San Diego, California

  Ghalrak Dramz looked up at the man from behind the visor of his helmet. The wind whipped at the banner he held, making it flutter, and the Dwarves arrayed behind him shifted uneasily. None of them had expected their first glimpse of this strange new world to be quite so overwhelming.

  The human naval officer straightened his uniform and extended a hand in what Ghalrak now knew was the Americans’ customary greeting. He was tall, clean-shaven, with the bearing of a man accustomed to command. Behind him, Ghalrak could see more humans gathering—some in similar military dress, others in clothes he didn't recognize, all staring with expressions that ranged from wonder to barely concealed alarm. "Admiral James MacGregor, United States Pacific Fleet. Welcome to San Diego."

  Ghalrak studied the outstretched hand for a moment before clasping it with his own gauntleted grip. The human's handshake was firm, respectful—not the limp gesture of a weakling, but not the bone-crushing test of strength some might have expected. Good. This one understood protocol.

  "Admiral," Ghalrak replied curtly, releasing the handshake. “You dinnae seem surprised to see us.”

  “We’ve been expecting you for two days,” MacGregor admitted. “Lieutenant-Commander Kingley has spoken rather highly of you in her reports.”

  “Aye? Has she now?” Ghalrak’s eyes flicked to Kingley, then back to the admiral. “You can fix my ship, then? That was not a lie?”

  “We’ll have it towed into drydock shortly,” confirmed MacGregor. He gazed at Stonebreaker, lying now at anchor with the tow line still binding it to Lexington’s stern.

  “I want some of my lads there,” Ghalrak said, a hint of warning in his voice. “To advise and assist.” I also want them to ensure you don’t do anything to my ship that I wouldn’t want you to. That part was unspoken, but clear nonetheless. Ancestors take him if Ghalrak would allow humans or any other non-Dwarf, under any circumstances whatsoever, to labor on his beloved Stonebreaker without supervision.

  MacGregor understood this and accepted it. “Of course. That won’t be a problem.”

  Ghalrak nodded, satisfied and a little relieved that his condition hadn’t offended the human. The dwarf captain knew better than to take words at face value. Trust was earned through actions, not promises. MacGregor seemed to understand that.

  Behind the admiral, a crowd had begun to form. Ghalrak was not surprised that his arrival was causing a stir—Kingley had mentioned that these Americans had never seen a Dwarf before—but what he hadn’t expected was the small rectangular devices so many of them were holding up. Flashes of light began erupting from many of these devices, causing several of Ghalrak's crew to reach instinctively for their weapons.

  "Hold," Ghalrak commanded, raising a hand. "They're not attacking." He turned back to MacGregor, who looked a little embarrassed. “The krak are they doing?”

  MacGregor glanced at the crowd, his military discipline momentarily giving way to a flash of chagrin. He'd expected a controlled reception, not this impromptu gathering that was rapidly taking on the characteristics of a media circus. Word was spreading quickly—too quickly. Security personnel were already moving to establish a perimeter, but civilians continued to gather at the edges of the dock, their excitement palpable.

  "They're taking pictures of you with their phones," he explained. "News travels fast in our country."

  Ghalrak's bushy eyebrows drew together. "Phones?” Then, realization hit. He’d seen them aboard Lexington. Almost every human aboard, including Kingley, had at least one. Kingley had explained, in general terms, some of what the little machines did. At the time, Ghalrak had found her claims of instantaneous mass communication dubious at best. Now, seeing the city these Americans built with his own eyes, he was far less certain.

  He imagined, for a moment, what the Under-Realm could do with a communications network like that. "Aye, that would change everything," he muttered under his breath. A network that could reach every tunnel, every cavern, every outpost in the kingdom within moments. The strategic implications alone...

  MacGregor caught the thoughtful expression on the dwarf's weathered face. "Captain, if you'd prefer, we can arrange for a more private meeting. Somewhere away from the crowds."

  But Ghalrak was already studying the growing mass of humans with calculating eyes. Some wore the look of warriors—disciplined, alert, weapons at their sides but not drawn. Others appeared to be civilians, their clothes soft and colorful, their faces bright with curiosity rather than fear. And still others held larger versions of those rectangular devices, speaking rapidly into them while pointing in his direction.

  Finally, the Dwarf spoke. “And what be they doing again?”

  "Pictures," MacGregor repeated, running a hand through his graying hair. He could see the situation spiraling beyond his control, and the last thing he needed was an international incident caused by overeager civilians with smartphones. "They're... capturing your image. To share with others."

  What MacGregor didn't say was that within minutes, these images would be racing across fiber optic cables to servers around the country. Already, the first blurry photographs were being uploaded to social media platforms, where they would be shared, reshared, and dissected by millions. The carefully planned disclosure protocols that had been debated in closed-door meetings for weeks were crumbling in real time.

  Ghalrak’s expression instantly grew sour. “I be not fond of the idea of my likeness floating around out there for anyone and his uncle tae see. Can you make ‘em stop?” The idea of his picture in someone’s possession sat ill with him.

  "I can ask them to keep their distance," MacGregor said carefully, "but I can't stop them entirely. We have laws about freedom of the press and public spaces." He gestured to a group of uniformed security personnel who were already attempting to establish a wider perimeter. "This is as controlled as it gets without declaring martial law."

  The dwarf captain's expression darkened further. Behind the growing crowd of civilians, news vans were beginning to arrive with an efficiency that would have impressed military logistics officers. Reporters were setting up equipment with practiced speed, their cameras trained on the small group of armored figures standing on the dock. Grainy footage of the first non-humans ever to set foot on American soil was already making the rounds on every social media platform and taking the Internet by storm. Inwardly, MacGregor and all the other officials present cringed. Every word, every gesture, would be scrutinized by the media within the hour. He could see the headlines already forming in his mind, and none of them filled him with confidence about how Washington would react to this impromptu circus.

  Ghalrak, of course, knew none of this. Not yet. His teeth creaked as he clenched them. After a moment, he bit back a caustic reply and reminded himself that the good of the Under-Realm came before his own personal comfort. He was here to serve his people, his country and his King, and offending the Americans by losing his temper did none of those things. He let out a breath through his nose, his nostrils flaring. “Fine. Then let’s be about our business and not linger here. Take me to whoever rules you. Your…” He looked at Kingley. “What’d you call ‘im again?”

  “The president,” the young woman supplied.

  “Aye. That one. Take me to ‘im.”

  MacGregor hesitated. "Our leader—the President—is in Washington. That's all the way across the country. But it's not impossible to arrange." He glanced at his watch, calculating time zones and travel logistics. "I can have you there by tomorrow morning if you're willing to fly."

  "Fly?" Ghalrak's voice carried a note of skepticism that would have been comical if not for the genuine wariness behind it. Several of his crew members shifted uncomfortably at the word, their boots scraping against the dock's concrete surface.

  The very concept of flight struck at something fundamental in the dwarven psyche. Dwarves were creatures of stone and earth, their entire civilization built in the secure embrace of mountain roots and cavern walls. To willingly hurl oneself through empty air in a metal contraption was not merely uncomfortable; it was an anathema.

  Ghalrak imagined being taken up in one of the flying machines he’d seen soaring over the bay on the way into the harbor and cringed inwardly. For all the mechanical wondrousness of such an incredible machine, he had no desire to actually be inside it. The gnomes could probably manage it, but not a Dwarf.

  "I’d sooner hurl myself into a crevasse,” he muttered. “No offense.”

  MacGregor suppressed a smile at the dwarf's blunt honesty. He'd dealt with enough foreign dignitaries to recognize cultural sensitivities when he saw them. "None taken. We can arrange ground transportation if you prefer. It's a longer journey. Several days by car.”

  What the admiral didn't mention was that a cross-country road trip with the world's first documented dwarves would create a media frenzy unlike anything in modern history. Every stop, every meal, every interaction would be chronicled and broadcast to a national audience hungry for any glimpse of these visitors from another realm. The logistics alone would be a nightmare for the Secret Service. Not my problem, thank God, he thought.

  “Several days?” Ghalrak asked. "How far be this Washington?"

  MacGregor glanced at his aide, a young lieutenant who had been frantically taking notes since the conversation began. The man consulted his tablet. "Approximately twenty-seven hundred miles, sir."

  The number meant nothing to Ghalrak, but the expressions on the Americans' faces told him it was considerable. His first instinct was to reject the idea completely just as he had the idea of flying, but then he thought about it and realized the opportunity such a chance presented. A journey across this strange land would give them invaluable intelligence about American capabilities, resources, and defenses, and get a sense of who these strangers truly were. “Fine,” the Dwarf finally rumbled.

  MacGregor nodded. “Very well. I’ll start making some calls. It may take a few days to put everything together.”

  Ghalrak nodded. “Logistics take time. We Dwarves understand. In the meantime," he continued, his gaze sweeping across the growing crowd, "who's the highest authority in this city? Someone must be in charge here. If I cannot speak to your president, I will speak to them."

  "That would be Mayor Rodriguez," replied MacGregor. "I can arrange a meeting, if you'd like."

  "Aye, I would. Where be this mayor at?”

  “Downtown. The center of this city. From here it’s an hour’s walk at least.”

  “That suits me fine,” grunted Ghalrak. “I want to see more of this place.” He looked over his shoulder at his men. "Form up on me, lads. Keep your axes ready but sheathed." The unspoken command was clear: be prepared, but don't start anything.

  “I’ll go with him,” Kingley volunteered. MacGregor frowned, then brightened when he understood. The Dwarves would need a guide to ensure they didn’t get lost, but they couldn’t say that to Ghalrak’s face.

  “Approved,” the admiral said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ghalrak gave a curt nod to Kingley. "Lead on, then." He turned and pointed at several of his Dwarves. “You three, stay here. Keep an eye on things. Oversee the repairs. Make sure nothin’ gets broken.”

  They nodded, once, and without another word, Ghalrak and his men began marching out of the harbor.

  What the dwarf captain couldn't have anticipated was the spectacle his simple request would create. Within minutes of their departure from the dock, the procession had transformed into something resembling a medieval parade filtered through the lens of modern media saturation. News helicopters circled overhead like mechanical vultures, their cameras trained on the small band of armored figures making their way through downtown San Diego. Social media feeds exploded with grainy videos and breathless commentary. Local news stations interrupted regular programming with breaking news alerts that seemed too fantastical to believe. By the time Ghalrak's boots hit the concrete of Harbor Drive, #DwarvesInSanDiego was trending nationally.

  Kingley walked beside Ghalrak, acutely aware that every step was being recorded by dozens of cameras. Behind them, his crew maintained their formation with military precision, their mail and leather armor gleaming in the California sun. The sight was surreal—ancient warriors navigating modern sidewalks while smartphones flashed around them like digital fireflies.

  "Your buildings," Ghalrak observed, craning his neck to study a glass-fronted skyscraper. “They reach so high. Do they not collapse at the slightest tremor?"

  "Earthquake-resistant design," Kingley explained. "Steel frames that flex instead of breaking. The taller ones can sway several feet in high winds without structural damage."

  Ghalrak grunted, unconvinced. Dwarven sensibilities favored stone and stability; the thought of deliberately constructing a building to sway seemed profoundly unnatural. Still, he couldn't deny the impressive scale of human engineering. The sheer variety of architecture surrounding them spoke to a civilization of remarkable adaptability.

  “Why build upward instead of downward?” the Dwarf pressed. “If you built your halls deep and strong in stone, you would need fear no quake.”

  Kingley considered the question thoughtfully.

  "We do build down sometimes," she replied, "but it's more expensive and complicated than building up. Plumbing, ventilation, emergency exits—they all become problems when you go underground. Dig too deep in many places and you hit groundwater. Plus, we just like the sunlight.”

  Ghalrak only just managed to hold back a derisive snort. Human engineering, he thought. Dwarves had solved the problem of water seepage centuries ago with complex drainage systems and specialized pumps. And as for the humans’ love of sunlight, well, that was yet another difference. The Dwarves of the Under-Realm built with purpose in mind, not poetry.

  “Well,” he finally said. “Mayhap we can teach you a thing or two about such matters.” It was a relief to him that, for all their might and for all their machines, the Americans didn’t know everything.

  “You know, you’re probably right,” Kingley grinned.

  The crowds thickened as they moved deeper into downtown, and Ghalrak found himself increasingly fascinated by the diversity of humanity surrounding him. In the Under-Realm, one knew at a glance which clan a dwarf belonged to by their beard-braiding and other such things. Here, humans displayed a bewildering array of appearances—skin tones ranging from pale as cave-fish to dark as polished obsidian, clothing in colors that would make a rainbow weep with envy, hair styled in ways that defied both gravity and good sense.

  What struck him most was how they all seemed to coexist in the same space without the rigid hierarchies that governed dwarven society. A human in fine silk walked alongside another in rough cotton, neither showing deference to the other. Ghalrak remembered Kingley saying, back on the Lexington, that when these Americans split from their ruling overlord in the distant past, a group of them had come together and declared that all men were created equal. Kingley had repeated the phrase almost reverently at the time, and then, as now, Ghalrak kept some of his opinions on that to himself. Still, to hear about it was one thing. To actually see the Americans’ founding ethos in practice was another.

  To a Dwarf, the concept of equality, as the Americans defined it, seemed a peculiar thing. The Under-Realm operated on a rigid caste system, with clearly defined roles based on clan, craft, and birth. Every dwarf knew their place, understood their role, and took pride in fulfilling it. The hierarchy wasn't designed for oppressiveness, but for functionality.

  He was jarred from his thoughts when a woman in a bright yellow dress approached the group, her rectangular device held high. "Excuse me," she called out in accented English, "could I get a picture with—"

  "Move along, ma'am," Kingley interjected firmly, stepping between the woman and Ghalrak. The dwarf captain appreciated the lieutenant-commander's protective instinct, though he bristled at needing protection from what appeared to be an unarmed civilian.

  Eager to focus on something else, he stomped his boot on the pavement. "Your roads,” Ghalrak said. “Impressive. Smooth as polished granite but not stone.”

  "Asphalt," Kingley explained. "Petroleum-based. We heat it up and lay it down in layers, then compact it while it's still hot."

  Ghalrak nodded approvingly. That was the sort of solid, efficient thinking any Dwarf could understand. The humans lacked his people’s natural affinity for masonry and stoneworking, so instead they had developed a material that served the same purpose without the need for quarries and stonemasons. He'd have to learn more about this "asphalt" when he had time. No doubt his people would be able to improve the idea exponentially.

  As they continued through the city, the dwarf captain observed everything with calculating eyes. He noted how vehicles moved in organized patterns, stopping at red lights and proceeding at green ones. He catalogued the positions of what appeared to be security cameras mounted at intersections. He mentally marked buildings that seemed especially important based on their architecture and the number of guards visible.

  All the while, Ghalrak couldn't help but notice the strange metal carriages that moved around them. They came in different sizes and colors, some sleek and low to the ground, others tall and boxy. Vehicles, Kingley called them, gesturing to one. Cars, trucks, buses—each with its own purpose.

  "How do they move?" he asked, watching a particularly noisy one roar past.

  "Engines," Kingley replied. "They burn fuel—oil mostly—to create controlled explosions that push pistons that turn wheels."

  This explanation made perfect sense to Ghalrak. The Under-Realm was no stranger to machinery. The Dwarves did not use oil—which they found inefficient, smelly, and impractical—but they understood the principles of internal combustion well enough. Their own mechanical marvels ran on steam or coal or magical energies drawn from Hearthstones. Ghalrak thought of the great foundries of Thafar-Gathol and the countless war-engines his people took such pride in: the arc-cannons that unleashed bolts of raw electricity, the magma-throwers and the mighty siege-hammers that could reduce fortress walls to rubble and melt solid rock in seconds. American technology was impressive—overwhelming, even, but to Ghalrak’s eyes it still lacked the elegant fusion of magic and mechanics that made dwarven engineering truly special.

  Still, he had to admit there was something to be said for the sheer ubiquity of these machines. For all their lack of artistry, the humans had clearly figured out how to make them in vast quantities. He could respect that. Few things were as dear to a dwarf’s heart as good old-fashioned mass production. Quality was paramount, of course, but quantity had its own kind of quality.

  The procession continued through the city streets, drawing more attention with each passing block. By now, local police had joined them, establishing a loose perimeter to keep the growing crowds at bay. Ghalrak noted with professional interest how the officers worked in efficient, practiced unison and spent several minutes watching them carefully before something else caught his eye.

  "What's that?" he asked, pointing to a tall pole with a blinking device mounted at the top.

  "Traffic camera," Kingley explained. "It watches the intersection, records violations, and helps monitor congestion."

  Ghalrak's brow furrowed. "Violations? Of what sort?”

  "Traffic laws," Kingley said. "Speed limits, stopping at red lights, yielding to pedestrians. The cameras catch people who break those rules."

  "I be guessin’ that these rules apply to those metal contraptions. The cars.”

  “Exactly.”

  Ghalrak's eyes narrowed with newfound interest. A system that constantly watched for lawbreakers without requiring guards at every corner—the Under-Realm had nothing comparable. The closest equivalent would be the enchanted sentinel stones placed at key junctions in the great highways beneath the mountains, but those were crude by comparison, detecting only unauthorized passage rather than specific violations.

  "And the punishment?" he asked.

  "Usually just a fine, money you have to pay. Sometimes you get points against your driving record. Enough violations and you lose your license to operate a vehicle."

  The dwarf captain grunted in approval. Practical and straightforward, though perhaps somewhat lenient. Lawbreakers in the Under-Realm were not afforded multiple chances before the hammer of justice came down.

  "So, in essence,” he finally said, “Your entire city... watches itself.”

  Kingley shifted uncomfortably, aware that she was treading into complex territory. "Not exactly. We don’t watch people in their homes, or anything like that—at least, we’re not supposed to. There are limits in place. Laws. But we do have monitoring systems in many public places."

  The dwarf captain filed this information away carefully. "Your rulers must feel very secure," he observed, "with so many eyes and ears at their command."

  Kingley laughed, a sound that caught Ghalrak by surprise. "It's not really about the rulers. It's about public safety and enforcing laws that everyone agreed on."

  The dwarf's bushy eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise. "Everyone agreed on? All of your people? The whole lot of them?"

  "Well, not literally everyone," Kingley admitted, realizing how naive her explanation must sound to someone from what was clearly a more hierarchical society. "We have representatives who vote on laws, and those representatives are chosen by the people."

  Ghalrak stroked his beard. Kingley had told him, during the voyage here, the broad strokes of how these ‘United States’ operated. Then, as now, he found the whole system messy, inefficient, and rather bizarre. The concept of rule by consensus wasn’t entirely foreign to him. His people did have councils and assemblies of their own. That much, at least, Ghalrak could understand. The Under-Realm had its King, of course, but also the Great Assembly where clan-chiefs and guild-masters debated matters of importance. Still, the notion that common folk might have a say in how laws were crafted struck him as rather extreme. In the Under-Realm, one's station determined one's voice. A master smith might speak on matters of metallurgy, a veteran warrior on questions of defense, but neither would presume to dictate policy outside their expertise. And all were subordinate to the word of the King, who had the final and ultimate say on all matters. More, the scale of what the Americans were attempting was much larger. How could millions of people—humans—possibly agree on anything?

  "A strange way to run things," he finally said. "But it seems to work well enough for your kind." It surely must work well for you to build cities like this one.

  Kingley grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment."

  Eager to change the subject, Ghalrak asked, "Your mayor. What manner of leader is he?"

  "She," Kingley corrected gently. "Mayor Elena Rodriguez. Elected three years ago. Popular with the people, from what I understand."

  Ghalrak's eyebrows rose slightly at this. Female leaders were not unheard of in the Under-Realm, but they were uncommon enough to be noteworthy. The human culture continued to surprise him in ways both large and small.

  "And she has authority over this entire city?" he asked.

  "Yes, though she answers to the state government, which answers to the federal government—that's where the President comes in."

  “Aye. Him. I’d know more of him, too. What manner of man is he?”

  Kingley chuckled. “Well…they don’t call him the Iron President for nothing, I’ll tell you that much.”

  Ghalrak's interest sharpened at this. "Iron? Why do they call him that?"

  "He's... uncompromising," Kingley said carefully. "A combat veteran. Fought in our wars before he went into politics. He doesn't waste time with pleasantries or political games and doesn’t suffer fools. Gets straight to the point. Very direct. Like you, actually.”

  The dwarf captain nodded approvingly. This assessment pleased him more than he cared to admit. A warrior-leader who had proven himself in battle—that was something he could understand and respect. Too many rulers in his experience, especially human ones, had never held a weapon in anger, never felt the weight of command when lives hung in the balance.

  There was a small commotion behind him, and Ghalrak turned to see Zarrl and several of his Dwarves looking into the window of what seemed like a small shop. Ghalrak didn’t know what it was that caught their interest, but he supposed that, in the interest of seeing what the Americans might have to trade with the Under-Realm, he was obligated to have a look.

  “Mind if we go inside?” Ghalrak inquired.

  Kingley nodded. “By all means.”

  The Dwarf grunted and pulled the door open. A little bell affixed to the entryway chimed. Fifty Dwarves filed inside, to the consternation of the shopkeeper.

  Ghalrak found himself in what appeared to be some sort of general goods establishment, though the goods on offer were unlike any he had ever seen. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, packed with a bewildering array of items in colorful packaging. Most of the items he did not recognize, though he was able to figure out some of them by taking them into his large hands and examining them more closely. He chose, at random, a small metal canister from a shelf. It was brightly colored, with a nozzle at the top and some kind of writing on the side that he couldn't decipher. The shopkeeper, a middle-aged woman with graying hair and wide eyes, watched nervously as fifty armored dwarves examined her merchandise.

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  "What be this?" Ghalrak asked, holding up the canister.

  "That's... that's deodorant," Kingley explained, trying not to smile. "It's for... personal freshness."

  Ghalrak sniffed the container suspiciously. His people had their own methods for maintaining hygiene, typically involving mineral salts and herbal compounds that thrived in the underground environments they called home. The concept of a spray to mask body odor seemed frivolous, though he supposed humans might have different needs.

  "And this?" Ghalrak picked up a small rectangular device with a glass face. The shopkeeper winced as his thick fingers pressed against the surface.

  "That's a smartphone," Kingley said. "Like those devices everyone was using to take pictures of you earlier."

  The dwarf captain turned the object over in his hands with surprising gentleness. Despite his warrior's calluses, his touch was delicate, born from years of handling delicate mechanisms in the forges of his homeland. The device was lightweight, almost insubstantial compared to dwarven craftsmanship, yet he could sense an underlying complexity that intrigued him.

  "This tiny thing does all that communicating you spoke of?" he asked, genuine wonder creeping into his gruff voice.

  "That and much more," Kingley replied. "It can access all human knowledge, guide you anywhere, translate languages, take pictures…”

  "All human knowledge.” Ghalrak’s mind reeled with the implications. To have the knowledge of a whole race at one’s fingertips, accessible instantly…the implications of that alone were staggering, to say nothing of what his people could do with such a system of mass communication. Ghalrak had to grip the shelf a little tighter as his head swam with the enormity of what Kingley was telling him. Even more than their arts of making and their machines, that was what the Under-Realm stood most to gain by allying itself with these strangers. The power to connect every clan, every hold, every outpost in an instant web of communication and shared knowledge…the strategic advantage such technology would provide was beyond calculation.

  The shopkeeper, meanwhile, was experiencing her own moment of surreal disbelief. When she'd opened her convenience store that morning, she certainly hadn't expected to host what appeared to be a delegation of fantasy creatures examining her inventory like archaeologists studying alien artifacts. She watched in fascination as one of the armored figures—shorter and stockier than the others, with intricate braiding in his beard—picked up a bag of potato chips and examined it with the intensity of a scholar deciphering ancient runes.

  Zarrl was peering into a glass case filled with a number of large sheath knives with handles of bone or antler. Many of them had blades etched with detailed images. He spied one that caught his fancy and leaned closer to the glass, his scarred hands pressed against the surface. The blade was etched with the image of an eagle in flight, its wings spread wide across the steel. To human eyes, it was merely decorative—a piece of Americana designed to appeal to collectors and outdoorsmen. But to Zarrl, who had spent thirty years forging weapons in the deep forges of Khaz-Ankor, the craftsmanship told a different story entirely.

  The steel was decent enough, though it lacked the folded complexity that marked truly superior bladework. The etching, however, showed real artistry. Whoever had carved that eagle understood the flow of metal, the way patterns should follow the natural grain of the steel rather than fight against it. It was human work, certainly, but not bad by any stretch. Not bad at all.

  "That one there," he said to the shopkeeper, pointing with a thick finger. "May I see it?"

  The woman hesitated, glancing nervously at Kingley, who nodded encouragingly. With trembling hands, she unlocked the case and carefully withdrew the knife, presenting it to Zarrl with the reverence one might show a loaded weapon.

  Zarrl accepted the blade with practiced ease, his weathered hands immediately assessing its balance and construction. He ran his thumb along the spine, testing the steel's hardness, then examined the edge with a critical eye. “I like it,” he declared. “What’ll you take in exchange?”

  The shopkeeper hesitated. “It’s, um, fifty dollars," she finally managed.

  Zarrl frowned. He had no concept of American currency, and the word 'dollars' meant nothing to him. He glanced at Ghalrak, who stepped forward with the air of someone more accustomed to handling diplomatic misunderstandings.

  "We have gold," Ghalrak said, reaching into a small pouch at his waist. He produced a handful of coin ls that gleamed under the fluorescent lights of the shop—they were indeed gold, stamped with dwarven runes around the edge and the profile of King Firebeard. Ghalrak removed ten of them and placed them on the counter. “Will this suffice?"

  The shopkeeper's eyes widened to saucers. "Is that...real gold?"

  The Dwarf looked genuinely affronted. “Of course it’s bloody well real gold," he said. “What other kind would I be offering you?"

  What Ghalrak didn't realize—and couldn't possibly know at the time—was that the ten coins he had so casually placed on the counter represented more wealth than the shopkeeper would see in several years. Each coin contained roughly two ounces of pure gold. At current market prices, the dwarf had just offered nearly forty thousand dollars for a fifty-dollar knife.

  The shopkeeper stared at the coins, her mind struggling to calculate their value. Even without an appraiser's eye, she could tell the gold was genuine—the weight, the luster, the intricate craftsmanship of the engravings all spoke to authenticity. A single one of those coins was likely worth more than her monthly rent.

  “Y-yes,” she stammered. “Th-that’ll be fine.”

  Kingley stepped forward, recognizing the potential for misunderstanding. "Ma'am, those are probably worth considerably more than the knife. Maybe we could work out some kind of exchange rate?"

  “No time,” Ghalrak grunted. “Let ‘er keep ‘em. Plenty more where those came from.”

  The shopkeeper took the coins off the counter, and Zarrl was grinning like a child with a new toy as he slid the blade into his belt.

  As they exited the shop, Kingley noticed her phone vibrating constantly in her pocket. She pulled it out to find dozens of missed calls and messages, including several from her commanding officer. America was reacting to the dwarves' presence with a frenzy that exceeded even her most extreme predictions. But I can deal with that later.

  "We should keep moving," she said, noting the growing crowd outside the shop window. "City Hall isn't far now."

  Ghalrak nodded, pleased with their brief detour. It had been a very illuminating experience. First, the clerk’s reaction to the gold coins proved that gold was just as precious here as everywhere else in Loriath. That meant the Under-Realm had at least one thing the Americans wanted. Two, if the Americans liked gold, then they surely also prized things like iron, copper, and silver—all resources the dwarves had in abundance. The opportunities for trade were obvious. Three, it confirmed that the Americans relied on technology, not sorcery. In fact, Ghalrak had not seen a single mage ever since he got here. He hadn’t broached the topic openly yet for fear of showing his hand too soon, but if the Americans had no talent for the arcane, then that too was an opportunity.

  Magic was the great equalizer, the X factor. If the Americans could not use it, then that left a huge opening for those who could. The Under-Realm produced a staggering array of enchanted goods that it traded in markets all over the world, and its ability to combine magic and machines into arcano-tech would be a powerful advantage in any negotiations. Surely the Americans would want to use such techniques to enhance their own technology, and the Dwarves had the know-how to do just that. And in the process, Ghalrak’s people would learn just how the Americans’ marvelous machines worked…and discover how to make them for themselves.

  Yes, Ghalrak thought, nodding firmly to himself. That was very fine indeed. Both nations would prosper from such an arrangement, and the Under-Realm would gain access to knowledge and technology that would transform their civilization forever.

  As they resumed walking, Kingley kept pointing out other things of note in the city, and Ghalrak peppered her with one question after another.

  "What purpose do these serve?" Ghalrak asked, pointing at a traffic light as they waited for it to change.

  "They control the flow of traffic," Kingley explained. "Red means stop, green means go."

  The dwarf captain nodded appreciatively. Such a simple system, yet effective. “And those?” he asked, gesturing at a row of parking meters lining the sidewalk, their digital displays counting down time in bright red numerals.

  "Those are parking meters," Kingley replied. "People pay money to park their cars for a certain amount of time."

  "You charge your people to leave their carriages on the street?" Ghalrak's tone carried a note of incredulity that made several nearby civilians turn to stare.

  "Well, yes. Space is limited in the city center, so we use pricing to manage demand."

  The dwarf captain shook his head, muttering something in his native tongue that Kingley suspected wasn't entirely complimentary. In the Under-Realm, the concept of charging citizens for basic services like temporary storage would be seen as the height of bureaucratic overreach. Then again, he reminded himself, his people had the luxury of carving out new space whenever they needed it. These Americans, like all surface-dwellers, were constrained by the limitations of existing geography. They did not have the dwarven luxury of simply digging deeper.

  He was about to say as much when Kingley came to a sudden halt.

  “We’re here,” she said, pointing. “There it is. City hall.”

  Ghalrak looked up at the building Kingley indicated. The structure was respectable enough by human standards—a rectangular edifice of concrete and glass with a clock tower rising from its center. But to Ghalrak's eyes, it lacked the grandeur of dwarven civic architecture, with none of the soaring vaults or intricate stonework that marked the great halls of the Under-Realm. Still, it had a certain solidity to it that he could appreciate. And the size and scale of it…that alone was enough to impress any Dwarf.

  No, Ghalrak thought, admitting it to himself and only to himself. That was an understatement. The sheer scale of the achievement stretched before him in every direction—thousands upon thousands of structures, each one representing countless hours of labor, planning, and resources. The population density alone staggered him. And these humans, these Americans, had managed all that and coordinated the efforts of so many individuals without the rigid clan structure that made dwarven society function. And this was merely the seat of government for just one city among many! If the Americans could build something this grand for what amounted to a local administrator, what manner of palace did their president, this Bannister, command?

  For the first time since setting foot on American soil, Ghalrak felt a genuine stirring of unease. Not fear—no Dwarf worth his beard would admit to such a thing—but a recognition of the true scope of what he was dealing with. And something very close to a chill ran down his spine.

  Zarrl craned his neck to look up at it. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he muttered. They certainly don’t think small, do they?”

  “No,” Ghalrak agreed. “No, they don’t.”

  As they approached the building, a small delegation emerged from its main entrance. At the front was a woman in her fifties with sleek silver-streaked hair and a tailored navy suit. She descended the steps with the confident stride of someone accustomed to command, flanked by aides and security personnel who moved with practiced precision.

  "Mayor Rodriguez," Kingley said quietly to Ghalrak. "And it looks like she's brought out the welcome committee."

  Indeed, behind the mayor stood representatives from various city departments, all wearing expressions that ranged from nervous excitement to carefully masked apprehension. News cameras had already assembled on the plaza, their lenses trained on the approaching dwarven contingent.

  Mayor Elena Rodriguez had been in the middle of a budget meeting when her chief of staff burst in with news so bizarre she had to ask him to repeat it twice. The initial disbelief had given way to urgent preparation—phone calls to Washington, hasty briefings with department heads, and a fifteen-minute emergency crash course in diplomatic protocol from her foreign affairs advisor. Now, watching the armored figures approach across the plaza, she felt the weight of history settling on her shoulders like a lead blanket.

  Rodriguez had dealt with foreign dignitaries before—trade delegations from Japan, cultural exchanges with sister cities in Mexico—but nothing in her experience had prepared her for actual contact with another species. The protocols were clear enough: be respectful, be welcoming, avoid any actions that might be construed as hostile. What the protocols couldn't address was the sheer surreal nature of the situation.

  Dwarves. Jesus Christ, she thought. Actual Dwarves walking through her city streets, drawing crowds that were growing by the minute. She had to fight not to giggle at the absurdity of it all. Rodriguez did her best to school her face to calm and extended a hand as she and her party met the visitors halfway up the building’s front steps.

  “You must be Captain Dramz. Welcome to San Diego. I understand you've had quite a journey."

  Ghalrak studied the human woman's extended hand for a moment before taking it in his own. His grip was firm but controlled—he'd already learned from his interaction with the admiral that humans weren't built as sturdily as dwarves.

  "Aye, that we have," he replied, releasing her hand. He gestured to the dwarf at his right. "This be Zarrl, my second."

  Mayor Rodriguez nodded, carefully maintaining her composure despite the surreal nature of the exchange. In her twenty years of public service, she'd prepared for earthquakes, wildfires, and even the possibility of a tsunami. Nowhere in the emergency management handbook was there a chapter titled "First Contact with Mythological Beings.” Thankfully, her political instincts kicked in before she had time to think about it too hard. "It's an honor to meet you both. I'm Elena Rodriguez, Mayor of San Diego." She gestured at the building behind her. “Would you and your men care to come inside? I imagine you'd prefer to continue our conversation away from the cameras."

  Ghalrak nodded, relieved at the prospect of escaping the constant scrutiny of the human recording devices. "Aye, that would be welcome. We’ve much to discuss."

  As they ascended the steps toward the main entrance, Ghalrak couldn't help but notice the security measures discreetly positioned around the building. Camera lenses tracked their movement from above doorways, and uniformed guards maintained strategic positions at key access points.

  Inside, the building opened into a grand atrium with a vaulted ceiling and polished marble floors. The Dwarves’ armored boots echoed against the stone as they took in the space. Ghalrak made mental notes the whole way as Mayor Rodriguez led them to a large conference room where refreshments had been hastily arranged. He assessed the thickness of the walls, the placement of the windows, and the number of exits. The room itself was spacious and well-appointed, with a long wooden table surrounded by leather chairs. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city below.

  His men filed in behind him, maintaining their disciplined formation even in the more relaxed setting.

  Mayor Rodriguez had done her best to prepare for this moment, but seeing the dwarves up close in the fluorescent lighting of the conference room drove home just how remarkable this encounter truly was. Their armor was clearly functional rather than ceremonial—scratched and dented from real use, with weapons that showed the wear of actual combat. These weren't actors or performers; they were genuine warriors.

  What struck her most was their bearing. Despite being in completely unfamiliar surroundings, surrounded by alien technology and customs, they moved with the confidence of seasoned professionals.

  "Can I offer you anything?" Rodriguez asked, gesturing to a spread of sandwiches, fruit, and coffee that had been hastily assembled by her staff. "Water? Coffee?"

  Ghalrak brightened a little at the mention of coffee. “Aye, coffee would be nice. Fine drink. We've nothing like it in the Under-Realm."

  Mayor Rodriguez nodded to an aide who quickly poured a steaming cup and handed it to the dwarf captain. Ghalrak accepted it with surprising delicacy, his thick fingers wrapping around the ceramic mug.

  Meanwhile, Zarrl examined the offerings with interest. The sandwiches were cut into neat triangles and arranged on silver platters—a presentation that spoke to careful preparation despite the short notice. He selected one and bit into it. “Not bad,” he mumbled as he chewed.

  Once they were all seated—the dwarves requiring some adjustment to chairs designed for human proportions—Mayor Rodriguez cleared her throat and folded her hands on the table.

  "Captain Dramz, I want to be direct with you. Your arrival is unprecedented in our history. I agree with you that establishing good relations with your people is of paramount importance.”

  The Dwarf let out a satisfied grunt. "Good. That's what I want as well. And it’s why I want to speak with your leader directly."

  "I understand you'd prefer to travel to Washington by ground transportation?" Rodriguez asked.

  "Aye. Flying is..." Ghalrak paused, searching for the right words. "Not something my kind is comfortable with."

  Mayor Rodriguez nodded, making a mental note. Cultural sensitivity would be crucial in these early interactions. "We can certainly arrange that. It's about a five-day journey by car, perhaps longer with stops. We'll need to coordinate security, accommodations—"

  Ghalrak waved it all aside. “Do what you’ve got to do. We ain’t flyin’.”

  "We'll work with that limitation," Rodriguez assured him. "I'd like to know more about your realm, if you don't mind sharing. Your technology, your society—anything you feel comfortable discussing."

  Ghalrak took a long sip of his coffee, savoring the bitter warmth. In the Under-Realm, such luxuries were rare imports, traded for at exorbitant prices from human merchants who braved the deeper tunnels. The coffee here was fresher, richer. Another mark in the Americans' favor.

  "The Under-Realm," he began, setting down his cup, "stretches beneath the better part of a continent, many leagues from here. Our kingdom is vast—hundreds of connected caverns and halls, carved over thousands of years." Pride swelled in his chest as he spoke of his homeland. "Our forges never cool, our mines never empty. We have machines of our own making, though different from yours.”

  “How so?”

  "We work with stone and steel and magic in equal measure," Ghalrak explained. "Our people have mastered the arts of enchantment, imbuing our creations with powers your kind might find difficult to believe. We use Hearthstones—special stones imbued with raw magical energy—to power our greatest machines." He paused, gauging her reaction. "We forge weapons that can cleave through the hardest granite as if it were butter, and armor that turns aside the sharpest blade."

  Mayor Rodriguez's expression shifted almost imperceptibly at the mention of magic. A slight widening of the eyes, a momentary tension at the corners of her mouth—subtle tells that Ghalrak, with his warrior's instinct for reading opponents, caught immediately.

  "Magic?" she repeated, her tone carefully neutral. "You mean actual... spellcasting?"

  Ghalrak studied her for a moment. This was the reaction he'd been waiting for, the confirmation of his earlier suspicion. These Americans, for all their technological marvels, had no familiarity with the arcane arts. “Aye,” he said simply.

  "I see," Rodriguez said, her voice carefully neutral. "And this... magic... is common in your country?"

  "Common enough," Ghalrak replied, deliberately vague. No sense revealing the full extent of dwarven magical capabilities in their first meeting. "Not all can wield it directly, mind you. But we've ways of binding it to objects, tools, weapons. We use it to strengthen our steel, to light our forges, to power our machines. It's as much a tool to us as your metal carriages are to you."

  Rodriguez nodded slowly, though her expression remained carefully diplomatic. Behind her professional facade, her mind raced through the implications. If what this dwarf was claiming was true—if his people possessed actual magical abilities—then the geopolitical implications were staggering. She thought of the briefings she'd been privy to over the years, discussions of weapons capabilities and strategic advantages. Magic could very well rewrite every calculation.

  The Pentagon would have a field day with this.

  "I believe our nations have much to offer each other," she said carefully.

  Ghalrak nodded, pleased with her response. He'd been watching her closely, noting the subtle shifts in her expression, the careful control she maintained. She was a skilled diplomat, this human woman, but to a dwarf who had spent centuries negotiating with trade delegations from countless different kingdoms, her reactions might as well have been written in runes across her forehead. The mayor's barely concealed fascination with Dwarven magical capabilities told him everything he needed to know about America's own arcane limitations.

  "Perhaps a small demonstration, aye?" he asked, reaching into a pouch at his belt. He withdrew a smooth stone about the size of a golf ball, its surface etched with intricate runes that seemed to shimmer in the fluorescent lighting of the conference room. "This is a Hearthstone. A simple one, mind you—nothing like the cores that power our forges."

  Rodriguez leaned in for a better look. The stone reminded her of an opal with its shifting colors, but there was something more—a subtle warmth that seemed to radiate from within.

  "May I?" Rodriguez asked, extending her hand.

  Ghalrak nodded and placed the stone in her palm. The mayor gasped softly as warmth spread through her fingers. Its surface pulsed with a faint golden light that grew brighter at her touch.

  "It's warm," she said, wonder creeping into her carefully controlled voice.

  "Aye. And that's just a wee one." Ghalrak retrieved the stone, slipping it back into his pouch. "The great Hearthstones in our capital are much more potent. They've powered our forges for thousands of years without dimming.”

  Rodriguez felt a chill run down her spine as she processed the implications. Unlimited energy sources that had functioned for millennia—the scientific community would lose their collective mind. The implications were staggering. But beneath her excitement lurked a more pragmatic concern: if the dwarves possessed such power, what did that mean for the balance of global politics?

  Across the table, Ghalrak watched the mayor's reaction with satisfaction. He could practically see the calculations running behind her eyes—the recognition of opportunity warring with the instinctive wariness of a leader faced with something she did not fully understand. Good. Let her ponder the implications. The Under-Realm had not survived for millennia by revealing all its capabilities at once.

  "Fascinating," Rodriguez managed, though her mind was already racing ahead to the phone call she would need to make to Washington. President Bannister needed to know about this immediately, if he didn’t already—and she’d be shocked if he didn’t. The Dwarves had taken the internet by storm.

  “How soon can we be on our way to…what’s your capital called again?” Ghalrak asked.

  “Washington, D.C.,” the mayor said. “And we’ll have you on your way as soon as possible.” Then she cocked her head a little, curious. “Who is the leader of your country?”

  "King Azaghal Firebeard, son of Zardak, rules the Under-Realm," Ghalrak replied, his voice taking on a reverential tone. "He sits upon the Adamant Throne in the Great Hall of Thafar-Gathol.” The dwarf's chest swelled with pride. "He has ruled for three hundred and seventeen years, and will rule for many more. He is a great and mighty king.” At her surprised look, he grinned. “Dwarves live a long time. Not as long as Elves or some others, mind, but longer than your lot.”

  Elves? Elves? Rodriguez tried not to think about that too much, not right now. She had enough on her plate already. “Fascinating.”

  "Aye, and he's only middle-aged by our reckoning," Ghalrak said.

  Rodriguez mentally filed that away. "I'm sure President Bannister will be honored to meet with a representative of such an... experienced ruler," she said carefully. She glanced at her watch, calculating time zones. "I think you and he will have a lot to talk about."

  Ghalrak nodded approvingly. "Good. The sooner we can speak, the better for both our peoples."

  *****Washington, D.C.*****

  Keira Bannister burst through the doors of the Oval Office, her phone clutched in her hand like a talisman. The Secret Service agents flanking the entrance exchanged resigned glances—the President's daughter had a habit of disregarding protocol that drove security personnel to distraction. She'd bypassed three layers of security protocols and ignored the protests of two senior staffers to get here, but this couldn't wait. Not even for the President of the United States.

  "Dad! Dad, you have to see this!"

  President Thomas Bannister looked up from his meeting with the Secretary of Defense and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, his expression hardening into the mask of irritation he reserved for interruptions of national security briefings. The two military officials exchanged glances, recognizing the storm brewing behind the President's steel-blue eyes.

  "Keira," he said, his voice carrying the weight of command that had silenced generals and foreign dignitaries alike. "We're in the middle of something."

  "Dad, you need to see this. Now." She thrust her phone toward him, her eyes wide with excitement.

  “What is it?” Bannister asked.

  “I’m not sure you’ll believe me,” Keira admitted. “You should probably see it for yourself.”

  Bannister took the phone from his daughter's trembling hands. It was open to the internet browser app, and on Keira’s social media, the screen showed a shaky video taken from someone's phone. The footage was grainy, shot through a crowd, but unmistakable.

  A group of heavily armored figures, shorter and broader than any humans he'd ever seen, walked through what appeared to be downtown San Diego. Their beards were braided with metal ornaments, their armor gleamed in the California sun, and they moved with the disciplined precision of seasoned warriors.

  Bannister's hands tightened on the phone as he watched the lead figure—clearly their commander—gesture toward a towering skyscraper with what could only be described as professional interest. The video quality was poor, but there was something in the way they carried themselves, the weight of their armor, the genuine wear on their weapons, that spoke to authenticity in a way that Hollywood special effects never could.

  He was about to ask just what the hell he was looking at, but the comments on the footage, and the trending hashtags displayed on one side of the page, answered the question before it left his lips.

  “#DwarvesInSanDiego" was trending at number one, followed by "#FirstContact." A quick search using the toolbar confirmed that news organizations were already running away with it, and he wondered why his press secretary hadn’t already informed him of what was clearly a huge development.

  After a moment, he spoke. “These are—”

  "They're dwarves, Dad. Like, actual Dwarves! They sailed into San Diego Harbor this morning on some kind of ship." Keira's words tumbled out in a breathless rush. "It's all over the internet. Twitter, TikTok, Instagram—everyone's talking about it."

  The Secretary of Defense cleared his throat. "Mr. President, we've been monitoring this situation since approximately 0600 hours. Naval Intelligence has been providing regular updates."

  Bannister's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. "You knew about this?"

  "We were in the process of verifying the information before bringing it to your attention, sir. We didn’t want to waste your time.”

  “Consider it verified,” Bannister snapped. “Get me the mayor of San Diego on the phone. Immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Twenty minutes later, Bannister ended the call. For a long time, he didn’t speak. His mind was churning from everything he’d learned.

  They were Dwarves, all right. And from what the mayor let fall, their kingdom, the “Under-Realm,” was nothing to sneeze at. Bannister agreed completely with Rodriguez as to the opportunity that had just fallen into America’s collective lap. He recalled what Bill Mason had said during the first post-Event cabinet meeting about the importance of rebuilding America’s supply chains. Forging relations with the Dwarves, who evidently had vast mining and manufacturing resources, could provide the United States with access to raw materials and other goods, to say nothing of the economic boost such trade would provide.

  And there was something else, something the mayor had mentioned almost as an afterthought but which Bannister knew would cause a nationwide sensation: magic. Real, honest-to-God magic. The Dwarves claimed to possess magical capabilities that powered their technology. The mayor had even held one of their "Hearthstones" in her hand—some kind of magical battery that had glowed at her touch.

  If that was true—and Bannister had no reason to doubt it, given everything else that had happened—then the implications were staggering. Energy independence would be just the beginning. The military applications alone...

  Bannister had seen enough in his decades of service to know that whatever advantages America had over its rivals, it would need every single one of them in the coming years. If magic existed in this new world, then the United States would need to understand it, master it, and incorporate it into its strategic planning. The era of American military dominance had been built on technological superiority; if magic was now part of the equation, then every military calculation since the dawn of the nuclear age would need to be reconsidered. America needed to be at the forefront of that revolution.

  "Dad?" Keira's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "Are you okay?"

  Bannister glanced at his daughter, seeing the barely contained excitement in her eyes. For a moment, he envied her unbridled enthusiasm. Where she saw wonder and adventure, he saw geopolitical complexities and potential threats. That was the burden of the presidency—viewing everything through the lens of national security.

  "I'm fine," he said, softening his tone. "Just processing." Then his implacable mask returned, and he began issuing orders to a nearby aide.

  “Issue a press statement that the Dwarves are welcome here, and that the United States welcomes trade and peaceful relations,” he said. “I want the Secret Service to accompany them on their way here and ensure their safety. Spare no expense in seeing to their comfort. When they arrive, I want them treated as the honored guests they are. I want a full state dinner prepared in their honor.”

  The aide scribbled notes furiously, nodding as he captured each directive. "Yes, Mr. President. Should we prepare the Lincoln Bedroom?"

  "The whole damn guest wing if necessary," Bannister replied curtly.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier for them just to fly out and meet them there?” Keira asked.

  "Mayor Rodriguez claims the Dwarves want to travel cross-country by car," Bannister replied. "Apparently, they're not comfortable with flying. Something cultural."

  “So why not fly out to them instead?”

  "I'm told the Dwarves want to see the country," Bannister explained. "Get a feel for our country firsthand. They're curious about America, and I can't say I blame them. If I were in their position, I'd want to understand exactly who I was dealing with before making any agreements.”

  What Bannister didn't say was that he preferred having these Dwarves see America at ground level. Let them witness the might of the United States firsthand: the sprawling cities, the industrial centers, the military bases visible from the highways. A five-day journey across the continent would impress upon these visitors the sheer scale of American power far more effectively than a brief flight directly to Washington.

  He drummed his fingers on his desk. "Besides, this gives us time to prepare properly. Time to coordinate with intelligence, set up appropriate security measures, and brief the cabinet. I don't want any surprises when they arrive. An opportunity has fallen into our hands, and I do not intend to see it wasted."

  Dwarves, he thought. Whatever next?

  On the other side of the continent, Ghalrak’s bushy eyebrows formed a scowl of concentration. He was sitting on what was really a nice bed in one of San Diego’s finer hotels. The mayor had insisted on putting him and his Dwarves up for the night. But while his men took their ease or explored the building, Ghalrak was busy doing something quite different.

  The different metal parts arrayed on the bedspread were not what he would have chosen to work with. But in the absence of proper materials, he had to make do with what he could scrounge from the various devices in the hotel room. A wall sconce had yielded copper wiring. The desk lamp had produced several small screws and springs. The coffee maker had surrendered a heating element that, while primitive by dwarven standards, would serve his purpose well enough.

  Ghalrak, like all Dwarves, had a gift for tinkering and putting things together that many humans would have found almost supernatural. His stubby fingers worked with surprising deftness to bring the image he saw in his mind to life. It wasn't elegant—no dwarf craftsman would put his mark on such a hasty, haphazard creation—but it would work. It had to work.

  It was a little bird. A mechanical, clockwork bird, powered by one of the small Hearthstones he carried in his belt pouch. A small thing, but one that could fly across oceans and cover great distances without the need to rest or eat. It took him several hours to put the thing together, and when he placed the hearthstone into the construct’s makeshift power matrix, he half-expected it to explode. But it didn’t. Instead, the bird-thing whirred to life like a computer being switched on and flexed its mechanical wings.

  Ghalrak handed it a piece of paper. On it was written, in Dwarvish, a terse summation of everything that had happened to him and his crew since they first laid eyes on the Lexington. King Firebeard had to know about the Americans. About their vast cities, their incredible machines, and most importantly, their apparent lack of magic. This was information too vital to wait until Ghalrak returned to the Under-Realm.

  He spoke a word of power over the tiny automaton, and its eyes glowed with arcane light. Ghalrak whispered coordinates—not in longitude and latitude as humans might, but in the ancient dwarven system of cavern-mapping that referenced key points beneath the earth's surface.

  "Find him," he commanded. "Bring this to the King's hand and no other."

  The mechanical bird tilted its head, processing the instruction, then gave a single metallic chirp of acknowledgment. Ghalrak carried it to the window, pushed the glass pane open, and released his creation into the night. The bird's wings caught the air with surprising grace for something cobbled together from scraps, and disappeared into the darkness above the city lights.