Blake Barinder swayed atop a gleaming chestnut stallion, its coat burnished to copper in the fading light, a dwarf perched before him in the saddle. The morning's light rain had left the road treacherously muddy, making the horses skittish and discontented. Still, the air remained sweet—the fragrance of sun-warmed earth and decaying leaves rising in the gathering dusk. Blake's complexion was deathly pale, his nose unnaturally prominent; from a distance, one might easily mistake him for a half-elf in the final stages of consumption.

  "Your warriors have been singing for an hour straight," he observed, glancing from the dwarf before him to the disciplined ranks marching in perfect cadence on either side, weapons shouldered with martial precision as the dwarves of the Gambril Oathsworn thundered their battle hymn. "Do your throats never tire? I'd wager a hippopotamus would sing itself hoarse in half that time."

  Gamlin kept his eyes firmly shut, the whiskers beneath his nose rising and falling with each breath, giving every appearance of deep slumber. "Mr. Gamlin," Blake prompted, leaning close to the dwarf's ear. "Sir?"

  "Had you not compelled them onto those infernal wagons, they would have goose-stepped and sung their way from Phyal straight through to Pafaheim without complaint," Gamlin responded, opening his slightly cross-eyed gaze. The intricate silver ornaments braided into his beard—rings, earrings, and bracelets—chimed melodiously as he spoke. "Now they've barely sung for an hour and already you voice objections. They find this displeasing. As do I."

  "I arranged transport via troop wagons solely for Pafaheim's benefit," Blake explained, gesturing expansively. "Godma's threat to Pafaheim looms imminent; we cannot afford to squander even a moment. Forgive my impertinence, sir—but why do dwarves harbor such aversion to horseback?"

  Gamlin released a contemptuous snort through his nose, shifted his weight, and delivered a playful slap to Blake's impeccably shaven jaw. "And why don't all you humans cultivate magnificent beards festooned with precious ornaments, hmm?" He patted the man's cheek again with mock condescension. "A long ride makes everything from our famously impressive tackle down to our toenails ache with a misery you couldn't comprehend. Do you really want to see the Gambril Oathsworn dismount, groaning and clutching their groins, and then hop into battle like one-legged cranes? How much of a fight could we put up then? And just as not every dwarf will immediately inquire how he might render service upon first acquaintance, we—once properly compensated—execute our duties without superfluous chatter. Our singular objective remains warfare—victorious warfare. Nothing beyond this matters."

  "Very well, your reasoning is sound. Different peoples, different customs." Blake accepted the explanation with surprising alacrity. "Then perhaps another matter—one that genuinely intrigues me." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Is your war-song composed in Dwarvish?"

  "You're referring to the Common Tongue, perhaps?" the dwarf countered immediately.

  "...I see you derive considerable pleasure from verbal provocation, Gamlin."

  "Hmph." The dwarf released two self-satisfied chuckles. "I merely refuse to dignify preposterous questions with serious responses, hah." Noting the man's evident displeasure, he hastily added, "Consider it mere jest, friend. Take no offense."

  Blake Barinder concluded that, despite his caustic manner of speech, the dwarf possessed fundamentally sound character—otherwise, how could he possibly command the legendary Gambril Oathsworn? "I comprehend rudimentary Dwarvish," he continued undeterred. "I've undertaken some modest study. I'm particularly curious about those words repeatedly chanted at each line's conclusion—what precise meaning do they convey? I can only distinguish fragments."

  "Oh?" The captain's interest visibly heightened, his ears practically perking forward. "You possess some understanding of Dwarvish? That represents a genuine rarity among humans, Blake. Enlighten me—to what extent?"

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  "Jegen—meaning 'I.' Beyond that... clarity eludes me."

  "So you're not entirely given to exaggeration like most of your kind." Gamlin's grin set his silver ornaments dancing with musical clinks. "The whole refrain means just this: I am still alive."

  "...I am still alive... I am still alive?" He tested the phrase repeatedly, his expression perplexed. "Why incorporate such sentiment into a war-song? It hardly seems sufficiently inspirational."

  "You speak like a man who's swallowed a library. This morning you were spouting sentences with more metaphors than a poet's funeral. You call that passion?"

  "Ordinary conversation differs fundamentally from battle hymns—much as you differ from me." Blake returned the verbal jab deftly. "If you ask me, a proper war song should be about one thing and one thing only: killing the bloody bastards. Something like that."

  "Ah—so that represents your conception of passion." Gamlin revealed teeth of surprising brightness and cleanliness—a rarity among dwarfkind. "Then you'll undoubtedly appreciate the remainder of our composition. It extends well beyond maternal references—including paternal imprecations and every conceivable vulgarity—anatomical descriptions of remarkable explicitness." He observed the man's eyebrows contracting with disapproval and smiled with evident satisfaction.

  "We have participated in countless conflicts," the dwarf began philosophically. "We understand precisely what merits trust on the battlefield—and what decidedly does not. During the Seventh Era, following a war characterized not merely by injustice but by profound depravity, two dwarven survivors fled across the Flottant de la mer." He illustrated the narrative with expressive hand gestures. "They suffered grievous starvation—possessing nothing beyond meager clothing and their water-skins. Eventually discovering a substantial boulder, they rested against it and cautiously rationed their remaining water. The first dwarf groaned, 'Gods have mercy, my waterskin is half empty already!'"

  "And the other one said, 'Look! I still have half a skin of water left!' Is that the way of it?"

  "Precisely so." He thoughtfully stroked his elaborate beard. "You're familiar with this parable, Blake."

  "Indeed—though I encountered the halfling rendition."

  Gamlin erupted into awkward, boisterous laughter. "Undoubtedly there exists a goblin interpretation as well—who can say with certainty? But allow me to emphasize one critical distinction—neither goblins nor halflings participated in that egregiously unjust conflict."

  "So that explains your refrain: I am still alive?"

  "Exactly. For ultimately, the sole survivor who departed that desolate rock was he who proclaimed, 'I still have half a water-skin.' It's all about how you look at it. When the world goes to hell all around you, sometimes the only thing you can trust is what you believe in your own head."

  The surrounding woodland gradually thinned; crude dwellings with thick straw-thatched roofs materialized before them. They had reached Pafaheim's outer districts. "We approach our destination," Blake observed quietly.

  "Indeed." The dwarf exhaled heavily. "I wonder where precisely the Godmans intend to receive our greeting—within the city proper, or beyond its boundaries?"

  Blake shielded his eyes against the dying sun, gazing intently at ominous black smoke columns rising along the city's perimeter. "Within the walls, I suspect."

  "Street fighting, then," he grumbled, combing his thick fingers through his graying beard. "A bad business for dwarves."

  "You previously claimed extensive combat experience..."

  "And truthfully so, Blake. I've participated in numerous campaigns—including urban engagements. On that count, dispel any concern." The dwarf hastened to elaborate, evidently fearing Blake might question either his personal competence or the Gambril Oathsworn's formidable reputation. "However, this particular scenario—close-quarters combat within narrow confines—significantly diminishes our effectiveness. I would vastly prefer confronting them beyond the city walls, in direct engagement, where our numerical strength might prove decisive."

  Blake surveyed the impressive column stretching behind them with a critical eye. "Unfortunately, we possess no numerical advantage whatsoever against the Godman forces."

  "We field eighteen hundred dwarven warriors. Supplemented by two hundred human knights."

  The man's expression flattened into grim resignation. "While the Godman forces currently occupying Pafaheim potentially number twenty thousand."

  The dwarf absorbed this intelligence—and lapsed into profound silence.