Nickle Brickle'Bee: In the Throne Room of StormHaven: Nickle Brickle'Bee, #5

By Sterling Nixon

The world will never be the same. Just as Nickle and his friends brace for the looming war, a trail of tantalizing clues yanks them off course, unveiling a long-buried secret that could doom the Dwarves. On the front lines, Sharlindrian and Evalee battle for survival against an enemy that seems unbeatable. Intrigue, danger, and epic adventures await as they race against time to save their world!

• Language: English
• Publisher: S&J Publishing
• Release date: Jun 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9781951780289

Sterling Nixon

Born in the humorously nicknamed city of Lost Wages, Sterling Nixon has lived in numerous places across the country, making it difficult to pinpoint a true hometown. He is known for his work in suspense and fantasy genres, often blending these elements with historical and speculative fiction. His narratives are characterized by intricate plots and compelling character development, making his books engaging to a wide range of readers. Currently, he resides in Idaho with his wonderful wife, three children, and a pair of beloved bunnies his kids adore.

Book preview

Prologue

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Rise of the Brood

The Demon Lord bent closer to the Dwarf, his dagger-like teeth in a wicked smile. Vicinerate away, little Nickle, for I have a message for you to deliver to the Tri’Ark that you serve. Run away and tell the world that their Lord has returned.

Then the Dwarf disappeared, vanishing as quickly as he had appeared. 

Pain still rippled through Kara’Kala’s body, sending small spasms down his arms and back. He turned around, taking in his fallen comrades. Despite the explosion, in many places, the fire still burned, crippling some of the weaker Demons with its heat, pushing them to all fours, forcing a few to dry heave.

Kara’Kala knew each of them well. He had recruited almost every one of them at some point—they were his followers, his people, the ones who refused to be subjugated by the Elves. They were the Demon Brood. The few who defied submission, who would not surrender. These were the warriors who resisted the chains of tyranny, sacrificing comfort and life itself for the dream of freedom. But now, they lay vanquished, rowing in the fiery gulf around them.

For two hundred years, they had languished in this ever-burning prison, their skin scorched, their bodies weakened. For two hundred years, they endured torment, their souls splayed by the embers of magical fire, which burned hotter and more fiercely than ordinary flames. They had been starved, deprived of even the most basic needs, living an existence worse than death. Yet, their immortal Demon flesh could not die so easily, and so they persisted, their suffering never-ending.

Kara’Kala straightened, slowly turning to face each one of them. Where his eyes once were, now only empty pits remained—a grim reminder of the Tri’Ark’s cruelty. The Demons around him were not seeking strength but direction. Decades behind the FireWall had crystallized their thoughts into one searing emotion—hatred. Even now, Kara’Kala could feel the intensity of their loathing wafting from them like steam from molten lava. They had been beaten, but they were far from broken.

He stepped onto a burning rock, gaining several more feet in height, his flesh sizzling from the effort. The sight was a testament to his mental willpower as he walked right through a fire that consumed his legs. Physical pain had been a constant companion in his life, now reduced to a distant thought, a memory so faint it barely had form.

We few stood while all others bowed, Kara’Kala said, his voice low but commanding. Those who should have revered us now turn and rend us. O how fall’n we now appear, how changed we have become—we who were pushed from the happy Realms of Light and forced into this prison of pain.

Several Demons roared despite their throats burning from the effort.

But hope, like us, is not easily overcome. Kara’Kala looked up at the Dwarf Century in the distance. For we have been hardened these last two hundred years, our souls forged into greater beings of our power. While the Elves grew fat and foolish from drink, we grew ever stronger, our hatred burning so bright it outshines the sun.

The Demon Lord turned slowly around, sensing the presence of Thammuz, the Demon of Strategy—his loyal General and second-in-command. Thammuz had endured more suffering than most, having been captured prior to the Battle of the Three Stones and subjected to brutal torture. Yet, Kara’Kala was certain of his unyielding resilience as his friend looked up with an unwavering confidence. Thammuz nodded, a silent display of his steadfast loyalty.

He then turned his attention to Dagon, the Demon of Fury, a fearsome warrior with six arms known for his expert blade-handling skills, and Belial, the towering Demon of Destruction possessing the body of a bull and the upper form of a giant—these were his most formidable fighters. Whenever destruction was required, these two never faltered.

Next in line was Baal, the Demon of Rebirth, whose back bore egg sacs capable of spawning countless large spiders. When provoked, his back would rupture, unleashing eight-legged terror upon unlucky bystanders. These creatures, a peculiar creation, were connected to him but not entirely under his control.

Then there was Hasheen, the Demon of the Elements, defying expectations by retaining mastery over elemental powers such as fire and electricity, abilities typically lost to Demons consumed by rage.

Standing nearby was Rimman, the Demon of Grief, who earned his name from the perpetual black liquid dripping from his eyes. These were no ordinary tears but an immensely potent accelerant when mixed with Demon Fire—a sinister enchantment that burned fiercely but without heat. It devoured at double the speed of regular flames, leaving behind a shroud of suffocating red smoke.

Osiris, step forward, Kara’Kala said.

A muscular but thinner Demon stepped closer, pushing to the front of the crowd. The other red beasts made way for the creature, not out of respect but from disdain.

Some of you once approached me with ideas of compromise, with suggestions of peace treaties, Kara’Kala said. Now, I hope you all see how foolish that notion was. Elves will lie until their last breath. This is a lesson I learned long ago that I hope Osiris learns now.

Osiris fell to his knees, his head bent low. His skin sizzled from the hot floor, but he dared not move. My Lord, I was blinded by one and deceived by another. Allow me to live, and I will not repeat this lesson.

Let you live? Kara’Kala asked, amused. You were one of the reasons we failed.

It was Chemos, my Lord, Osiris said with loathing. Chemos deceived you as well as me. If you let me live...I will make him pay. Let me live, and I will bring his broken body before you.

Kara’Kala leaned back, considering. Killing Osiris was the easiest solution—one that he had thought would be the most effective. He needed to consolidate his position, and setting an example of Osiris was a sure way to do it. But, once he was gone, the blame for their defeat could very easily spill onto himself. He could not afford division, not now, not when they were weakest. Osiris, for this reason, must live.

Which of your hands holds your blade? Kara’Kala hissed.

My right...

Then your left hands must bear the sin for the peace you sought.

Osiris swallowed, first glancing at his left wrist and then back to Kara’Kala. He knew what this meant—his left hand was the one he wrote with. Before becoming a Demon, he was a writer, his skill unparalleled in all of EarthWorks. His left hand had produced the now famous works the WrathDrum, the Ollion, and Civis Greene. But this only made him a target for the Elves—a target for their envy. The more they enjoyed his writing, the more he was loathed for it. And in true Elven fashion, they had refused to include any of it in The Library of the Great Works—at least, until he had died, as was the case for all accomplished Human writers.

The Elves had no problem accepting Osiris as their equal in writing skill—as long as he was already dead. They had leveraged Osiris’ own mortality against him. It was Kara’Kala who recognized his genius and forged him into a Demon. It was Kara’Kala who revealed to him the truth that the Elves would never truly accept him or his writing.

Black blood seeped from where the wrist was cut, sending pain down his body. Demon fingers were sharp, but his flesh was resilient. It became a messy affair as he continued, his brow sweating from the effort, but within moments, Osiris had paid the price for his misstep. The thin Demon curled around the severed limp, fighting off the urge to scream in agony.

Kara’Kala approached his old friend, kneeling at his side, pulling his chin up. This is right—my old friend. We must all pay our debts—even if it requires blood. His voice was so fatherly, so gentle now it seemed to be coming from someone completely different. But then the Demon Lord seized Osiris’ disfigured arm and pulled it into a nearby flame.

Osiris struggled against the grip but was powerless before the Demon Lord. Finally, the scream he had been holding back erupted from his lips, filling the burning land. Soon, the wound was cauterized, leaving the acrid smell of burned flesh behind.

Now, Osiris, one of the first of my followers, you must pay the rest of the price, Kara’Kala said. Bring me the head of Chemos.

Osiris growled, giving into his hatred, allowing new power to ripple through his body. I swear it will be done. Chemos will die by my hand.

Kara’Kala nodded, accepting the oath.

He stood. There is a price to everything—even our honor. Now, for the rest of you, our freedom is still in question. Follow me and earn what you have been denied all these years. Kara’Kala led, and the rest followed, entranced by his presence. He walked at a slow, methodical pace towards the Dwarf Century.

When only eighty yards separated the red horde and the Dwarves, Kara’Kala stopped and inhaled, seemingly growing in power. His words were soft but magically carried across the crimson land, filling all the hearts of the Dwarves with dread. Flee or be destroyed.

As if physically affronted, several of the Dwarves shuffled their feet, their nerves getting the better of them. Some of them even subconsciously stepped back, bumping into other warriors behind them. A sense of their impending doom washed over them, evaporating their confidence. They were young, but all of them well-trained, all of them arrayed in polished and powerful armor. But in that moment, they were defeated before the battle even began—their fear completely ruling over them.

The commanding officer of the Dwarves, McGregor the Grey, could sense the shift in morale, the fear that suddenly rippled through his ranks. His Century had not fled yet, but they were not far from it. He took a step forward, a large Dwarf axe in hand, his deep voice breaking the spell of panic. My brothers and sisters, for three hundred years, I’ve carried this axe, and for three hundred years, I have not dishonored it. I’ve faced these brutes before, and believe me, they bleed just as much as you or I. But we need to hold them until our ranks can be reinforced.

Are we going to be reinforced? Does anyone know what has happened? a Dwarf asked, his voice breaking between the two questions.

McGregor did not answer for a while, which seemed to be answer enough. He began pacing in front of his troops, his voice holding them firm. If we fall today, it will be in the service of our people! It will be in the service of Hurn! Do not forget who we are. We are part of the 126th Legion of Hurn—the unit that pushed back the Giants of Easter Isle at the battle of OakField. We were the ones that—

McGregor’s words were interrupted by the Demon Lord as he landed on top of the Dwarf, a potent mix of Runic and Elemental magic tearing up from the ground. The impact was so sudden and powerful that it sent the Dwarves pitching backward, scattering them like seeds. They were not prepared for such a momentous force of magic, and they were easily overcome by it.

As the dust settled, all eyes fell upon Kara’Kala, who now roosted on top of the Dwarf Centurian. The Dwarves looked up, shocked by the display of raw power. In the silence that followed, Kara’Kala only had to say one more word, Run.

The Dwarves moved as if it was an order from the Elected Chief Warlord. They found their feet as quickly as they had fallen and fled for their lives, many of them leaving their axes and shields behind.

Chapter 1

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Camp Burning BuckShot

You think I should pack this? Jason said as he raised an orange and white jersey in the air with the words ‘Jason’s Rough Skins’ written on the front. Nickle had given the jersey to his friend as a gift last year. It was written in a stylized font and had padding in the shoulders and chest. It was a pricey item, as it could magically self-adjust and the padding shifted around where it was needed most, but well worth it, as it soon became Jason’s most prized possession. As far as they knew, it was the only Rough Skins jersey in existence, as all others had been confiscated while they attended Harbordeen.

It said we were to pack only essential items, Nickle replied.

This is about as essential as it gets. You never know when an impromptu Cracken Tumblr game might break out.

Despite the jest, Nickle knew how important the jersey was and did not protest. Jason folded it as carefully as if he were making origami and placed it in his rough, brown rucksack. 

They were in Jason’s room in their small apartment. As comfortable as the space was, it hardly felt like home. They had spent more days chasing the Eye of Atlantia and in Balinbar than ever in their small residence.

Five weeks, Nickle said.

What’s in five weeks? Jason asked.

We’ve only stayed here five weeks out of the year we’ve rented this place.

Jason nodded, his eyes drifting to the space around him. Crazy how little time we’ve spent here.

You done packing? Nickle asked.

Ugh, I hate packing. I have to fold everything up just so I can unpack it somewhere else. And no matter how much time I spend figuring out what to bring, I always miss something.

Well, then... Nickle began but was interrupted by a knock at the front door.

The two friends exchanged a quick look.

You expecting someone, Nickle?

No.

That’s what I was afraid of, Jason answered. No one spends the time to travel somewhere in EarthWorks and knocks unless it’s something bad.

Nickle nodded, wholeheartedly agreeing. They both went for the door, their pace slow but steady. Again, someone knocked—this time, it was much louder than before. The hinges shook, kicking up a layer of dust.

Open up, Nickle, said a booming voice. It’s me, Alisha HornSnot. If you’re in there, you better open up before I smash right through this door—

The door swung open, revealing Alisha, their current commanding officer. Even though they had briefly served under Alisha before, it was only in the last few days that they were reassigned to her again.

She began shaking her head.

Uh oh, Jason whispered.

Did you really do it, Nickle? Alisha asked, her voice as taut as a string pulled by two Cennarians going in opposite directions. She did not wait for an answer and stepped inside, forcing the other two to step back.

Do what? Nickle asked.

Alisha clenched her jaw. Am I not your commanding officer? Where is my salute?

Jason and Nickle suddenly remembered themselves, pounding their hands against their chests. The three figures were so close together that the gesture was not as dramatic as it should have been. Instead, the two Dwarfs simply slid their clenched fists over their hearts while repeating, For Honor and Glory. Jason spoke first, while Nickle spoke quicker. The resulting salute was more pathetic than a Tenderfoot on their first day in Tortugan.

Alisha sighed, pushing deeper into the house. You two are as bad as a pair of warts on a Troll’s butt. She began pacing in the living room, her hands behind her back. Between the mess and the small room, she could not walk far before having to turn around.

After several turns, she finally spoke again, giving a half-hearted salute in return. For Honor and Glory.

Nickle and Jason adjusted their stance, falling into parade rest, which was crisply done. Now that they were no longer surprised by their commanding officer’s presence, they took on the demeanor of the sharp and experienced soldiers they really were.

Did you tell the Century at the FireWall to run? Alisha asked.

Nickle was confused. He understood the words but not the context. The FireWall?

Alisha turned straight towards Nickle, her eyes narrowed. When you first Exsiliogated to the FireWall—

He actually Vicinerates, Jason corrected. He doesn’t know how to Exsiliogate.

Thank you, Alisha whispered like a snake. But, unless I’m asking you a direct question, I expect you to shut your mouth. Is that understood, Jason...First Lever.

Jason relaxed ever so slightly. First Lever...I got a promotion?

What did I just say?

Sorry, ma’am, Jason replied. I was just surprised, is all.

Alisha turned her attention back to Nickle. So, when you...Vicinerated...down to the FireWall. You talked to the commanding Dwarf, correct?

Yes, Nickle said, his voice sounding more like a question.

What did you tell the Dwarf?

To..., Nickle said, trying to remember the conversation. He had not given it much thought since then. To pull his warriors back.

Alisha shook her head again, this time more slowly and pronounced. Oh, Nickle. You made yourself look the fool, and me along with you. They now want to know how I tolerate a Dwarf under my charge who speaks like a coward. They look at me like I had something to do with it.

Coward? Nickle questioned.

Why did you say that to the Dwarf Centurion? And mind you, your answer better b e a good one.

There were thousands of Demons...and only one Century was left standing in their way. Even if you had a force ten times that size, it would only slow them down at best.

That is not your decision, Alisha answered. And now every Dwarf in that unit points to you as the reason they retreated from their post. Some suggested that they thought you were delivering orders from the Four Dwarf Lords.

They survived? Nickle said with a sigh of relief.

Yes, they did—thanks to you, Alisha answered. As soon as their leader was cut down, they fled like a bunch of rabbits. They abandoned their post. They dishonored their Century, their Legion, and the entire Silver Army.

Nickle swallowed. He was finally starting to connect the information and see what he had done through a different lens.

Alisha reached into her pocket and pulled out the insignia of a Legate—a commanding officer. She then tossed the insignia of a First Lever to Jason and the rank of Legate to Nickle. You’ve been promoted.

Promoted, Jason said with a grin. I still think that’s great news.... He began to say before he saw Alisha’s expression. He cleared his throat, trying to cover up his outburst.

You’ve been promoted, yes, but I’m not going to congratulate you as this is not supposed to be a reward. You will be leading the 126th Legion of Hurn—the same unit that fled the field of battle at your suggestion.

Yes, ma’am, Nickle and Jason answered.

And you will no longer report in two days; you will report tonight, as will the rest of the Silver Army.

The rest of the Army is going to Tortugan? Jason asked.

No, Alisha answered. Everything is changing—and not for the better. You must report to the old training grounds in the Lands of the Beasts—Camp Burning BuckShot. Almost the entire Silver Army is. Usually, these orders would arrive via your Stone Tablet or Rune Communicators, but they’re down right now.

Down? Nickle asked. How’s that possible?

A lot is going on right now that we did not think possible, but we Dwarves have prepared for this. Remember your Emergency Communications Chain?

Yes, ma’am, the other two Dwarves replied.

Well, that’s good. Then go relay these orders to each of the two Dwarves you’ve been assigned to. And make it quick. The more time they have to prepare, the less likely someone shows up late—and none of us wants that. Is that understood?

Nickle and Jason’s bodies snapped to attention. Yes, ma’am.

Alisha went for the front door, her hand resting on the handle. She paused there for a second, her mind considering whether to say more. She let out a remorseful sigh. I like you, Nickle, but you really messed up. I tried to reason with them, but...well...in any case, the best advice I can give you is when they ask you why you told that Century to withdraw, explain to them that the Dwarves had a much better chance of defending if they had fallen back to the barracks. The way I see it, you weren’t telling them to flee so much as regroup at a more defensible spot. With this, she exited the way she had come.

Jason and Nickle let out a long breath.

The Rune Communicators are down? Jason said. How’s that possible? While in EarthWorks, we should have the greatest reception.

I can’t believe our Commanding officer was mad at me for telling the Dwarves to withdraw, Nickle whispered. I mean...that was the right call...right? They didn’t stand a chance, so why throw their lives away? What does that accomplish?

It was the right call, Jason answered. But when something as bad as the Demon Lord escaping happens, people in leadership always look for someone to blame. And if the people are blaming that person, no one will blame the real culprit—the leadership of the Tri’Ark. Don’t think about it too much, it will all sort itself out. Come on, we better notify the other Dwarves in our ECC.

I can just Vicinerate to their houses—I know where they are. You could stay here and finish packing.

Well, I’m pretty much packed, and I could use an excuse to stretch my legs. Plus, I’m a little anxious to see what is happening in the city. I wonder what could have possibly taken the Rune Communicators offline.

***

As usual, Jason took the lead, guiding them down the stairs of their apartment. Ever since the news that the Demon Lord had escaped, the city had turned chaotic—well, more chaotic than usual. The lights now flickered like a bulb getting an inconsistent stream of electricity. Rumor had it that Titania, the Queen of the Faries, had withdrawn a substantial portion of the Asrais Faeries back to the Blackwoods Forest. This left areas of the city dim at best, utterly dark at worst. Dwarves had tried to supplement the light with Fire Runes, and now the city resembled a mid-evil town with inconsistent light flickering along the buildings. This was only a temporary solution since the Fire Runes would burn out more quickly the more they were used. Even if they could keep replacing the Runes, it would only be weeks before the Dwarves’ emergency light supply ran out.

They stepped onto a windy cobblestone road that continued towards the Elf Quarter.

Where’s all the Taxi-Lators? Jason asked.

Nickle looked around, suddenly realizing why the air above them seemed so empty. Huh, you’re right. I’ve never been able to see so far in the distance before. Whatever happened with the Rune Communicators might have affected them too. It felt odd being able to see the other side of the spherical city, the tops of the buildings sticking out as clearly as if they were a lighthouse in the distance. Nickle’s eyes locked onto the hovering sphere at the center, known to all as the Heart of the World. Despite its small appearance from afar, he wondered how big it really was. He had never observed it with such clarity before, and now, curiosity stirred within him about its true essence.

They passed a group of Cennarians toting protest signs and splattered in red paint. Nickle held his breath as they walked by, his hands tense. Contrary to every Cennarian he had met in the Land of the Beast, the ones in EarthWorks had become extremely volatile. They were no longer asking for change but threatening to use force to get it. This bunch appeared to belong to the Fidelia Faction, a group that was committed to restoring the Land of the Beasts by any means necessary—even if it meant the destruction of EarthWorks and the relocation of its inhabitants. They seemed to think this was the only way to prevent the Earth from dying.

Since Jason and Nickle were temporarily assigned to the Dwarf Enforcement Unit, they had received several briefs about all the potentially violent groups in the city. All of them, without exception, seemed to be increasing in public support and violent protests.

As they passed, Nickle let out a long breath, his muscles relaxing.

Don’t worry about those ones, Jason said. The ones you have to worry about are the ones without signs—those are the ones who have given up on finding a peaceful solution.

About ten blocks down, they turned up Fungi Road, passing several seedy shops that dealt in Blood magic. They ran headlong into a chaotic tangle of Goblins, all shouting at one another. Nearby, several flying Zephyrs, the vehicles the creatures used for zipping around the city—had collided, spilling their occupants across the road.

Do you think Kara’Kala did this? Nickle asked. Do you think he’s somehow magically attacking the city?

I doubt it, Jason answered. This just feels more like what happens when people are scared. When someone is ruled by fear, they make mistakes, and bad things happen.

They pressed forward, traversing past a ruptured pipe spewing a violet liquid. As they neared the Elf Quarter, the assortment of magical creatures grew more diverse. They encountered a duo of Trolls, a handful of Giants, a couple of majestic Cicurians, and even an Ogre—rare sights within EarthWorks. Their path led them over a road where several cobblestones hovered in mid-air.

Geez, Jason said. Things are really starting to fall apart if they aren’t re-energizing the Mystical magic and keeping the gravity working.

At last, they arrived at their destination—a quaint apartment with a circular door. They knocked on it, first once, then twice. After a moment, a pair of keen eyes peered through a nearby window. The two other Dwarfs signaled to the occupant, who then swung open the front door.

Hurry, get inside, said Turny, a large, paled-faced Dwarf.

Jason and Nickle shared a glance before entering.

Come on, Turny replied, his voice tense. As soon as they entered, the Dwarf bolted the door with five different locks. After that, he turned around, his face grim. Are you two crazy? Why are you walking around here so close to the Elf Quarter?

Rune Communicators are down, Jason answered. The emergency relays have been activated. Your orders have changed. You’re to report to Camp Burning BuckShot in the Land of the Beasts by tonight. You must also relay this to the two Dwarves in your Emergency Communication Chain.

Tonight? Turny answered, his voice high-pitched. That soon? Who will be enforcing the laws on the streets of EarthWorks? I’m part of the DEU, and if we start pulling out, who will make sure pure chaos doesn’t break out.

Jason and Nickle shrugged. They had not considered what their absence in the city would mean.

I imagine the Calameer Army will be left to police and protect the city, Nickle supplied.

The Calameer? Turny answered. That hodgepodge army is used more to protect Human interests, such as treasure hunts or risky investments. The Five Seats use them as their own personal bodyguards.

What’s going on near the Elf Quarter? Jason asked, changing the subject. Why has it been so dangerous over here?

I’m not sure, Turny answered, but from what I’m gathering, I think the Elves are pulling out.

You mean like, leaving? Nickle asked.

And going where? Jason asked.

Well, Turny said, dropping his voice as if he was sharing a secret. Massive freight ships have been appearing above the Quarter, each being loaded to the brim. This was initially ignored, but as the sky filled with the vessels, people began to panic. The High Elf Goddess was expected to know how to handle the Demons, and it appears what she has chosen to do is abandon the city. The protests started—many of them condemning the Elves while others just demanded information. The Praetorian Guard was deployed around the Elf Quarter, preventing anyone but Elves and their servants from entering.

You think they would just abandon the city? Jason asked.

Aye, Turny answered. I think that’s exactly what they’re doing.

Good riddance, Jason said.

As bad as they can sometimes be, they are extremely talented administrators, Nickle said. They run the financial markets, the building projects, and the governance of the city.

The Dwarves of Hurn can fill those positions, Jason replied.

Turny and Nickle sighed, which was answer enough. Dwarves excelled at many things, such as transforming rock into something useful, but deciding what it should be turned into was never their strength.

Jason also sighed as if acquiescing to the other two. You’re right. As much as I hate them, they do have their function.

So why are the Four Dwarf Lords pulling all the members of the Silver Army away now—right when we are needed the most? Turny asked.

Nickle did not answer for a while, his mind lost in thought. I guess we have bigger problems than EarthWorks falling apart. Right now, the whole magical world is in danger.

Chapter 2

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The Cowards of the FireWall

It ended up being a very late night. Nickle and Jason arrived at Camp Burning Buckshot just before midnight and found themselves at the end of an extraordinarily long line. They stood with thousands of Dwarves, most wearing armor and carrying hastily packed rucksacks slung over their shoulders. By the time the morning arrived, and the Asrais Faeries were filling the sky, Jason and Nickle were just barely reaching the registration table.

See, Nickle said, nodding to the long line. Elves do have a place in this world—if we had a few of them here, they’d manage all of this much more efficiently.

Jason growled in agreement but did not speak. He was hungry and tired and just wanted to lie down.

What’s your name? a sleepy-looking Dwarf asked at the end of a long table.

Jason and Nickle saluted, each one giving their rank in turn. First Lever Jason Burntworth.

Legate Nickle Brickle’Bee.

The Dwarf immediately stood and saluted, knocking over his chair in his haste. For Honor and Glory.

The other two Dwarves reciprocated the salute, an exchange that felt slightly awkward considering standard protocol deemed it should have been the reverse. However, in fairness, their promotion was so recent they had not had a chance to visit the armorer and update their insignia. 

What are you doing in this line? the Dwarf asked as he looked up their names on a Stone Tablet. By the Axe of Hurn, those really are your ranks. I’m so sorry, sirs. We had no idea. Have you been here all night? Oh, I see. You’re the Legate over the 126th—that makes more sense. Second Class Bevel Druin, guide the new Legate to his quarters.

Druin approached, giving a crisp salute. For Honor and Glory.

For Honor and Glory, Jason and Nickle replied.

Follow me, sirs, the Dwarf said. You’ll be with the Mackintosh Clan.

Jason and Nickle threw their rucksacks over their backs and headed off.

They entered the camp through a set of octagonal pillars carved from granite. In classic Dwarf fashion, the camp prioritized function over form. Thousands of large tents stretched over the grounds, almost all of them identical, each one symmetrically complimented by another one directly in front of it. This at first appeared to be very well thought out, but then, a hundred yards later, the direction and orientation of the camp completely switched. It was as if someone else entirely had taken over the layout and design of the camp. The tents, roads, and even the signage all had a different appearance and orientation.

The tents were brown, octagonal, and trimmed with silver. Despite the lack of ornateness, there was a beauty to how perfectly similar they were. They walked down a main thoroughfare before taking a smaller path to the east, running into some showers and a common area. Overhead, hundreds of Dwarf Frigates traversed the air, all varying in size and traveling at different speeds. Occasionally, there was an elevated platform that Dwarves used to board or debark from one of the flying craft.

Several tents later, the sounds of hammers and the smell of smithing oil assaulted their senses, giving them a feeling of belonging. They could not hear the Timotayin—the song of the Dwarf—as the smiths were too rushed to let the collective rhythm take over.

The camp was an anthill of activity—Dwarves were everywhere, sharpening axes, polishing armor, carving out Runes on metallic discs. There was a collective sense of excitement in the air as if they were about to embark on some grand adventure.

While they walked, Nickle and Jason peppered their guide with questions, much to his chagrin.

How many Dwarves have been called to Camp Burning BuckShot? Nickle asked.

How many? the Dwarf replied. Why...all of them. Besides one or two Legions, the entire Silver Army is here.

How many is that? Jason asked.

Ugh, if I had to guess, I’d say just shy of a million, the Dwarf answered.

A million? Nickle replied, unable to hide his surprise. And all of them are here?

Well, there’s actually four camps, each run by a separate Clan, the Dwarf answered. But since we are in the Mackintosh clan, we hold all the command staff, so it’s much larger than the other three. The Mackintosh Clan is known for its attention to detail and is the most organized.

How many Dwarf Warships are here?

Currently...no idea, sir, but I’d say somewhere around fifteen thousand.

Dang, Jason said. That’s pretty much all of them. Well, that explains why they changed our plans of going to Tortugan. No way you could fit that many there.

In the most eastern section, at the last tent in the last row, they found their quarters. In stark contrast to everything else, it was in disrepair, with one of the eight sides completely broken. On the front door, in vibrant letters, were the words, Cowards of the FireWall.

Their Dwarf escort