whereabouts, but perhaps the Ministers’.”

“No.” Verena said. “If we contact Jao we may as well hand ourselves over to Ambrose.”

“I take it then that Jao is still alive, and hasn’t risen past the Midden.”

“Rats never will. We don’t need Jao’s help.”

“Don’t be a fool, Verena. Jao has no doubt deepened his reach within the city. If he has some inkling of a Minister’s location, we’ll manage better than charging in headfirst.”

“How do you know he won’t kill us first?”

“I don’t,” Thael stated.

They continued their brisk pace, never stopping, never faltering. Thael’s eyes strained past the dim blue light, until another brazier flickered its dying embers beside another stairway, their own shadows looming over one firelit wall.

Shercagh halted then to face them. “Tell me where you wish to go.”

Thael shrugged, “You know where I stand.”

Verena scrutinized him, “I think some part of you would rejoice if the High Tower was indeed a trap. Very well. Lead us to the Midden Shercagh, and tell us of its situation.”

As they trekked up the stairs, Shercagh explained, “The Midden has swollen like a festering pustule over the years, crammed between the city’s walls. My folk do not tread there unless needed. There is a passage to a dwarven temple within the Midden. We will not be bothered while we remain in its grounds.”

“Considering the zealous mistrust of the Faith, were your folk not worried for the safety of your temple?” Verena questioned.

“They would not dare,” Shercagh uttered in his gravelled baritone.

Where the stairway ended began a three forked entrance. The dwarf crossed the right pass without pause, the steadfast steps turning to rough earth, the cramped tunnel forcing the others to hunch down and half crawl up the rutted slope.

“Fucking evils,” Ircham cursed for all his size, his lantern present at his hip, revealing dirt and broken rock.

“We are here,” Shercagh said, stamping ahead.

The dwarf pressed a hand to the unfeeling stone. Like the first doorway blue light cracked and lined the ancient gate, granting them entrance with its unknown power.

It was dark, cool and damp; a cellar of prodigious sized casks lending the air a spiced aroma. Once they had all passed through, the gateway closed in on itself with a final rumble into a now smooth faced wall. Shercagh continued up stone steps, past narrow halls lit by alcoved dim candles to a vast circled chamber lined with lanterns upon its curving wall.

A statue of crimson veined grey stone carved into a dwarf’s form towered up to the ceiling. His blocky arms were held horizontal in place. One hand held a golden axe, the other held a burnished hammer, each larger than a tall man’s height.

Though there was a simple geometry to the statue, its anatomy was akin to a real body; separated curling fingers holding its weapons aloft, lines running through its joints like wrinkling skin. Runic inscriptions were carved along its limbs and chest not covered by its pointed beard.

Its face was indented with two lidless eyes, brows shaped in a permanent furrow. A stout nose beaked over his squared beard that reached to his knees.

Several dwarves garbed in deep russet robes, all male, knelt before the statue. One dwarf raised his head to Shercagh’s approach. He spoke low in Grivnyrr, “We have waited.”

Shercagh nodded, “Bloodless is the day.”

“For in night it is sated,” the dwarf intoned. He spread his arms out and said in Cadish, “We priests of Thrul welcome you. I am high priest Othmir. Clan Hross is prepared to repay our blood debt to your Arch King by aiding your rescuing of his Arch Prince through… whatever means you deem necessary.”

Verena spoke, “I take it you priests do not spend much time outside your temple?”

Othmir offered a wooden smile. “That is correct.”

“Are there curfews set in the Midden?”

“The Midden is a city within this city. No one controls the Midden.”

“You say you will aid us in whatever means necessary. Ircham, give your Scryer. Now.” Verena’s stare cut off Ircham’s beginning protest. “When the time comes we will message you through this device.”

Othmir nodded, holding the given Scryer. “I am familiar with the artifacts of your ancestors.”

“You are prepared to come to our aid wherever we are in the city, soon as we say?”

“Yes. We will rescue your Arch Prince, or glory in death, kazlinath for all. Perhaps both?”

“Thael.” Verena turned to face him. “You know this city, or knew its underworkings before. How do we reach Jao?”

“We find a rat, and follow it to its hole. Let me take point.”

“Alright then. Shrouds up. Let’s move, Wraiths.”