The dwarf Gondolin had never imagined his strength could prove so formidable—with nothing but his own might, he heaved the massive doors of Goria Temple open several yards wide. Inside, the sanctuary teemed with townsfolk seeking refuge. The members of the Gambril Oathsworn leapt instantly to their feet. "Prepare to move. Now." Gondolin braced his hands against his knees; spittle glistened on his lip before dripping to the stone floor. "Triumphant Fort cannot stand!"

  A deathly silence fell over the crowd. They stood motionless as statues, mirroring the great granite Goria that loomed above. Blake closed the small volume of poetry clutched in his hands and stumbled to his feet. "Calm yourself, Gondolin. Draw breath and tell us again." The voice seemed to emanate from the massive granite-carved image of the Goddess herself. Heads tilted upward to discover the dwarf-woman Lorraine perched upon the outstretched palm of the kneeling statue, where the hand extended from its braced knee. "Triumphant Fort has fallen. Pafaheim's soldiers have withdrawn entirely."

  "Did the commander order our retreat?" Gondolin shook his head. "We must await his command before we—" The dwarf drew two ragged breaths and collapsed onto the floor. "Listen carefully, Lorraine. Triumphant Fort is nothing but a massive pyre now—and what fuels those flames are men. And dwarves." He swallowed hard. "And Gamlin... I don't know where he is. I don't even know if he's still breathing."

  "Then we should wait longer." Gondolin offered no reply. He simply sprawled flat on his back, stealing a moment's respite. One of the mercenaries shifted uneasily. "If the fort has truly fallen, perhaps the commander is..."

  "Silence," the dwarf-woman snapped.

  The High Priest was a corpulent man draped in loose vestments, his gleaming pate crowned with an elaborate hat proclaiming his station. He waddled duck-like to Gondolin's side. "Sir, might you describe the conditions beyond our walls?"

  The dwarf coughed. "Hell," he rasped.

  "I've heard that word more times than I can count today, master dwarf," the High Priest replied smoothly. "Perhaps you could offer something more... descriptive?"

  "Why not venture outside yourself and witness it firsthand, High Priest?" Gondolin cracked open a single eye, his patience worn threadbare.

  "Me? Oh, absolutely not. Most inconvenient." His smile spread smooth as oil. "I am, after all, the High Priest. My sacred duty binds me to the goddess's side."

  Gondolin made a sound halfway between a snort and a fart. It wasn't loud, but in the sudden silence, it was mortifyingly clear. "I encountered a band of raving lunatics," he offered by way of summation.

  Gondolin had never before encountered tenement buildings, and these five- and six-storied structures captivated his interest. He took point ascending the staircase, his squad wobbling awkwardly behind him. Dwarves and stairways made for poor companions.

  "What's our next move, Gondolin?" inquired a dwarf with a short arbalest strapped across his back, gesturing down the corridor. "Why are there so blasted many doors? Which one demands our attention?"

  "Individual families dwell behind each one—separate dwellings stacked atop one another," Gondolin explained, hands planted on his hips, contemplating. "Appears we'll need to assign forces to each chamber. You lot—teams of three per doorway. Any surplus units to the rear tenement. Hard Stone, Off-Key." He jabbed a stubby thumb toward the two Oathsworn at his back. "You're with me."

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  Hard Stone lived up to his name—built like a siege engine. The scimitar he carried was human-sized; even Gondolin needed two hands to lift the damned thing properly. Off-Key earned her moniker not from tuneless singing but from the peculiar cadence of her speech. She hailed from some unnamed clan along the Rovefen borderlands, where Dwarvish retained numerous ancient tonalities that caused modern dwarves to cant their heads in confusion. The young woman still struggled to master the fundamentals of dwarven combat. Barely two flights up, she clutched the banister desperately, dragging her leaden feet from one step to the next. Hard Stone observed her struggle with impatience before simply hoisting her into his arms and continuing the climb. Each footfall resonated through the wooden planks like muffled thunder.

  Upon reaching the sixth floor, Gondolin selected the door at the corridor's terminus and delivered a decisive kick. At first glance, the apartment appeared deserted. The kitchen faced the entryway directly. Evidence of hasty tidying was apparent. His practiced gaze swept over crude cabinetry adorned with earthenware vessels and bundles of unidentifiable herbs. A string of dried onions dangled beside the window to the right of the cookstove. He remained poised at the threshold, not yet crossing into the space. (Something's wrong.) He scanned the kitchen again, brow furrowed. (What is it? Something's missing... something that should be here...) Then it hit him. (The knives!)

  The blade materialized instantly. She had been lurking behind the door, patiently awaiting precisely that forward step. Gondolin's battle-hardened reflexes responded before conscious thought. He ducked low, allowing the kitchen knife to whistle harmlessly overhead with wild, untrained momentum, then drove his solid shoulder into the would-be assassin, slamming her forcefully against the wall. "Ow!" The attacker relinquished her improvised weapon and clutched simultaneously at her midsection and the back of her skull. "By all the gods, that smarts!"

  Gondolin extracted the hatchet from his belt and closed the distance to the plump woman in two measured strides. "Who are you? And no lies, woman. Speak."

  She blinked repeatedly, finally registering that her assailant was a dwarf. "I..." Her gaze drifted past him to Hard Stone's imposing silhouette, and her tongue tangled in knots. "Who—who might you be?" She raised trembling hands to shield her face.

  "North or South? Quickly now." The axe blade pressed cold against her throat, though even as he asked, he doubted she was truly Godman.

  "South...?" She faltered, uncomprehending. "Oh! Oh! North! Definitely North!" Her pale, bejeweled hands fluttered anxiously; bangles jingling discordantly. "I hail from the North! Cynthian born and bred! Not Godma, never Godma!"

  Gondolin maintained his threatening posture. "Then explain your ambush from behind the door." He scrutinized her features—youthful enough, though heavily painted with cosmetics. "Well..." Questions rendered her momentarily speechless.

  "Because we couldn't discern who was breaching our sanctuary, sir."

  "Additional occupants?" The dwarf retreated a cautious step, axe raised defensively.

  "Yes, sir." She rose unsteadily and opened the interior door. "My tenants."

  Two women wearing tattered skirts emerged from what appeared to be a storage closet, one with a headscarf wrapped tightly around her crown. The painted woman secured the door and cast furtive glances toward a trunk nestled in the corner. The three women aligned themselves and lowered their gazes submissively. "You three cohabitate?" They nodded in unison. (Blast.) Gondolin thought. (They can barely summon courage to speak.)

  "Will you permit our departure?" the painted woman blurted impulsively, preempting Gondolin's next inquiry. The head-scarved woman bumped her shoulder reproachfully, expression darkening. "We won't serve you, and we won't surrender," the woman said, lifting her chin slightly. "But... you don't seem like the others. Please... will you let us go?"

  Comprehension dawned on Gondolin at last. "I must beg forgiveness for failing to declare our allegiance," he responded. "I stand with the North—precisely as you do."

  The painted woman could only stare wide-eyed in disbelief. The head-scarved woman immediately dropped to her knees, lips moving in fervent prayer to the Goddess Goria. The third woman remained motionless, her expression vacant as untouched parchment.