Michael Pearce - Diaries of a Dwarven Rifleman

“They say that the Great Wall of Ironhame took a hundred Stonewrights and over a thousand laborers more than twenty-five years to erect,” his father said, “And that it contains more cut stone than all of the rest of the city and palace combined.”

Engvyr nodded. All dwarven children were taught the basics of magecraft so he knew that Stonewright's magic allowed them to 'feel' stone and know its properties, strengths and flaws, but more than that they could influence its structure to get the results that they desired.

As they continued around the shoulder of the mountain the High road descended down a long ramp to the valley floor. The granite face of the valley's wall along this stretch had been flattened ruler-straight and smoothed to a high polish. But now the surface was pock-marked with hundreds of craters, from just above the road to head-height along its entire length. Each crater was around two feet across and nearly a foot deep. He looked a question at his father, who favored him with a grim smile and gestured to the towers.

“The Tower-Guns of Ironhame, “he explained, “An unsubtle reminder to visitors to mind their manners.”

Engvyr imagined an army trying to make its way down that long ramp under the merciless hammer of the guns and shuddered.

They made their way across the valley, joining the throngs queuing to enter the city through the Grand Gate. Ore wagons from the south, traders, travelers and pilgrims to the great shrines. All Dwarves came to Ironhame sooner or later, or so they said.

As they passed through the gate he stared in unabashed awe. Each of the sections of door was of the finest steel, more than a foot thick. When the leaves were closed another foot-thick panel dropped straight down behind them in grooves cut deep into the rock of the mountain. No battering ram, no boulder or bolt from any siege engine made by mortal hands would ever penetrate those mighty doors.

They moved with the stream of traffic through a high, wide corridor under the great wall to a second set of gates. His father spoke briefly to a guard, then clucked to the oxen and they passed into the city proper. They had to pause to wait a moment while his Aunt also spoke to the guard before moving the second wagon up to join them. Engvyr took the opportunity to look around.

They were within the Outer Ward, and it was filled with people. Dwarves of every description, tall, lanky Afmaeltinn , even a party of Goblins!

The Goblins wore broad-brimmed hats and scarfs, long coats and gloves. Not a single square inch of them was exposed to sunlight, which Engvyr understood was harmful to their kind. They wore long knives at their belts but were otherwise unarmed.

“I can't believe they let those filthy creatures in here,” Engvyr said, “They ain't fit to be among decent folk!”

His father stared straight ahead for a second and then looked at him thoughtfully.

“Didn't know that you knew any goblins,” he said.

Engvyr was surprised, and quickly said, “I don't know any goblins! How would I know any of them?”

His father shrugged.

“Well,” his father said slowly, “They don't look particularly filthy, and I can hardly see them under those get-ups. Certainly not well enough to form an impression of their character.”

For all of his mild speech Engvyr could tell that something was wrong. His father was acting strangely. I suppose it's natural, Engvyr thought, seein' as to how they killed his brother and all.

“I just mean that they kill our folk, and eat people… and…”

He trailed off, not sure exactly what he meant. His father was staring straight ahead as he guided the wagon through the crowds. His father's fists clenched and un-clenched on the reins for a moment before he spoke.

“You know where goblins come from, don't you?”

“Of course,” Engvyr said indignantly, “They were created by the Maker, same as dwarves. Everyone knows that.”

His father nodded.

“That's right, the same as us. Are all dwarves thieves and murderers?”

“Of course not!” Engvyr said, “Folk aren't all the same.”

“That's right,” his father said. “Folk aren't all one thing or th'other.”

He turned and stared his son full in the eyes and Engvyr recoiled. His father was furious!

“So what gives you the bloody right to assume that all goblins are the same?” his father asked with quiet intensity, “To judge those folk yonder, call them filthy and say they aren't good enough to walk the streets?”

“I… I guess I never thought about it,” Engvyr said, “I mean, about goblins being like other folk…”

His father heaved a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping as he returned his attention to the road.

“I suppose that it's my own fault,” his father said, “For not teaching you better than that. So I'll tell you now don't ever, ever judge a man solely because of his race. Judge him by his words, his actions and the company he keeps but not by his race. You hear me?”

Engvyr nodded, subdued. He'd seldom seen his father angry, and the thought that he had made him so mad…

“You know that the Maker made Dwarves to be his slaves,” His father said, “He made us short and strong to mine the hard rock for the ore he needed. He channeled our magic so that we would have the talents to help build his empire, to be Stonewrights, Metalwrights and Woodwrights. But what he couldn't make us was obedient. We rebelled against him, time and again. So he gave up on us and created the goblins to replace us. He made them clever at mining and machinery, but he also made them so they couldn't tolerate the light of the sun so that they would be stuck beneath the ground. He made them eat their own dead because it was efficient. But he also made them hunger for the flesh of dwarves, so that we would never band together to oppose him.”

Engvyr nodded. He'd never thought about it, but it made sense.

“Thing is those goblins had no more choice than we did. They can't help their appetites any more than we can help growing beards,” his father said, “Though most a'them have mastered that hunger, exceptin' a few renegades now and again. They're an odd folk, notional you might say, but no more likely to be good or bad than any man. So we let 'em come among us and trade, toys, clocks and instruments mostly and they behave themselves about as well as most folks.”

Engvyr thought about this as his family slowly worked their way along the broad, crowded avenue past the great trading houses and warehouses of the Outer Ward. Occasionally along the cross streets he glimpsed the walls of the valley, stacked with hames of the sort he was used to, presumably where the folk of this district lived.

As they rounded the corner of a broad cross-street he could see a great open space some distance away between the buildings. Awnings, banners and a great mass of people filled the space, their combined voices an inarticulate roar.

“The Great Market,” his father told him, “Goods and commodities from all over the world are traded there.”

At length they approached another grand gate that passed through the Inner Wall. The avenue dipped downward as it went through the portal into a huge tunnel. His father indicated the opening with a nod and explained.

“This is The Underpass. It takes us right under the city and palace to the Upper Ward and its markets. Through them the road leads to the Central Valleys beyond. This great passage bypasses the Inner Ward of the city that holds the mines, smelters and workshops of the Dwarven people. The Inner Ward is forbidden to humans, goblins or anyone else for that matter unless you have an official pass.”

They were questioned by another guard before being allowed to enter The Underpass. The broad, high-ceilinged passage was amazingly noisy within. The creaking of wagon wheels, booted feet on the stone floor and countless voices assaulted their ears. The great passage was dim after the bright daylight of the Outer Ward, with the lamps of the merchants, inns and taverns that lined the walls supplementing the large skylights set into the roof at intervals.