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With her wicked power growing, I prayed to the Goddess of the Beyond that we were successful in finding Mondu and the blade that the savior could wield. In my heart, I knew who the savior was. I understood the gravity of Bereille’s words, but I wanted to forget them. Forget it. The fate of everything couldnotrest on Autumn’s shoulders. It wasn't fair. Heroes died. In Catalan especially, heroes died. In legends and most stories, the heroes died. Heroes were a tether of promise in the darkness, but their fate was sealed the moment they were assigned greatness.
Bereille could not have sent us on a suicide mission, could he? But I knew the underlying rules of the Knights. Sacrifice a few to save many. I knew the Knights were known for their self-sacrificing heroics, and once Autumn understood the gravity of her role in this, she would have no issue rising to the task. That was her. Shewasjust the kind of hero that legends were made from, and ballads sang about. If anyone was going to be the hero in this story, it was her, and my heart ached with that knowledge.
We made our way to the towering behemoth of a doorway at the top of the mountain, made of metal and stone with intricate carvings along the shale walls of the mountain—engravings of axes, bears, wolves, blades, and things I didn’t recognize. Two beefy dwarven guards stepped out of the shadows at our approach. When they saw Argen, they instantly crossed their axes over their chests respectfully. The damn dwarfwasthe son of the King of Dwarves. Shit, that meant he was a prince. That was going to take getting used to.
Once inside the mountain fortress—and I mean mountain fortressinsidethe damn mountain,we tried to take everything in at once. In all my life, I had never imagined I would be in a dwarven stronghold. Columns and pillars had intricate knotted designs and small flame braziers to light a path. It was slate, rock, and shale inside, which was slightly disconcerting a sensation. As tall as me, massive battle axes were carved along each doorway that spawned off the main hall we walked down. I noted open forges in various places, tools hanging from pegs, missing nothing but the flame inside to create weapons. A blaze they could draw from the fissures below, inside the mountain itself. The dwarves' connection to the mountain was said to be what drew their power, their flame, and their magic that forged and created unbreakable, unrelenting, raw weaponry. Each dwarf then mastered how to refine their craft, but it was the mountain flame that drew their fires. I imagined in its day, those forges would have been heating this grand place with dwarves bantering back and forth about whose ax would be better quality and fell the most beasts. The air would be tinged with the song of battle, honor, stubbornness, and pride. I could imagine all of this in its prime. This great hall had once brimmed with laughter, taunts, and battle tales—a community of crafters and weapon smiths.
With our boots echoing on the stone floor, we made our way steadily to an open, arched doorway made of redwood and steel. It was imposing, carved in intricate flames. Once through the archway was a throne. Detailed stone statues of dwarves with various weapons graced each side of the room, and fires blazed in stone bowls along the hall. A massive flat stone made a dais, and an enormous wood and iron chair held one large figure.
“King Rimroc. Father. I have visitors from Catalan,” Argen called as soon as we entered the throne room, as if left unannounced, we’d be killed on the spot. I couldn’t blame them. The dwarves weren’t shown kindness by the current ruler or nobles of Catalan. Amira had asked them to bow to her, and when they refused, she showed them her might to destroy an entire civilization. The worst part was the actuality that Dunvar Mountains were even a part of Catalan had always been up for debate.
The large dwarf took in our appearance with quiet contemplation for a long time. I shifted on my feet to alleviate the tenseness, but even with her golden eyes bright with intrigue, Autumn remained her calm self.
“Have ye come about the war?”
“The…war?”
The Dwarf King lifted a bushy brow. “Aye. Feist and Franconia. Amira yanked out ‘er border resistance, and Franconia has infiltrated and made threats. Amira is refusin’ to send aid, which is fuelin’ Franconia.”
“Fuck.” With Bereille gone, Amira could run rampant. She had something against Feist, which didn’t all have to do with Duke Nero and his council members. My stomach clenched. Did it have anything to do with Margarite and her family there? She was related to…Fuck. Margarite was the duke’s daughter, wasn't she? Now I wish I wouldn’t have ignored all the political talk.
My blood froze. Bereille had said something about Feist. The curse on the child. I had never gotten a chance to ask him to elaborate. Was Amira antagonizing the war with Franconia so they could do her dirty work of getting rid of any blood ties for the throne? To kill off the royal bloodline of her late husband?
I didn’t even know what to think. This was a shock. Autumn looked sick but said nothing.
Rimroc looked us over again with deep curiosity. “If not fer the war, then what are ye doing here?”
We might as well not beat around the bush. “We seek Mondu.”
He laughed, a great booming sound that echoed in the stone room. “Mondu only shows itself to the worthy. The pure of heart. Dwarves of that nature are long gone.”
Then what the fuck were we doing here? I wanted to swear at Bereille for sending me on this quest with such little information, but it still hurt my heart too much to think about him. “Youcannot reach Mondu?”
Rimroc smirked. “I am many things, but pure of heart is not one of ‘em.”
I glanced at Argen. He met my gaze with a shrug. I don’t know why I thought this stubborn lot would be helpful. “Can you point us toward it, then?”
“Why ye searchin’ for it?”
“My mentor, Bereille, told me to come here. Argen said you may have known him.”
“Bereille. Aye. I knew him as Blue. I've heard a horrible story that Amira killed him. Is that true?”
My stomach clenched. “I’m afraid so.”
“Shame that. Blue was a good man. Now,hewas pure of heart and as good as any dwarf with a weapon. Disciplined, that one.” Rimroc cocked his head. “Hemay have been worthy of entering Mondu. Not that it would have done him much good.”
My eyes swept Autumn, staring at the king with curiosity, but she said nothing. I sighed. “Bereille seemed to think…” I resisted the urge to glance at Autumn again because I wasn’t quite ready to reveal everything. Especially her role in this.
Rimroc took in my silence with contemplation. He stroked his beard thoughtfully as his eyes held mine. “Ye are nay pure of heart.”
Ha. “No, I'm not.”
Rimroc pursed his lips. Then his eyes slid over Autumn slowly, thoroughly. His demeanor went wistful, and he stroked his beard again. “But maybe…” He muttered something I couldn't decipher, but Argen seemed to snap to attention. His eyes went over Autumn too.
Autumn balked at the scrutiny. “W-what is going on?” Her voice was strong but uncertain.
“There was a legend. A prophecy, some say. That… It said we would fall—the dwarves would fall, but someone with diluted dwarven blood would reseat us to former glory. Someone pure of heart. Someone that could wield Cabro Lightfoot’s legendary blade and break the curse.”
