To ally with the Dwarves was far simpler than anyone could have predicted. They possess a sense of honour and a sense of dread ingrained into their very souls. The memories of the Surface War had destroyed any sort of connection between the Surface and the Underground, save for the odd trading caravan, them sheltering a runaway of ours or us sheltering a runaway of theirs, there was little connection. The gates were opened to me without a hindrance. The entrance was not filled with awe but they had a begrudging respect towards me for the part I played against them in the surface war.

  The proposition of alliance was seized upon immediately. A human diplomat would call it hasty, the dwarves obviously thought not. It could be dismissed on one hand, Kassandora flooded several of their highways when the Ocean Drains were carved open. It is reasonable that after such an effortless destruction of their civilization, they would see us all surface-dwellers as Gods that could end their existence with a mere snap of one’s fingers. That is where most fools would leave the dwarves, as a paranoid little race of half-men, and it is where most fools have in fact left them.

  No. Tartarus and Paradeisius both have shown that worlds can be united. We will not fall below their standards. My Pride will simply not allow it for me to leave a world like Arda un-united. To dismiss the dwarves as paranoid little half-men I did not do. I ventured to their kings and I came upon subjects that were more than willing to be given a hand and promise that when they be called upon in times of crisis, someone should answer.

  And it is that willingness, unheard of on our surface, which troubles me. A kingdom as strong as theirs should not be so willing. Likewise their paranoia cannot be just the work of the Ocean Drains. Those could be countered in certain ways, Kassandora pre-emptively thought up of certain methods which could be used to stop the flooding. There is little hatred for the event as well, what grudges they have seem to have settled.

  On one hand, it is an almost mature demonstration of power. They invaded us. We flooded their underworld. They retreated. And the single conflict between our kinds has passed into the annals of history. On the other, it does not sit with me. An entire race that carry such an elderly wisdom needs to have gone through something wicked which sentenced them to such a dire mentality.

  - Excerpt from the private writings of God Arascus, of Pride.

  High King Osonev looked down at the little letter in its flowing writing. It was incredible how such a tiny scrap of paper could have all the traces of expertise upon it. The way the letters flowed into one another was a marvel in penmanship, even the way the paper was torn off to be a rip as clean as a cut by a professional’s knife. Olephia’s work, it had to be. Osonev look at the dwarf who had brought it in his run, the humans had already gone to inform their own commanders, it was too late to stop the leak of information. And it would be impossible anyway. “The Goddess wrote this?” Osonev asked, his voice a soft rumble.

  “The Goddess did.” The messenger said. “We… she showed it to everyone. Goddess Iniri has gone down with her.”

  High King Osonev sighed. The crown on top of his head had never felt so heavy. The gauntlets that covered his hands felt as if they wanted to retreat from the terror that this paper brought about. The High King looked tried pulling his eyes away from the paper. “Inform the masters.” Osonev said. “Send word to them quickly, to the High Priest as well.”

  “Of course my king.” The dwarf that had brought the letter from Olephia replied with a voice that somehow managed to sound as if he wasn’t red in the face. Osonev took a deep breath, his short, stunty legs just lumbered over to the small stone in his office that functioned as a chair. There was no desk before it, dwarves usually stood as they worked. Their bodies simply weren’t suited for chairs and their arms were too short to reach over great distances.

  And Osonev sat.

  It was a secret even he didn’t know. Nor did his father. Nor his father’s father. None of them, Osonev doubted that even the dwarves in the Great War had known what exactly lay in the unsearched roads. Ancestors had closed them, ancestors excavated them, ancestors had decided they should remain closed. Osonev just considered himself a foolish old man. Who was he to question the judgement of those who had managed to build this entire kingdom?

  The Masters arrived quickly, although none of them were far away. Only the High Priest had a building dedicated to himself. Runemaster Azald, one-eyed, who had refused the services of Imperial Clerics to proudly bear the wound from a battle some decades past came first. The dwarf did not even cover the damage with an eyepatch nor fill it with glass or diamond. It was just a black hole into his head. “I have been summoned my king.” He said.

  “You have indeed.” That was all Osonev said. Azald would wait in his glowing armour, adorned with runes of his own making. It pulsed silently, as if the symbols etched into the metal tried to match the rate of his slow heart-beat. Forgemaster Vizin came soon, it was only natural that the two would be close to each other. Their wings were close by simply because anything Vizin produced, Azald would adorn.

  “I have received summons.” Vizin declared. A huge dwarf, slightly taller than Osonev and more than twice as wide. His stomach could have been considered fat if it was wasn’t a barrel of muscle from days of working at the scorching forges.

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  “Indeed.” Osonev replied. “We wait for the High Priest.”

  They waited for some thirty minutes. The temple complex was not far from Klavdiv’s armoured palace but dwarven legs were slow. Osonev almost couldn’t bear the wait. Every second, he felt the crushing weight of the few commands his father had told him. He knew the words perfectly, his son knew them too, and not a single other soul in all Klavdiv did: ‘When the stone sprouts roots once again, call a Master’s Meeting.’ That was all. The only command that was given.

  It was not grand and there were four masters in Klavdiv: Hold, Forge, Rune and Relic. That last title was the other title of High Priest Haskov: Relicmaster. And Haskov eventually did arrive, his face red from the run, his breathing heavy. As was customary, he did not even knock for a summons, he just barged through the heavy steel door and let it slam shut behind him. “Summons!” He shouted.

  “Indeed.” Osonev said. He sat on his tiny stone chair, was wide enough for a table and tall enough to reach a human’s calves. He looked around the room once again. It was only the four masters of the Hold, there weren’t even four guards outside. A banner of Klavdiv hung on the wall, above the door were Osonev’s ancestral axes, long since unused, with runes that could long not be written. Glowstone mounted into the walls emitted its orange light that made everything seem as if it was about to catch fire. Goddess Kassandora had instituted the spear when she had first arrived here and the spear and shield was a much better weapon for such short creatures. “I have news.” He said. “Goddess Olephia has reached the bottom of Klavdiv.” He stared down at the note. “Goddess Iniri is assisting her with the dig towards the World-Core.”

  The three other dwarves all let out sighs of relief at that. Their relief ended almost immediately when they saw Osonev’s hard face. He could never hide his emotions, it was a skill that only those who lived in the luxury of the surface had the time to indulge in learning. “I will read her note now.” He said and held the piece of paper before himself: “I have reached the bottom. I assume I have found the entrance although I’m not very sure, it is covered with wood of some type. I would advise for a party to travel to the Holdmaster to inform him.” He finished off and stared at the other Masters.

  They all looked surprised but surprise was all they had. Osonev stared at them. Surely they would know. He had done exactly what his father had said. His son would do the same. “Wood?” Forgemaster Vizin asked.

  “It survived the waters?” Runemaster said. “So there’s something growing down there?”

  High Priest Haskov scratched his shaved clean-shaven chin. Beards got in the way of armour and there was not a dwarf in this Hold who did not wear armour. “Is it the Core?” He asked. “Pushing the waters out?”

  “I do not know.” Osonev said. “That is why I have called the meeting. I thought you would.”

  “The Core was flooded.” Vizin said, although everyone knew the history. Tunnel tactics were not uncommon in the Great War. Allasaria and Elassa and Iniri could all tunnel with ease, as could Paradeisian choirs. Every Hold had seen at least a few battle within its gates before the war ended although they had been pushed back each and every time. There had been a time when every house was not a tiny castle, but that time had long since passed. It grew too expensive for White Pantheon forces.

  And then they had tunnelled to the World-Core. Whatever spell had been uttered down there shut it down and brought on the days of darkness. Although it should be called the thousand years of darkness at this point. No amount of tinkering or sorcery managed to re-awaken the Core. The Suns under the Surface lost their power-source, they had burned out. And the most populous kingdom in the world had died.

  And that was that.

  “Indeed.” Osonev said. “So how do we have wood down there?” That was a question for the ages. No one had an answer. It was obvious from the utter bafflement on their expressions. “Gentlemen, friends.” Osonev began, a tradition would be broken today. Ancestors curse him, a tradition would be broken. “I was told by my father a set of words: When the stone sprouts roots once again, call a Master’s Meeting.” He recounted them and immediately felt terrible.

  Vizin and Haskov both stared wide-eyed at the reveal of the secret but not Azald. He just stared at the High King, his own mouth mumbling a set of words. Osonev turned his glare towards the Runemaster and he spoke. “When the Masters meet, recount the words unsaid.” Azald finished. “That is what I was told. I do not know what it means. My father did not either.”

  But Vizin did. It was obvious that he did. An expression like that only came about from a man who was about to be cursed by his ancestors. “Utter the words unsaid, and call upon the lumberers of old.” Vizin said. The three dwarves now turned to the last one in the room. High Priest, Relicmaster, Haskov.

  The dwarf’s tone was grim. “Call upon the lumberers of old and wield not their spirits but their arms.” He finished and stared at the other dwarves. “Words passed down from my father. One line only, he said no more. I do not question them. He did not either.”

  “Neither did mine.” Osonev said. “Words from ages that do not even have names.” He sighed and leaned back on the stone chair. And that meant what? Words unsaid? Lumberers? Their arms? Osonev stared around the room. And what he was supposed to do with that? His eyes went to the glowstone and its warm orange light.

  “He did not.” Azald declared. “And? Where are their arms?” The three dwarves stared up at the High King.

  “If that is what it means.” Vizin said. “For what are their arms? I have never heard of such a thing. Patterns and schematics yes, but arms? Their strength?”

  “Their weaponry?” Haskov asked. “Open the armouries?”

  “And search for what? And how far back are we going?” Osonev stared at the three dwarves, for a moment, he was just as lost as them. “And for what?”

  “Well…” Azald said. “Lumberers? Axes then?” Osonev smiled at that. That was probably true. His eyes went to his own axes, that had been passed down by his father. His father had received them. His father’s father had inherited them. And so the line went.

  And his breath caught.

  The High King looked down at the three dwarves he had just summoned to make sure they were still there. Surely it could not be… He eyes moved. At the door. Above it. The air tasted like stone. It… And yet it was right there. “It’s that.” He pointed to the axes that hung above the door. Axes with runes that no one knew how to write: Words unsaid.