Blood.

  She looked down at her blade, which still dripped with ichor. Taking a cloth, she swiped it along the sword, and sheathed her holy symbol. Then it was a quick turn, back to the Courtyard, picking up her honor guard along the way.

  “Ma’am? Everything all right?” Myers said, saluting, slamming her fist into her breastplate.

  “Walk with me,” she said. Once they were back in the keep, in a lonesome hallway between checkpoints, she gave the gory rag to Wedge. “Go to the enchanters. Get them to analyze this. It’s darkspawn blood, but I need to know what kind.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “No one else is to know of this. Especially the Inquisitor.”

  “That’s… yes Ma’am.”

  If it was from the old ones, well, that was problematic, but it was the Inquisitor’s problem.

  If it was from something daemonic, though…

  If it was daemonic she had a great, big problem, and no clear way to solve it.

  “Garon, you little shit,” she muttered to herself. Things weren’t perfect before he’d shown up, but they’d been simple, and that had been enough. With the booze, and her duty to lose herself in, that had been enough.

  Now she stood on the edge of a deep, dark precipice, with not just herself, but everything she’d built, everyone she’d trained and supported, everyone who looked up to her at risk. And worse, was the possibility that she’d erred, badly. No general likes to face that possibility. But the bad ones hide from it, cover it up.

  Good ones owned what they’d done, and adapted the strategy so they didn’t make the same mistake twice. Mastoya desperately hoped that when this was all said and done, that she had been a good one.

  *****

  Crouched over her desk, midway through the Inquisitor’s report, at the darkest hour of the night, she looked up as heavy metal footsteps clanged on the hallway outside. Heavier than any of her guards. She reached for her sword.

  Then metal rapped on wood. Knocking.

  “Enter,” she called, keeping her hand around the sword’s hilt.

  Emmet stood there, literally filling the doorway. Mastoya let go of the sword. If the Inquisitor had sent him to kill her, it wouldn’t help. She shot a glance at her window, and scooted her chair to the side for easy defenestration if it came down to it.

  “Does the Inquisitor need me?” Mastoya asked.

  Behind him, the two of her honor guard on duty did their best to peer around him, faces looking to her, awaiting her order.

  “No.” Emmet ground. “The message I am to deliver is private.”

  She glanced back to the honor guard, and nodded. “Hicks, Myers, turn in for the night. You, big guy, come in, shut the door, and lower your voice.”

  Emmet did, moving oddly daintily for something so massive, something that she was pretty sure could punch down her entire Fort one wall at a time.

  “Your message?”

  “It is not actually a message,” The golem confessed. “I have doubts. I must talk of them. And you are the only other person in this fort that I am permitted to talk with freely if the need arises.”

  “I am? Who told you that?”

  “King Melos. In his secret instructions. I am permitted to reveal my sapience to Princess Cecelia, Anise Layd’i, and you. You are the only three confirmed one hundred percent loyal to the Crown here.”

  “Before tonight I’d agree with that,” Mastoya said, opening up her drawer. “Do you have an extra stomach compartment for drinking?”

  “No. Why? Such a thing seems foolish to install upon a golem.”

  “I’d figured there was more to you than just a silent machine. You don’t move like the old war golems we have down in the Machine bay… had.” Mastoya sighed. “Shattered to bits without even being able to react, since their handlers told them to stand still until ordered otherwise. You’re a pretty shitty actor, Emmet.”

  “Charisma has not been a priority in my training. Aside from my Knight levels.”

  “What all do you have, exactly?” She said to buy herself time and think.

  “Archer. Alchemist. And Grenadier for ranged attacks.” Emmet rumbled, his voice as low as it could go, and still filling the room. “Berserker. Juggernaut. Knight. And Mercenary for close-combat engagements.”

  Sweet fucking Ritaxis’ assplate. Yeah I wouldn’t make it out the window.

  “And just to be clear, you follow the orders of the Inquisitor? So she could order you to tell her about anything we talk about here, and you’d have to obey?”

  “Yes. Although…” he leaned forward. “I have been ordered to put the orders of Princess Cecelia above hers, and not tell Anise Layd’i about this fact. You are third in order priority.”

  “Okay. I’ll watch what I say.” Mastoya kicked back a shot, feeling her spent moxie restore a bit. “So why are you here?”

  For a while, he was silent, the gems behind his helm flickering.

  “Your brother came to you tonight. And he is now a golem.”

  “Yes.” It had been him, she was sure of that. Not a trick, not a test. That had been Garon, she’d stake her command on it.

  Shit, maybe I’ll have to.

  “My brother came to me tonight as well.” Emmet said. “I did not know I had one. He is also a golem. And I very much wish to know more about him and I thought that since your brother came to YOU tonight as a golem, that perhaps you could tell me more about this, and help me decide how to resolve the conflict.”

  “The conflict?” Mastoya asked.

  “Per Inquisitor Layd’i’s orders, confirmed by Princess Cecelia, the next time I see my brother I am to quote unquote rip his fucking head off and burn all his remains and make him suffer if at all possible through every step of the process and kill or destroy everything that he ever loved within his sight before he dies if at all possible you massive metal meathead.”

  Mastoya laughed, sardonically. “Yeah, sounds like one of my brother’s friends, all right.”

  “But my earliest command, was to protect my family. And he is on the list.”

  Mastoya sighed, got up, and looked out the window. No imps, the courtyard was bare, save for the watchers she had stationed to make sure nobody spied on her.

  Then she nodded, and turned back to Emmet. “Okay. First thing I should tell you? I am absolutely the last person you should be asking on how to NOT kill your relatives…”

  Give the Dwarves Their Due 1

  Brokeshale Mountain rose above the Eastern Reaches of Cylvania like the stump of a massive tree. Large, jagged-topped, and untouched by trees, legend in fact said that it had once been one of the World Trees, destroyed by greedy giants in their war against a pantheon of gods long-since fallen. Or reborn. Or mostly gone, with one or two remaining. Or there was an apocalypse or something but the world recovered so it wasn’t the end of the world after all. Or something like that.

  What WAS known for sure, was that over a century ago, back when Cylvania carved its way to freedom and withdrew from the Cane Confederation (long before all that slavery nonsense,) a clan of enterprising dwarves made their way south from Mighty Hallas, and liked the look of the place. They knew why it didn’t have trees, and it wasn’t because of a curse or giants or gods or anything like that. It was because of what was there, hiding below the soil, keeping vegetation from growing on the place…

  They knew it held riches. They hadn’t realized just how MUCH. Dwarves being dwarves, when they found out how much metal was under Brokeshale, and the surrounding valley, they sent messages back to their relatives. Who got in touch with their relatives. Who called in their relatives. And in a relatively short time, (in dwarven terms anyway,) no less than four clans migrated down to set up new lives and turn Brokeshale into a major mining hub of western Disland.

  Eventually the humans in the more central part of Cylvania noticed “hey, there’s dwarves over there now,” and the usual messages and envoys were sent, tables were thumped, voices were raised… and then envoys were received, handshakes were offered, coins changed hands, and the dwarves, under King-Grundi-under-this-mountain-here-no-not-that-one-the-big-one-you-idjit, (The transcriber was later fired,) walked away with the rights to the land UNDER the remote branch of the Skygrope mountain range, so long as he didn’t expand his holdings horizontally, and represented Cylvania to the rest of the dwarven communities in Disland and beyond.

  It seemed uncommonly generous, to many of the disgruntled human miners who’d called Cylvania home. But in actuality, it was more than fair. By making the dwarves “Their” dwarves, they staved off future incursions. The truth of the matter, was that being at the confluence of two mountain ranges, Cylvania was rich in mineral wealth, and more dwarven clans were already prepared to move in on the new nation to see what they could wring from below their soil.

  But with a formal agreement in place, the oldbeards of the remaining clans knew they’d be moving in on Grundi’s turf… a thing which dwarves do NOT do lightly.

  So when dwarves wanted to own land or mine or do things in Cylvania, they went to King Grundi, king Grundi would talk with whoever the human in charge aboveground was at the time, negotiations would happen, and everybody got their cut. It worked pretty well.

  Up until everything changed, the humans got stupid, and it didn’t work any more.

  “…and that’s why we can’t have nice things,” Garon finished.

  “It was more than just the humans getting stupid,” Cecelia said, just a touch defensively. “I mean, if you’re correct, then Anise tricked my father into-into slaughtering Taylor’s delve. So yes, Grundi’s claim against the Crown was correct on THAT. But they pretty much did the same thing to the Hornwoods, and refused the Crown’s requests for evidence.”

  “What kinda evidence they supposed ta show?” Madeline asked, resting her head irritatedly on stone. She’d been out of sorts since the dwarves had confiscated her pack, along with the rest of their items, even down to the cloth mice Cecelia could have used to scout out their prison. “Empty mineshafts? A place where gold ore ain’t?”

  To be fair, they’d given the toys who had been clothe replacement clothes for their confiscated magic items, but the gray prison shirts were much too large for them, and they’d refused to allow the bears tailoring tools to fix that situation. At least Cecelia’s SORT of fit. Kind of. If she held the neckline pinched shut.

  “I’m just saying, that mistakes were made on both sides,” Cecelia said. “Though admittedly, more on my father’s side.”

  “Yeah. I don’t know the details, not exactly, but Beryl told me the dwarves were NOT happy about the Oblivion. It didn’t work at all like they were promised it would. ” Garon sighed. “It was supposed to be a thing where we could raise or lower it. Was never supposed to be always up.”

  “You know a lot about this, Gar,” Madeline said. “Why?”

  “Eh, some of it’s from Beryl, a lot of it is history I studied. If you’re going to be a Mercenary you have to know what opportunities are out there for profitable conflicts. I figured that it’d end up the Crown against the dwarves at some point, and wanted to know the history of my potential employers.”

  “Nice!” Madeline said, admiringly.

  “The Crown doesn’t use mercenaries,” Cecelia rubbed her chin.

  “No, I would’ve fought for the dwarves. Precisely for that reason.” Garon smiled. “Well, that and Mom and Dad would have disowned me if I helped the Crown.”

  “Beh. You t’ink too little of you parents,” Zuula said, as she continued roaming the cell, poking at the walls. “We forgave Mastoya, didn’t we?”

  “Yeah, AFTER you died. At her hands. See, I didn’t want it to come to that with me, at least.”

  “Technicality!” Zuula snorted.

  “I hope Graves is okay,” Kayin said, her ears flat against her skull. Her clothing, like Zuula’s, had been sewn on, so she was spared a prison shirt at least.

  “I just hope I can feed Mopsy on time!” Fluffbear waved her paws. “My code’s gonna break if I don’t!”

  “Surely the gods won’t mind?” Threadbare asked. “These seem like, oh what’s the words… extenuating circumstances? Yes, those fit.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Fluffbear said. “I swore it so I have to do it. That’s the paladin’s way.”

  “Wow. That sounds rough, man.” Glub said, offering her a pat on her back. “I couldn’t do that. I mean, I’d try, but stuff gets away from me, you know? More of a guidelines type than a rules guy.”

  “I’m sure Graves is okay,” Cecelia reassured Kayin, giving her a one-armed hug. The catgirl leaned into it, even purred a bit as the porcelain princess scratched between her ears. “As are the cats, wherever they took them all. They’re probably getting fed right now.” She nodded to Threadbare. “So she’s getting fed on time.”

  “Yes, but I’m not the one doing it.”

  “Look at it this way,” Threadbare said. “If someone else is caring for them, then the cats are on THEIR time. Not yours. It’s only while they’re with you that they’re on your time. Otherwise how could they hunt?”

  “Hm…” Fluffbear scrunched her little black furry face up, so hard that her eyes flattened upward a bit. “I guess… Maybe?” She sighed. “I’m really new to this job. At least I’ve got Oops Sorry.”

  “Desu?” Kayin stirred and looked over to her.

  “What?”

  “What did you do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said oops sorry.”

  “That’s the name of the skill.”

  “Seriously?” Garon said.

  “Oh yes! It lets me talk to my god or the nearest applicable deity for the crisis of faith at hand and seek forgiveness! But I get a black mark on my status for a while and if I get too many I lose the job.”

  “BAHAHAHHAHA!!!”

  “It’s not that funny,” Fluffbear frowned at him.

  “I uh, I didn’t laugh,” Garon said, glancing around.

  “GAHAHAHHAHAH!” The laughter echoed through the room. “HAHAHAH! Heee, okay. Bring it down, Graf,” said a deep and burly voice.

  The walls of the cell faded.

  The group found themselves standing, sitting, laying about, or in one case, abruptly falling over. (Zuula had been shoving against a wall.) They were in a great hall, wide and vast, broken by support pillars every hundred yards that stretched up to a vaulted ceiling. Glowstone chandeliers hung down, countless numbers of them, bathing the entire place in dim, silvery light. Light that glinted and reflected off the armor and weapons of the forty or so dwarves surrounding the golems.

  And in what might have been the back, front, or center of the room, were three circular slabs of stone, atop which sat a fat throne. Made of some silvery metal, with plates and rivets and gadgets festooned all over it, carved with runes, the seat of it was buried in pillows, and quilts. Graves sat at the foot of the throne, with two glowering guards next to him, halberds crossed above his head.

  On the throne sat an old, old dwarf, buried beneath cloth, with only his face and beard poking out. He had a gold crown on his bald pate, eyebrows that would have put Garon’s father to shame for their bushiness, and a beard that stretched down six feet, well off the throne, and coiled neatly on the floor in a pile of braids.

  It was hard to tell, but it looked like he was smiling.

  “Have we been teleported?” Threadbare asked.

  “No. The floah’s the same,” Madeline said, looking down. “Carrara marble with a two-chisel cut, holystoned regularly. I recognize some a’ the nicks that I saw in the cell. What we thought was the cell.”

  “Do you now?” The old dwarf leaned forward. “You’re a Mason, then?”

  “Nah. I’m a stonecuttah. Taught myself the old fashioned way. Used to be I couldn’t have craftin’ jobs.”

  That caused a stir. Many of the dwarves around them stirred and muttered, and the King laughed again. “Wahahahhaha! Oh, this is good. Alright young man, you may stand.”

  The guards uncrossed their halberds. Graves stood, and Cecelia gasped, for he was no longer emaciated. “You’re better!”

  “They were kind enough to ask one of their high priests to see to me,” Graves said, wiggling his feet a bit, to wake them up. “Thankfully it went off, just like a curse being removed.” He shivered, and pulled his prison tunic down, trying to keep his nether parts covered. “I assume that you’re satisfied, your majesty?”

  “Mostly.” Said the King. “Sorry for tha trick, children. Your man Graves here said some pretty outlandish things. We had ta be sure.”

  “You put us in a cell that wasn’t real, and listened to us talk,” Threadbare realized.

  “Aye.” The King nodded. “With a barrier to let your sound out and keep ours from comin’ in. Wasn’t the first time we’ve used this trick. Won’t be the last.”

  Cecelia stepped forward. “Then… Graves, did you tell them everything?”

  “More or less. He stopped me midway through.”

  “Ghosts in golem bodies I could buy.” The King shrugged. “Seen weirder, though na for a while. No friends to the Crown, that needed a listen. Paladin? Well, few of those nowadays. I knew one once, before tha Oblivion. Oops Sorry ain’t something most know! And most important of all, ye talked about yer father, the King.” Two large, thin hands emerged from the quilts, and steepled under his chin, combing through his braids. “And ye did.”

  “So you believe that we’re who we say we are?” Cecelia said.

  “I believe ye think that. I believe that’s what yer statuses say, since my scouts have confirmed it. Ye’re either them, or the greatest cultists what ever existed in Cylvania. And that last bit don’t seem likely.”

  Cecelia let out a sigh. Then she straightened up. “Your Majesty. I stand before you now as a Princess of the Realm. My Father has been-”

  “No.”

  Silence fell throughout the throne room.

  “Your majesty, please, we have risked so much to journey here-”

  “Aye. But yer no longer princess of the realm. My dear, yer dead.”