And they were off again. . . .
Down to the next level, and the next, and yet again, but none of the names upon the first pylons depicted the symbols for Limestone Mainway. The lower they descended, the fewer crystals lit the spiraling tunnel, until there were none at all. Wynn took out her small cold lamp crystal and rubbed it briskly to provide light.
She stepped out through yet another end chamber, but this time, the curving tunnel didn’t continue on its far side. It was the last place to look. Sure enough, the first column was marked for Limestone Mainway. It was nothing like Oblique Mainway far above.
Perhaps it had been named for the shots of limestone that ran through the wide tunnel’s walls. There was an ocher dinginess to the whole place. It was brightly lit, as were all the main tunnels, but none of the excavated shops here were smoothly finished. All looked hastily cut for their space, with no thought for appearance. Some fronts were even made of old timber and piled stone. Dust and grime had built up in the crevices around column bases and where the mainway’s walls met the floor.
And the only place with any signs of life was hard to miss.
A dingy banner too dull to read from a distance hung above a wide, plain arch with no door or curtain. Yellow light spilled out across the mainway’s stone, as did a loud, raucous noise of deep voices that echoed in the tunnel.
Wynn took a step, eager to find someone to direct her. Chane’s hand settled on her shoulder, and she looked up. He studied the greeting house’s entrance, and a twist of distaste spread his thin-lipped mouth.
“I do not like the sound. You do not belong anywhere so . . . common.”
Wynn shrugged off his hand. “Don’t be a snob.”
She reached the doorway and stepped inside before he could catch her. There she paused as Chane and Shade pushed through. At first she couldn’t see clearly through all the pipe smoke swirling in the air and the numerous bodies packed around the tables. Wynn coughed and her stinging eyes began to adjust.
The room was large and dauntingly crowded. Dwarves of all shapes and walks of life sat drinking from large mugs of wood or clay rather than pewter or tin. Some tugged on short and squat clay pipes, sending rolling ribbons or great blasts of gray smoke up to the arch- supported ceiling. At the room’s center, the only open and clear space, a large dwarf paced around a wide circular stone platform one step in height.
Some of crowd called out, cheered, or banged their mugs, but all eyes remained fixed on the one pacing dramatically before them.
He was quite stout but also tall for his kind, with steel- streaked ruddy hair and a curly cropped beard a slightly darker hue. A well-crafted chain vest covered him over a quilted leather hauberk. Steel pauldrons and couters protected his shoulders and elbows. Two war daggers were sheathed at his hips, and a double-sided war ax was sheathed upside down on his back, so he could draw it instantly over either shoulder.
“And then?” someone called out in Dwarvish. “What then, Fiáh’our? Finish already!”
Wynn glanced toward the voice, but couldn’t spot the speaker. When she looked back at the warrior upon the platform, her breath stopped at one final detail of his attire.
A slivery thôrhk hung around the dwarven warrior’s thick neck.
Its ornate loop, looking as if made of braids, was thicker than two of Wynn’s fingers. Traditional flanged knobs, each as big as a sword’s pommel, were mounted on its ends resting below his collarbone. But in place of round domes, those ends protruded like butt spikes on the hafts of war axes.
Not just a warrior—this was a thänæ, marked in honor with a thôrhk. What was he doing drinking and telling tales in an underside greeting house?
His voice was low and loud, like rolling thunder.
“After the goblin raid on the village of Shentángize, no one dared step beyond the stockade at night. I had no choice but to set out . . . with only my ax for company.”
The audience roared, banged mugs, and slapped the tables in anticipation.
“What is happening here?” Chane whispered.
Wynn remembered he didn’t speak Dwarvish. She tried to explain but stumbled over the storyteller’s name. Its components were simplified truncations of dwarven root words.
“Uhm . . . Stag . . . Battering. . . . no, Hammer-Stag. He’s