The sun failed as they crossed the bridge, yet night lacked the power to darken the Narngundian road. Turning due north, it shimmered like pale moonlight, slowly growing stronger. Vast torches and lanterns towered above. Not a mile passed without marble and even silver monuments and sculptures of every description. Gold and gems gleamed in the torchlight. Each wrought in exquisite detail and more expensive than anything Branden had ever laid eyes on, they shamed the very moon with their lustre.

Yet the magnificent works of stone and precious metal clashed with one another, striving for attention. Very soon Branden found himself dazzled yet overwhelmed, almost sickenly so. The garish whole proved less than the sum of its parts. He looked up and found the stars dim in the torchlight.

An elegant carriage glided past and jolted Branden back to reality. As the luminous road crested a small hill, Branden looked around. Dwarves, men, and Halflings swarmed on the road, with a few Goblins and unfamiliar creatures joining the throng. “Bloody treescrewers!” Branden shouted as a pair of Elves passed, drawing an occasional curse.

The stream of travellers, fed by little tributary roads, grew into a torrent. Even the broad road became crowded. Those trudging on foot dodged between all manner of vehicles. The noise mercifully drowned out Thuna’s voice. Crowned with snow, black mountains loomed at the edge of sight, while a small mound rose ahead. Branden dozed.

When he woke, the noon sun lit a vast brown hill, the first outlying spur of the foreboding mountains behind. “Looked a lot smaller and nearer in the night,” Branden shouted over the crowd. He smiled as Thuna failed to do likewise. No decoration graced the slopes of Narngund itself.

“How disappointing. Why’d they spend so much effort on the road only to ignore the hill?” Branden muttered.

Leaping down from the high peaks, a swift little river flowed around Narngund’s west flank before winding out of sight. Water roared through a mighty canal, flowing into the hill from west… and out of it from the same side. Branden rubbed his eyes. The second canal seemed identical to and nearly level with the first. Yet the brown, filthy water left no room for doubt: the first waterway supplied the city and the second emptied the waste, seemingly without the benefit of gravity.

They passed through rust colored gates, currently standing open, as broad as the road yet barely twice Branden’s height. Less than magnificent again, he thought. Immediately the crowd began to thin as travellers took their way upon one of many broad roads. As the noise died down to a dull roar, Branden realized he could speak without shouting.

Yet he found no words.

The road outside, still glowing beneath Thuna’s dirty wagon, seemed like a goat track compared to the city itself. Jets of colored water sprayed high into the air, mingling with mist that descended from unseen sources. Shrines and temples vied with gaudy advertisements for brothels and something called bliss. At the center of the hill wound a packed marble staircase, at least three hundred feet wide, leading above and below. Dwarves and many other creatures thronged shops, lanes, forges, and inns.

Branden reeled, clutching the bronze brooch on his shoulder. “Hanor have mercy,” he whispered, “am I dreaming?”

Interrupting her monologue with a laugh, Thuna shook her head. “Take a few deep breaths, Branden dear. Narngund’s a bit of a shock the first time, especially for one coming from—where did you say you came from, again?—anyway it’s hard on the senses. Why I spent two days completely lost once, and…”

Their oxen slowly pulled into a market square filled with mounds of bulk goods. “Ah, we’re here at last, Branden dear, at the—”

“Well, I suppose our journey together is over then,” said Branden, stepping down and peering about. “Guess this is goodbye.” He stood, not knowing exactly where to go.

A hairy hand covered Thuna’s grin an instant after Branden saw it. “Ah, Branden dear, I’d hoped to have the great pleasure of your company a little longer. I know you must go, but can’t I at least buy you dinner? Why I know a lovely little inn…”

Branden shrugged his shoulders, which somehow felt much lighter. “I don’t see why not.”

After distilling workable directions from Thuna’s lengthy stories, he set off at once. Passerby seemed not to notice him or his tattered attire; indeed opulent brocades mixed freely with filthy rags. Almost jogging to keep pace with traffic, he frequently bumped into others, receiving curses and a shove or two. The air seemed suffocating; the cavernous roofs all too near. He followed the grand stairway as it wound down, down, until reaching the fifth subterranean level. A straight, narrow waterway, whose flow defied gravity, guided him to lane 30N, which in turn led to a sturdy wooden door and a sign.

The Crane’s Nest read the sign in faded green letters. Steadying himself on a nearby wall, Branden stared up at the image, so worn that the nest could hardly be distinguished from the river it sat near. With a last bewildered glance at the busy decorations and advertisements around him, he took a deep breath and grabbed the appropriate brass handle. They even have one high enough for Orcs. How optimistic.

The door thudded behind Branden as he stepped in, eyes adjusting to the dimmer light.

Smoke and the low babble of voices rose in the air, while fire crackled in a hearth on the left side of the large room. Earthenware plates and cups sat on rough wooden tables. Except for the varying sizes of the well-stuffed chairs and their strange occupants, Branden felt almost at home. Stifling an unexpected yawn, he rubbed his eyes and staggered over to a free chair.

At the table to his right, two Dwarves in plain but decent linen sat with a man with greasy rags and a haunted look in his eyes. All three held woodcut cards in their hands, with many spread before them. A pile of copper coins mixed with a few silver pieces grew ever larger in the center of the table, while the piles of the players grew smaller. The man trembled and bit his nails.

“Come on then, I don’t have all day. Play already, Ongard,” said the man, clawing his hollow cheeks.

Ongard, a stout Dwarf with a brown beard and tired blue eyes, wordlessly chewed a chunk of cheese. He regarded the cards in his hand, looking thoughtful.

The man’s bare foot tapped the ground uncontrollably. “Hurry up!”

After studying the cards once more, Ongard picked one out of his hand, covering one of the man’s cards. “Goblin siege on your Dwarven refuge,” he said, mouth full.

“Just my bleeding luck!” the man exclaimed, fist pounding the table. The six or seven copper coins left to him went flying. Cursing, he stooped under the table to retrieve them.

A younger, slimmer Dwarf with cold black eyes to match his beard rolled his eyes. “By Mahul, I swear this is the last time I play with you, Kelvin. Quit griping and take your turn. Though Ongard has this one locked up anyway.”

Kelvin popped back up with a jerk. “Game’s not over, Garlund,” he said, scowling. He chewed his lip, looking around with a wary, hunted expression. “Overlady of the Swarm,” he almost whispered, placing a card in front of himself.

Both Dwarves stared at him. Garlund recovered first. “Wretched cheat,” he shouted, striking the table.

“Nope. Pot’s mine,” Kelvin said, scooping up the pile in the center of the table.

Garlund seized Kelvin’s hands, squeezing them, forearms throbbing with exertion. “Orcdung! If you really drew it, you would have played it on my Elven horde two rounds ago.”

“I didn’t see it. You can’t prove anything,” Kelvin whined. “You’re gonna break my hands! Let me go.”

Branden watched out of the corner of his eye, wondering when the local guards or whatever Dwarves used for troublemakers would show up. He yawned loudly.

Sighing, Ongard stood up and waddled over to Kelvin’s seat, reaching under the table. “Well what do we have here? Overlady of the Swarm, Olonto conclave, Human crusade, Halfling alliance… quite a handy collection happens to be stuck here,” he said, lying the cards on the table. A crowd began to gather, murmuring angrily.

“We’ve got witnesses, you bloody cheat. Arbiter will give you twenty if you want to go that way,” Garlund said coldly, releasing Kelvin’s hands. “But I’ll reduce it to sixteen if you give me the satisfaction, provided Ongard is willing.” Ongard nodded and waved his hand.

Pale as a ghost, Kelvin cringed. “No, no, please! I didn’t know they were there, it’s been so long since I’ve tasted bliss, I couldn’t help myself, I can’t stop…” he broke down into sobs. “Please! At least give me a taste first. I’ll do anything. ANYTHING!”

Finally the miserable man fell back into his chair, head and body hanging limp. He gave a single nod.

“That’s settled then,” said Garlund, dragging Kelvin onto the table and yanking off his ragged shirt. “Dando, can I borrow your—”

A small black whip flew through the air, landing in Garlund’s hand. “Many thanks,” Garlund said, turning to Kelvin.

Branden sat bolt upright, all sleepiness gone. The crack of the whip rang in his ears, while Kelvin’s bloody back filled his wide eyes.

A tap on the shoulder made Branden jump. Wildly, he turned to find a Dwarf with a dirty apron.

“Evening, sir,” the Dwarf said calmly between Kelvin’s shrieks. “What can I get you?”